Introducing the Retro Pop Culture Contest October 15-December 25

(c) Geoffrey Wren

Welcome to the Retro Pop Culture Contest 1930s -1980 
You can enter a poem, prose, haiku, sonnet, short story, flash fiction, art, sketching, short essay, retro photography/or manipulated to look retro photography.    Each entry is $2 per submission you send to the paypal:    Winner will get $25 and each entry as long as it isn't offensive/obscene (which will be an auto DQ and no refund) will get an automatic post on this website.  The posts that get the most traffic and best posts will be in better contention to win the prize.   This is a contest to help pay for maintaining fees on this website and hopes to expand next year.  We will be running different style contests throughout year.  If you'd like to participate in this as a challenge (but not be in our contest) you can also submit poems on these subjects.  

Submissions e-mail is also:  Subject line should be Contest: Subject of Each piece.   A short 3rd person bio. Send only in word doc or in subject of an e-mail.   Will check if contest entry has been put in before considering work.    *Also, this contest doesn't effect our regular entries for General Themes, themes on front page, poetry showcases separate from contest, or interviews & reviews.  Those are all free for submissions to be considered for website. Subject line is very important in this case*

Examples but not limited to include the obvious idea behind this
- Andy Warhol & the Factory  (including the Velvet Underground/Lou Reed/Nico/Edie Sedgwick, etc)
-Muhammad Ali
-Leonard Cohen 60s & 70s
- Bob Dylan
-Phil Ochs
-Old Hollywood Themes - Movies, Actresses (Audrey Hepburn, Marilyn Monroe, Natalie Wood, Ava Gardner, Judy Garland, Rita Hayworth, Ann Margret, Jayne Mansfield, Vivien Leigh, Bette Davis, Joan Crawford, Katharien Hepburn, Lauren Bacall, Elizabeth Taylor, Sophia Loren, Greta Gabro, Ingrid Bergman, Sharon Tate, Shirley Temple, Grace Kelly, Jean Harlow, Marlene Dietrich, Lucille Ball, Mae West, Loretta Young, Gene Tierney, Ginger Rogers, Lana Turner, Carole Lombard, Jane Russell, Linda Carter, Barbara Stanwyck, Susan Hayward, Betty Grable, Raquel Welch, Jane Fonda etc)  Actors: (James Dean, Marlon Brando, Clark Gable, Humphrey Bogart, Fred Astaire, James Stewart, Henry Fonda, Peter Fonda, Gary Cooper, Spencer Tracy, Charlie Chaplin, Gregory Peck, Kirk Douglas, Orson Welles, Burt Lancaster, Sidney Poitier, Robert Mitchum, Jack Nicholson, Dennis Hopper, etc)  sorry no John Wayne please.

-Poets & Writers  (Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, T.S. Eliot, Ernest Hemingway, Kurt Vonnegut, Ted Hughes, Dylan Thomas, Maya Angelou, Marianne Moore, James Joyce, Charles Bukowski, Rainer Maria Rilke, Roald Dahl, James Baldwin, Audrey Lorde, Richard Brautigan, Amari Baraka, William S. Burroughs, Tennessee Williams, William Faulkner, Aldous Huxley, Robert Frost, J.D. Salinger, Toni Morrison, e.e. Cummings, Albert Camus, Lorca, Adrienne Rich, Robert Lowell, Pablo Neruda, Elizabeth Bishop, W.H. Auden, Etheridge Knight, etc.)

-Other artists such as Keith Haring (although mostly 80's) Jean-Michael Basquiat (although mostly 80's) , Pablo Picasso, Jackson Pollock, Salvador Dali, Frida Kahlo, Marcel Durchamp, Anish Kapoor, Jeff Koons, Georgia O'Keefe, 

-Retro Photography or newer photos (your own) manipulated to look retro.

