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New poems
by Scott Thomas Outlar




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



a line, (a short blue one)


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


playing this

three dollar and fifteen cent game again.



a line, (a short blue one)


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.


a line, (a blue one)


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