Poison Rain

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As he crashed away from a harlot’s womb

At seven-years-old he was made to taste

The dark fur beneath damp powder and lace

And change the sheets of whores from every room,

Then cry hungry inside a city’s gloom.

Grandmother is the only one to face

For the junkie status that slowed his pace.

Will the tombstone message be carved to soon?

 

He mixed on last shot of poisonous rain.

I can still hear the demons laugh and moan…

His pleading eyes faded away from me.

My childish heart died in my daddy’s groan…

Final orgasms exploded the vein

On a haunting face of black memory.

Shawn R. Jones

Reprinted from Womb Rain

Finishing Line Press, 2008

2 Responses

  1. Uzoma says:

    My-o-my! This is fabulous. Am I talking about the exquisite title, or the imagery? Blessed with figurative tools, I find this poem irresistible for just one read alone. Like Oliver, I’ll have say: “More, can I have some more?”

  2. I am glad you enjoyed it so much. Even though this was hard to write, and it is sometimes hard to read aloud, I am grateful for the ability to write it off my chest. Thank you so much! “More” is a great compliment : )

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