- Digital Poetry/art

Other themes 
-Retro tv (American Bandstand, etc) Old Horror Movies

- Activists/Movements (Gloria Steinem, Malcolm X, MLK, Woodstock, JFK, changing 60's, Vietnam War)

Of course other musicians/bands  including not limited to since I love so many (David Bowie, The Rolling Stones, The Beatles/John Lennon, Funkadelic, Bob Marley, The Who, Blondie, Loudon Wainwright III, McGarrigle Sisters, Joni Mitchell, Patti Smith, Tom Waits, Sandy Denny, Jefferson Airplane, The Grateful Dead, Syd Barrett/Pink Floyd, Townes Van Zandt, Frank Zappa, T Rex, Miles Davis, The Clash, Leadbelly, Woody Guthrie, Joy Division/Ian Curtis, Jimi Hendrix, Cream, Glen Campbell, Beach Boys, Prog Rock, Peter Gabriel, Kate Bush, Devo, Gary Numan, Nina Simone, Billie Holiday, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder, Led Zeppelin, Elvis, Fleetwood Mac, Loretta Lynn, Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, Kris Kristofferson, Willie Nelson, Dolly Parton, The Byrds, British folk music, Big Star, 70's Bruce Springsteen, 70's Elton John, Ramones, Black Sabbath, Alice Cooper, Queen, Allman Brothers Band, Eagles, Abba, The Carpenters, Simon & Garfunkel, Steely Dan, Wings, The Kinks, The Temptations, The Supremes, The Wall of Sound (Specter), Joe Meek, CCR, Roxy Music, Heart, Al Green, Curtis Mayfield, Janis Joplin, Dusty Springfield, The Doors/Jim Morrison, early Prince, Sam Cooke, Otis Redding, Robert Johnson, Aretha Franklin, Buddy Holly, Darby Crash of the Germs, Nick Drake, Bert Jansch, Patsy Cline, Tim Buckley, Bon Scott, Steve Earle, Jaco Pastorius, 

If you have any more and would like to question e-mail us at 

Short poems part 800? by David L O’Nan

Work Breakrooms

In breakrooms
While everyone dresses their smiles for the holidays
I am feeling powerless
With poetry pounding in my head
And nowhere to turn, or write
This would have been my father's 76th birthday
Today I choke in thought
And damage my ears in music.

Little Nerves

Explosions throughout my little nerves
Blankets of skin wrap around my aching body
And my December eyes
Listen, watching the snow
As it pops on electrical wires
Holding gifts
Shake out all the air
Missing pieces

The heart needs repaired
To burn away
As ugly as money.


Through all the revelry lay fragile ghost-skinned
Poison ivy on a frostbite
A dancing fool on a train track
A zipper away from my skeleton
A dream that became reality in the same room, the same nightmare
From nightmares before
Vaporates the idea of dream
We are all riven loners.

The Overlook

A dirty minded storm approaching
And my mind is rambling
I've got police car flashes burning my retina,
And I feel my disease is spreading
Head to the angry waters of the river in some lost park,
An overlook
For the drifters
Pen in my hand
I write my sins down to be forgiven.

Stones of Heaven

Limping through slain sand
Spreading birdseed from a cup over a Carolina beach
Life is a fool's gold
When you have a collection of photos
to get you from morning to a grave
Your love still etched into the stones of Heaven
Where is her touch, now?
Feeding the seagulls and I wait.


Shiver out my concrete heart
Crumbled statues that rest as cuts inside my glove
In mad genius hideaways
Sometimes the world stops
The mirror breaks
The reflection becomes your shadow
Rearrange my jigsaw puzzle
As it unravels, frayed and dull pieces missing.

Nameless Woman

She was the nameless woman on a Greyhound bus
Going from the twin cities to the beach
Escapes from the cold cemetery
Of all the blemishes and bruises
From the tremors and sweats
The whipping of an evening knife
Escapes to Jesus
Unite her with a breeze
To heal and to love.

Prayer Pose

Questions written in the lines of our hands
Gold implanted these answers in these lines
In codes, of language we may not know
Crooked energy, blurs our visions
bend away
our faithful devotion
Now ask another question
Do your hands respond?
Form me into a prayer pose.

The Park

The park has become a spy
Of nature
We watch as the day becomes a blur
From beauty to an armageddon
A wonder as the past to future vanishes in a flash
Our eyes are the guides
The search for mazes, 
in twists & turns
Love is all we have as we fade.


What are your true feelings?
A cryptic wonderland we swim in
Tears of saltwater cuts through the oceans
And now free the sharks,
to feast on our death in our shells, we hide
And hope the fog will mask our scent.
Left to feel nothing.  Pellets.


