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Articles by Fred Shrum
I Was A Hopeless Romantic by Mark McConville
Drunk and out of mind Though I feel alive Singing songs of power and merit Deeply inspired by this city’s spirit. I was a hopeless romantic Now I’m securing love In this moment I crave desire As much as I crave seduction. I sing and sing this song of Christmas magic I show my scars and I know it’s tragic But I’ve spent too many years in my own head Selling slogans for money and adulation. I now see her in my sight An incredible lynchpin Levelling off the pain Directing me to the light.
American Rust by James Croal Jackson
American rust on dump trucks underneath blue bridge. American rust on the aging sheen of the dream. On a television screen in tandem with the falsity of the stage. American rust on the flagpole hit then replaced weeks later. American rust on the ripped- off roof of the freighter. On the cranes. On the walls. On our skin. On the script misfed, misfiring, stuck within the black ink roller.
Psalms of The Street Sweeper
(Author) FORMAT Buy new or used from an indie through our partner Biblio: Price Condition Seller From the alleyways of Ybor City to the last train home on the Washington Metro comes a collection of poems from the scarred yet unrelenting heart. Fred explores themes of noir, addiction, mental health and broken lives through the lens of redemption. When you hit rock bottom the only way out is up. Spit blood, raise your fists and come out fighting.
That Funky White Light by James Rayvin
I expected to hear trumpets. I thought I would see horsemen. I predicted that the Mississippi would run red. But we can’t always get what we want. How does a man test his mettle when his hand is made of leather and his throne of wood? The pitch of my life was coming in fast. It turned out to be a sinker, like the pit of my stomach. I raised my son to wear Cardinals red in hopes of a better life. Not that he was going to be a pro ballplayer. No, but the quest would be in him.
Trusty Grey by Mark McConville
You feed me fables While rocking me to sleep In this abandoned building Where ghosts appear and then fade. The church bells ring outside I can here wanderers of faith Talk about life and its terrors And the way it can torture you. To hear men and woman of faith Talk freely about the end of the world And the blackness of death and the bleakness of a fruitless future Tells me that we are living in desperate times.
The Boys
the sun beats down on my crossed arms I watch the kids two rows down gulp from half-empty Mountain Dew bottles hot dog backwash sloshing as they cheer hold their gloved hands up up for the foul ball and the men a few seats to the right who probably have names like Ricky or Hank and drink beer in place of water blow smoke from twice lit cigarettes and puffed out chests like territorial primates that skipped work to knock one of the kids onto concrete and snatch the ball from underneath them...
The Miners, the Minors, Carbondale, Illinois
I come from a no-team town to see the Miners play, fall down drunk in the stands with you, obnoxious off the train from Chicago in your Pittsburgh stovepipe, Expos jersey, beard shaved to handlebars for a bygone day in downstate minors country. Spilling, lisping, rubbing up against you, admiring sinew-ripping throws, welp, he’s going nowhere fast like that. I lament poor Miners, poor minors, poor Carbondale a literal coal field, spent.
Empty Pendant
Some nights the bridge she can see from her bed will twinkle with lights golden and red, two lanes of vehicles coming and go, lead a dainty damsel out her window, through a foul darkness, opening doors. Awakes adrift in some duckweed, a small boat without oars amidst the green water snakes, bald cypress trees, moss in a bruised throat, discrete mysteries she holds squeezed in a fist, severed chain, gemstone deplete.
Three Poems by J Travis Grundon
TRIGGERMAN No Women No children No witnesses For God’s sake Never kill A Priest ONCE MORE, WITH FEELING Gimme shelter And forgive me I’ve done it again Please, forgive me I fucked up Will you let me in? WEDNESDAY’S GONE Wednesday morning Wake and bake I read the news Wednesday’s gone Lit like a match I watch her burn J.
I Had A Home
I have spent years at the bottom Circling the dead moments like a fly Emptying my guts in the alleyway I call home Sleeping rough and not soundly under paper-thin rags I had a home Not a monumental palace or manor A humble room with my blood on the walls With horror books on the shelves and smoke surrounding The glass of cheap wine That weakened my stomach And rallied home a hangover from the depths of burning hell.
Two Poems by B F Jones
When We Finally Meet We sit at the bar And I say it’s nice to Finally put a face on the name And I laugh awkwardly Because I am awkward And you are beautiful We drink too much Too quickly We talk too much Too quickly We kiss without Drawing breath You shut your mouth With mine So not to tell me I’m not the one You were hoping for. The Best Scotch Egg In Town I will take you to the place that has the best Scotch egg in town, you say.
Poems by Stephen J. Golds
On That Early Morning Street Hot piss seeped dark into the grit making shapes, hard cases squealing like the children they were about who would open the bloodied, unconscious drunk’s damp billfold. No one wanted piss on their hands, the blood was all right. The blood on our fists was something to be measured and compared as though it were the size of our pricks. Rehab Too many relapses, interlude cold turkey. Weight lost, stomach cramps, the shits and the shakes. Hearing voices where there are none.
Someone Has My Sweatpants
Someone has my sweatpants (and it’s obviously not me) Those many tracking e-mails turned out to be a work of fiction serialized over several days And the “packaged received” confirmation at the end was like a drawstring strangling the truth.
Two poems by Lindsey Heatherly
Advertisements “Mania“ hell, I know I’ve fucked up a thousand different times in a million different ways and that sometimes holding on is gripping sheets by the fistful and packing fabric into the hole in your chest until it reaches your legs, your feet your arms, your hands until your body is the escape route for your mind tell me what thing I did that broke the grace appointed me at birth tell me what it was I did so terribly for this hell to come round like clockwork, round and round, a...
A Gangster Poem: Tommy Gun Blues
Growing up in his hometown of Ybor City/Tampa, Florida, Fred Shrum III has always had an interest in organized crime due to the area’s Mafia background. As he read about the violence between 1922 and 1955, dubbed “The Era of Blood”, he penned down this beautiful poem about the gangster lifestyle. “Santo Trafficante Jr. fascinates me the most,” Shrum III tells Gangsters Inc. “He had most of the east coast on lockdown and yet was soft spoken.
A Gangster Poem: Tommy Gun Blues
By David Amoruso Growing up in his hometown of Ybor City/Tampa, Florida, Fred Shrum III always had an interest in organized crime due to the area’s Mafia background. As he read about the violence between 1922 and 1955, dubbed “The Era of Blood”, he penned down this beautiful poem about the gangster lifestyle. “I wrote this poem from the point of view of a penitent killer," Fred Shrum III tells Gangsters Inc. "He's proud of his past until years later when he realizes the extent of what he has done.
Tourist Trap
Oba Chandler & the Murder of the Rogers Family Narrated by: Chris Fisher Length: 33 mins 4.7 out of 5 stars 4.7 (6 ratings) Sorry, we are unable to add the item because your shopping cart is already at capacity. Please try again later Please try again later Please try again later Please try again Please try again Please try again Prime members: New to Audible? Get 2 free audiobooks during trial. Pick 1 audiobook a month from our unmatched collection.
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