Wayne Russell writes

exile while on earth

walking barefoot upon the blade,
the pain is unbearable, we soldier
on, mere exiles on earth.

nature has lain in wait so patiently,
i saw the ravens swarm through
naked trees.

dark fowl soaring against the
backdrop of ashen skies, love
is the insurmountable thorn in

flesh that decays and falls to dirt.
money brings the fate and ruin of
nations.

waves crash, carnivorous against
the craggy shores, it's just a matter
of time. 

Wayne Russell writes

Tis The Season

Christmas lights have been strewn

across suburban houses once again.

Lovers walk hand in hand, each other
on display for all the frigid world too see.

Children scream a banshee's wail, frosty
breaths escape in unison, the old man yells
outside his dilapidated window for silence.

The carolers hit another refrain of "silent night,"
the downtrodden dig through dumpsters for their
Christmas bonuses.

I don't believe in anything anymore, in Santa, in
the bigger scheme of things, in love, in Christmas
lights, or mistletoe, I just don't.

Wayne Russell writes

Contemplation

As the seasons speed past

and the aged vine deteriorates.

As tears subside and the heart
grows cold.

As minuet eyes of passion's
fire succumb to the haze of
mystic requiem, youth quickly
fades into pages of dust.

Pendulum sways the other way,
all in due time, a master of silence
written in the stars contemplate
fates of souls, of those gone before

and all in the silent passing of
moments we too, shall answer.

Wayne Russell writes

Oh What a Tangled Web We Weave

I was tired, beat down, and weary when I finally

decided to make the short pilgrimage from my frameless bed into the man cave for another round of the next happy hour.

My wife of 17 years had slipped out and gone to another work function, one of her supervisors had decided to leap frog into another state other than Florida.

He would have a white collar send off, with all the same old pomp and circumstance; there was greener grass in Virginia, more money in them there hills!

My wife’s soon to be former boss will still work at the same fucking place, just a different locale you see?

But whatever, that’s her life, attending snazzy farewell parties, and the like.

My life’s here at home with my two ASD children and my ASD self; drinking beer in the cave, while I shoot the shit with my dogs, in my blue collar southern drawl.
 
By the way, I am drinking, but I have a nanny watching over my two special little angels, she’s a 54 year old Scottish woman that migrated here to Mercia, with her Mercian Air Force husband back in '95.

Yes, I background checked her, she’s not an axe murderer, not that the FBI’s James Comey knows of anyway.

But anyway
 
The Scottish nanny’s husband left her for a Hungarian man, half his age; met him on social media and fucking eloped all the way to Norway to be with him.
  
Wow its 7:00 PM! I would have fallen into a coma if not for the dirt bikes and ATV’s swarming off in the distance, like flies around a cow’s ass at a Trump rally in Alabama.

Annngggzzzz! Annngggzzzz! Buuuzzzz!

Every Friday and Saturday evening at precisely the same time 7:00 pm!

It’s the same old shit, different weekend.

Annngggzzzz! Annngggzzzz! Buuuzzzz!

Fuck, let me pop the top on my first can of liquid sanity, I worked hard for this cheap beer swill, so if you would, turn the page and leave me to it.

Autism --Samadhi Rajakarunanayake

Wayne Russell writes

Untitled

The unknown is where the true lies, dark and mysterious, defunct society captured in a malignant universe.

Naked cosmos bask by the craggy shoreline, death stalks as the wolf does the lamb.

We can only await our calling, our number served at the cool calculated moment of his choosing.

We await this morbid curse of sin; we reap the harvest of death more slowly than others.

Darkness implodes the psyche, we all embrace sanity when we all stare, blinded by weapons of our own making, we get off on death and bloodshed; the six o’clock news remains death's announcer. 

Jaded by love, awoken only by this cure of onslaught, the masses relinquish all wealth and power, at last when lady luck gives in to the god of death.

The winds still blow; darkness embraces us, as the light of children’s eyes mutate into old age growing bitter with the seasons.

All hail father death, as mother earth’s bosom fades with the insane gallop of time.

Infused, in the pale curdled moonlight I can see the world crumble.

People become giants that devour, then brag about
their conquest, another blow; chalked up like notches scrawled upon a pseudo oak bedpost.

The earth is weeping rivers of filth; soon she will roar and rebel. 

Eye -- M. C. Escher

Wayne Russell writes

A Day in the Life

Life is a dance with death on a daily basis, life is a struggle to stay sane enough to keep our heads above a rabid sea of filth.

Life is bills and payments to be made, ones that I cannot pay due to lack of work; lack of work leaves you bleeding pulverized in a Tampa Bay shanty town; drunk off money that you either stole from a clueless passerby or panhandled from a kind hearted person, kind enough to know that you would take the money they gifted you and run straight to the package store to buy a cheap six pack of beer and some smokes if you really panhandled superbly that day.

Kids running past me on the way home from school, blinded by youth and naivety, poke faces at the homeless and downtrodden basket people. They see me as I spit on the ground, through gapped yellow brown teeth; I do an odd take on an old Irish jig that I learned in a pub in Scotland back in my 20's.

The kids are no longer poking fun; they run away like a frightened pack of youthful coyote pups, they vanish over the horizon line, down past the Baptist church, down past the shops and bars and English pub, the deli with the best pressed Cuban sandwiches on earth, they run past the hooker named Lola wearing a pair of electric blue nylons with runs and moth holes eaten clear through.

Lola laughs and throws her track lined arms up towards the cloudless skies; God shakes his head and turns away from his creations run amuck, in disgust.

I finish my last beer and light up a smoke. Walking towards Lola I offer her one and she snatches it; I light it and laugh, then I walk on down the uneven sidewalks of the city and look for a place to call home for the night. 



Portrait of Lola -- Chris Denovan