A branding of pain hits the city sidewalks
A blind rain
A wail heard like a sting from a scorpion
Residuals heard in wind
A mutual terror shakes us all
Defamation of a storm which never materialized -
into a superiority complex
It never knew all the graves they dug.

I was Told

I was told to magnify the disease
From a scramble to a destruction
They were always telling me to
Become the evil wisp of air unseen,
And intravenously become one with the blood
Infect the roots
And feast on the freedom now
I'm a fugitive locked in a cage, silent.


Old men speaking in riddles
On floral print recliners that their wives bought in 1974
They joke about how they used to have long Partridge Family hair,
And could drink all night and sleep 'til the afternoon
Then they cry endlessly as bbq chips spill all over the floor
A heart attack by the toilet foiled Wheel of Fortune that night.

Maine Timbers

When born to the wild
You are the comfort with sunlight
And the hell of a meteor
A vigilante disguise
Bullets for eyes
Cloudy ash tears
Death of old cigarette breath
But you are the running fawn
A run into the Maine Timbers
And they are just a sniper who stepped on a nail.

Alpha Hero or Bipolar Drifter

Growing scared like a pretender, I am
Show the tough leather skin of an alpha hero
Whilst I cry in the hands of night
When only truth, we look inside
Pull away at my mask
Begin the cuffing
The weakling survived the fight,
but inside he melted to ash.

Sunday becomes cool and drips of rain
Ripped jeans sipping in the dryness,
of the room
Gaze out of the window
Only to see clouds that look like a staggering despair,
A broken manic depressive drifter
Shooting stars of spittle meanders to the sidewalks
And he trips over a pile of bricks in the slick wind
The militant march of a hangover.


Bravo, good job, Romeo
You smell like old fish and piss
Well aren't you a tiger?
With your emotional bullshit
I'm sure all the ladies had quivering mouths and hands
Ready to twist your chord.
Did you feed them all of these feelings?
I mean, feelings
Do you have feelings?
Never have had feelings?
Come on sting me, talking bee, sting me!

After a Mother's Funeral

Being baby talked to,
Is so annoying at her funeral.
I wanted nothing but the nausea and the feelings of
Stabbings in my own backside.
I felt like I needed to be a lone wolf now
I went into this day not expecting to cry,
Not to have a flush of memories.
To just close a chapter on an inconvenient life.
However, I felt the day feeling like I'm the only one there -
that knew anything of her.
I just stared for what seemed like an hour
At this beautiful woman who apparently was my mother.
I went home with dad around 9 p.m. that night
Dad suffering from food poison
Stomach cramps from poisoned funeral lunch meat.
Provided by an unknown family of strangers.

Omen Breath Freewriting

Capturing beauty with a blind eye
Stuck my hand out to the guiding light
I'm full of potential and set for life
But i'm caught in these blended bees buzzing in my mind.
Drained of life and drained to thought
I'm stuck here dry
Looking at dry clouds
They look so crispy
And i'm so thirsty
I want to just poke one like a cactus
And see if it is worthy.
I will climb that invisible rope,
and reach towards the hands of an unspoken leech
That'll suck away at my blood
And I will be loved
by the Omen breath that lingers above.

Fever 32 (about my dad and his battle with ALS)

I am aware of light above me
Unaware of the darkness that is eating away inside of me
Then I look at my family
Why are they full of tears?
Why has my body defeated me?
When my mind is still young
God saved me 34 years before
Now he needs me.

And we entered the flames tied in a knot,
mouth on mouth,
heartbeats tumbling like dominoes.

Battling the Roses

A wrinkling face
A cheek to the window
Electrical light now dimming
Everything used to be brighter
My head is a swimming ocean
Full of endless drownings.
I rest on the pane, inside screaming

No energy left
I can only watch
The surge of rain battling the roses.

Orange Sea

Over the plaid mountain
In the windy orange sea
with long Emerald Green drapes
For waves, for eyes 
millions of miles into
Space shuttle dreams
You meet a Bob Dylan impersonator
Playing harmonica in a wheelchair
Jim Beam bottles bouncing off the beach.

Miracle Parlors

We lament in miracle parlors
In coffee domiciles
Your neurosis becomes a camera to capture us all,
as your vision
Hiding miracles in your mind sleeves
Collision of thoughts
Deliberate in your laughter and ridicule
I am the naive wave,
and you now vigilant.

