I am the gun-barrel goblin,
smiling like blood spatter reports
on the nightly news
that nobody views anyway.
The painted smirk
and jests and twists and jerks;
the neck contorting
rather hastily at first.

The smoking barrel's cindered carol,
ashes of the canceled spring,
bring up memories like dust trees
untouched by bitter winds.

Drunk on all the money
and the wine,
I am the goblin smile and what's mine
is free to steal but never free to own
until you're known.

A name up in the papers and
on the TV on the five o' clock.
The stalker and the street-walker,
a bad offer strutting the block.
A bad bag, a bad deal, the linoleum peeled
straight into dirt.
I drift through the miles
of varicose girls
with my stiff, goblin smile.

You rock, as always. Great write.

Great Poem



"A bad bag, a bad deal, the linoleum peeled
straight into dirt."



especially liked that line and the image of the goblin smile