New poems
by Scott Thomas Outlar

 

Mixology

 

I mix metaphors on purpose

because they bleed better

when they’re damaged

like a smeared carcass

on hot asphalt

under the desert blitzkrieg sun

where liquid sunshine drains heavy

to rot the fallen flesh

of roadside horror afflictions

 

I drink martinis shaken

with black ice

stolen from the melting arctic

like a hint of burnt blubber

bashed and beaten from a baby seal

that’s allergic to the taste

of toxic freedom

and only gains health

when drowning in the acid

of a stink pit tar trap

in the bloated guts of hallelujah

 

 

 

Cheap Date

 

O Bay Bridge,

I’ve crossed your path before…

you cheap little…shhh…

no need to get nasty…

I do like

how you dirty up my mind.

 

Two glasses of your soured grapes

has me focused

on wishing

I was fucking

instead of holed up

here

playing this

three dollar and fifteen cent game again.

 

 

 

Snip, Snip

 

This is a poem

that won’t be written

because silence dies hard.

 

This is a poem

that’s been aborted,

and ain’t that a shame?

 

This is a poem

that never stood a fighting chance,

but it would have been amazing.

 

This is a poem

that has no metaphor…

and suffers an aversion to scissors.

 

This is a poem

that has no grave

because its plot got all scattered and splattered.

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