Maroon Clouds

The earth was shaking
Maroon clouds clogged with a sick mix of green
We all hoped for the unzipping of destruction,
the apocalyptic dream scenario.
Disappointed to find out no angels,
just the falsetto of fainting divorcees
hoping for a Hollywood sixpence.

Minnesota Winter

So, you image yourself a clydesdale,
Strong and free
Narcosis breakdown -
in the flattening of a Minnesota winter
Takes you by the skin,
and leaves you the dinner for a blizzard.
Stay away from your dreams of escapes with Dorothy Parker
And realize your strength is in the clear.

A Hobo and a Nun

From mud puddles it spawns -
a hobo and a nun
Chased by the breath of hornets
The hobo, smokes wet cigarettes
The nun, burned all her bridges.
They met in a spin of lightning
Near the sewer by the hustlers
Near a Gay pride parade in the conservative side of town.
And like magic, now they are one
And always were
Personalities evolved from a grip of vapor.

Wolfpack Contributor EIC Bios:  David L O’Nan & HilLesha O’Nan

much more posts if you just look up my name in search.

A Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Elliot Harper

with Elliot Harper:

Q1: When did you start writing and first influences?

Elliot: I’ve only recently found writing. I’ve been a reader all my life, but never found the time or confidence to start writing, something which has always been a dream of mine. In 2016, I moved to Houston, Texas with my wife, and this afforded me the opportunity to explore that dream. Although I don’t like to stick to any particular genre, my early influences are the Science Fiction of Ursula Le Guin and Iain M Banks, and the weird fiction of China Mieville, Jeff Vandermeer, and Steph Swainston, as well as the dream-like works of Haruki Murakami.

Gifts (Annals of the Western Shore, #1) by Ursula K. Le Guin

Q2: Who are some of your biggest influences today?

Elliot: Currently, my biggest influence is still China Mieville. His use of vocabulary and language in the Bas-lag series of books still blows me away no matter how many times I read them. I’ve recently written a dark fantasy book which is heavily influenced by his work.

Perdido Street Station: Mieville, China: 9780330534239: Books

Q3: Where did you grow up and how did that influence your writing?

Elliot: I grew up in a little seaside town called Scarborough, Yorkshire, in the northeast of England. My hometown is the basis for the fictional seaside town I’ve created that features in some of my writing and four of my unpublished books called Eastborough-on-Sea.

Q4: Have any travels away from home influenced your work/describe?

Elliot: Me and my wife love to travel. For our honeymoon, we went backpacking around the world in 2011-12. Seeing all those cultures first-hand changed my life and I’m always thinking about what I saw and did in that year. When I write I remember back to the bustling markets and cities and it gives me my inspiration.

Q5: Any pivotal moment when you knew you wanted to be a writer?

Elliot: I think the pivotal moment for me was when a friend of mine was published. It was at that moment that I realised that it can happen to real people that I actually know in my life. It gave me the confidence to believe that I could possibly do it as well.

Q6: Favorite activities to relax?

Elliot: My favorite activities when not writing are reading (currently dark fantasy), playing games (currently The Witcher 3), and watching movies and series (mostly horror, Carpenter, Cronenberg, Aster, etc, but also anything by Denis Villeneuve, and eagerly awaiting the Dune movie in November) to preview Dune

Q7: Any recent or forthcoming work you’d like to promote?

Elliot: I recently won a flash fiction competition, the Flash Vision contest by The Molotov Cocktail. This was the first time I’ve ever won anything for my writing. The story will be available to read on their website, within the next few weeks.

Q8: What is a favorite line of yours or others?

Elliot: Favorite quote is from Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami “If you only read the books that everyone else is reading, you can only think what everyone else is thinking”

Q9: Who has helped you most with writing?

Elliot: The people who have helped me most in my writing by their constant support and willingness to read my work (and listen to me talk about it endlessly) are my wife, Naomi, and my friends, Rob, John and Will.

Elliot Harper is the author of two self-published books, the dark science-fiction novella, The City around the World, and the speculative short story collection, On Time Travel and Tardiness.

On Time Travel and Tardiness: A Collection of Speculative Stories: Harper,  Elliot: 9798644039630: Books

His story, In the Garden, was the winner of the Flash Vision 2021 story contest by The Molotov Cocktail.

