Welcome to the Jungle
They found him
behind a dumpster
near the Mustard Seed Church
Somebody had beaten the crap
out of him, maybe more
than one somebodies
His handsome face,
is unrecognizable,
save for a tell-tale tear tattoo
'neath his right eye
Blood has encrusted
around his nose and mouth,
and both eyes are swollen shut,
A cut at his hairline looks deep,
more like a gash really,
it runs back, gets lost
somewhere near the crown where
there's matting and an unnatural
flattening of his black
and burnished native hair,
Hair that is quickly
losing its lustre
as he lays there in the trash,
as if he too,
is garbage, a throw-away,
soon forgotten
Was this a result
of the famous Aboriginal
gang violence we keep
hearing about
Another Warrior
vengeance killing,
or was something else
at play here
The native kids usually
cut each other
but they are not much
into fist play
Don't seem to punch
the living daylights
out of anybody
plus, this poor guy
Had a special humiliation
accorded him
that seems like payback
of a different kind
Around his neck,
someone has fashioned
a crude yet wordy sign,
that reads,
'Remember Guns 'N Roses Loser? They
Disappeared too - maybe they'll come back
But you will not - You Loser'
Heavy emphasis
on the word loser
trying to make a point?
Just unimaginative?
Hard to say, I think,
as the coroner's office staff
loads the body
into the back of their van
Good chance this will be
another unclaimed soul,
another John Doe,
off the reserve, to be buried
In potter's field,
no-one looking for him;
no-one missing him 'til
long after the fact
My partner finishes
the paperwork as I pull
the cruiser back into traffic
This job can get to you
if you let it, I 'm thinking
Then crank the radio
just as "Sweet Child of Mine"
comes on. Ironic.
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Welcome to the Jungle
They found him
behind a dumpster
near the Mustard Seed Church
Somebody had beaten the crap
out
by Daniel Brown
SILENT EYES
Go to town
See the people of society
The socialites and popular people
Going about their business without a care
They
Come into my way of thinking sleep on child
I'll catch you blinking get you in my way of
thinking
being a loser
I'll get you
A poet once came to this land
whose words were incredibly bland
when I asked why this was
he answered, "because
I try far too
by Angela Arno
Being a loser is what I fear.
Always trying but, getting nowhere.
Sitting on this porch I'm reminiscing,
On how you're gone
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Poetry: Being a loser
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