He has short stories in print as follows: Into the Forest appears in Air and Nothingness Press’s, The Wild Hunt: Stories of the Chase anthology, There’s a Dead Bear in the Pool features in Clash Book’s Black Telephone Issue 1, and Blackout features in Popshot Quarterly Magazine, The Protest Issue.

His fiction has appeared online in Issue 3 of Clash Book’s Black Telephone Magazine, Maudlin House, Neon Magazine’s Battery Pack Volume 4, Horrified Magazine, Coffin Bell Journal, FIVE:2:ONE Magazine’s #thesideshow, Storgy, Queen Mobs Teahouse, the Ghost City Review, Akashic Book’s #FriSciFi, Back Patio Press, Litro Magazine’s #StorySunday, Selcouth Station’s #2 Food Edition, Dream Noir Lit Magazine, Vagabonds: Anthology of the Mad Ones Volume 8 and Riggwelter Press.

He currently lives in Houston, Texas with my wife, Naomi, but he’s originally from Scarborough, England, although he considers Leeds to be his home. He likes to write fiction that isn’t confined by any particular genre, but leans towards the dark, the transgressive and the surreal. Find him at his website,, and on Twitter, @E_Harper_Author.

Some links:

41st Birthday Poetry Dump by David L O’Nan : Cassavetes, Old Boss on Friday, 1928 Skin Disease, Battling the Stars in the Brothel, J.D. Truckers


I once lived in a canyon
As a starved mannequin
I felt nude
As my clothes melted into my plastic skeleton
You will not feel my shakes
As i'm a mute to you,
But, inside i'm an earthquake

I will not revisit the canyon.
Now that I've found gold in superiority
God smiling over our field of life
And you can go back -
To wearing your dirty stained robes
Asleep in your coalmine chambers
Your Cassavetes movies on repeat
On a television screen Green with cobwebs whisping

You will awake in thorns
The prickling stabbing will leave you to -
moments of incompletion.
I once lived in a heartbreak,
as a drowning boat
To the last breath of the lively sea.

I was teased by hearsay
I was dressed up in other's garments
Whom were in the "more impressive" crowds
I was a hipster on a day to be a gentleman
I was a gentleman at the party,
When you are supposed to scream for passion.
I was an ocean that had no life formations
I was only water
Salt was a stranger.
You want to live in a duel
Parading town as the social clown
You dream when it's convenient
Your nightmares shape your eyes -
To a sunken black tombstone.

Good luck impressing your kings and queens
With your coffee stained Santa beard
However, you'll never know if they will applaud
Once you create a dynasty out of your cheap imitations.
A lollipop for the mob.

Sure, you can impress
By making grenades out of seashells
But, can you pull the needles from your chest -
when you're robbed from all that you've loved.

I once polluted this Earth with a squalor empire
Spilling drips and drops of toxins
over a circular sun
Well, I was told by God himself
That you should learn to run
Run away from the burns and scum
That follow you into a shun.

Are you following me?

Always and always will
Always it the word that means eternal.

Even when hidden below the mountains,
And you're the forgotten mister.
The old cracking skin,
Picking lines from the bible and tattooing them on your brain.
To recite to all shabby crocodile hearts -
That walk by pounding on that narcissism drum.

You call for peace
When the world explodes in sin.

And, where are you?

Still watching Cassavetes films
On your broken waterbed.
Popsicles melted all over the damn creation.
Sloppy and drooling,
How elite are you?
In your painted brain.

1928 Skin Disease

Are we all heart attacks?
As Midwestern flu epidemics rips the town to shreds
We are cold, we are infernos
We are light, we are black and white
In Photographs
We look like we hate life.

Soothe me with old stresses
New stress is just new shit, a new grind
And they will take our drinks away
and watch us sell off our families
To protect us from the war sirens.

I'm not even sure we're alive,

Picking potatoes by burning coals
With copperheads swirling around the tractor
It must be a good feeling
To shed this disease.

Feeling death melt over the river
And watch the skies green up and shred away the clouds.
In 1928, the great grandfathers had to fight
The silver wind and the knives of the night.

To protect the women and children from unknown wraths
And the film negatives that leave the ill imprint.

Battling the Stars in the Brothel

Every day. He lives the grandiose Vegas life.
Always tossing the dice around floating hearts
He still lives in the cool amongst the foolish
While all the good men are pedaling in quicksand
He fights the unkempt,
With the ugliness that runs in his blood.

He bribes the orchestra
He winks to the greasy hands
Now is that absurd?
In Vegas blinders
Every day at the brothel,

Drinks all the expensive champagne
His habits are a smash hit.
While he displays all his truths and lies
While on the floor broken 
Watching soggy stars spin around -
the Vulgar room
In Pink Neon.

Every day, the puffy possessions
Stems of flaky roses
A melting superficial charm
You're the private in the glitter army
Sugar spoons begin to bend

And your pain resonates
In the women you've bedded
You're the needless paper heart
Aborted away the emotions
Now all that money is running thin
In a BMW suffering in starvation
Even you could use a meal.

Look at the magnificent 
Eating at the cheap diner again
All the ladies at the brothel,
are harmoniously singing -
at the beauty of your severance.

Oh, the sex symbol once dapper and proud
is just a cobweb father
With orbs lingering overhead.

In those stars you've met the spider.

J.D. Truckers

Neglectful boys they became
Women in nightgowns, children in He-Man pajamas
With a Hi-C box dripping on the light brown carpet
Those men,
Romanticizing about Jack Daniels
Some truckers whom believed they had wisdom.

From London, Kentucky
David and Jeff became friends
A grandeur imposter, tough, and reedy
They were,
And they, were locks and chains
Coughing, hacking, bleeding ulcer truckers.

Mom never told them "I Love You"

They were supposed to be at home when off from work,
but they were shooting darts,
Shooting Asian Carp in the lake
They were all firecrackers and gasoline hands,
Voyeurs at the maiden's motel.
Grocery store riots, plastic flower playboys, truckers

Empowered by the whiskey burns
Lighting in the bottle during the whiskey storm.
Torching the taste buds and watch Thelma and her sisters wave goodbye.
They found her discount store bra and stolen carton of eggs in their Semis.
Stained flannel shirts,
Gamy newspapers, they couldn't cry
Bruise out a tear.

Because mom never told them "I Love You"

They had to call Daniel Davis at the payphone
So they can more Jack on the icy roads
Riveting focus over the mountains to a new river,
On a new day,
and Double D had the money at least one more time -
For these J.D. Truckers.
They had kids at home begging for a stuffed animal, 
for a T.V. dinner.
They had women at home circling ads for new men.

They just sat in their trucks in the trashed depression.
With a toasted cheese frozen to the dashboard.
The open road was losing its freedom
And all of their dancers they'd visit we're becoming old like them.
Their buddies they used to brag about
Were either skeletons or in jail.

Because mom never said "I Love You"

Old Boss on Friday

On a morning that brewed the dust
A flock of geese flew over the trees
Above your militia hut
You're the sore,
An enabler of war
The captain to a whipping shore
All your people scare of your stare.

You act the part of a corruptive clown
Everyone believes your lies
The genius that you say you are

You have bought your charm
Like a violation of the Hatch Act.

The women you swoon
The same way you puncture their heart,
At the end of a bloody moon
Leaving it pale.

In a sinister snort of your "sugar dirt"
You claim you have paved the way
The gifts of your smile
And the guns you pack
Doesn't always make for a friendly holiday.

Vacations with strangers
On some pompous waters that you claim as your own
Wicked and paralyzing
You tell the young blondes what they want to hear.
Promotions, Promotions, Promotions.

A raise will come, follow me like the fading sun
And you will be rewarded with the bed of gold
And enfold you in my shield.
shhhh...keep your mouth shut,
Sign away your clarity for new fears
The Captain is a burning room,
full of many wardrobes and burning perfumes,

Come with me in this hideaway scene
In the glossy ghetto murdered by rain
See you there in your anxious fear
He laughs and makes you his comic book brain.

You are not ripe anymore
Too wrinkled and sour
Your politics too dire to his ideal
Pulling away, from his constraint
He's got piles of red hats and snake flags.
Packing to the rallies and the stores.

And you are now just a wish
elimination from your freedom
The flight skidding into a slavery war
Pumping at your brakes
Now your mind is an earthquake.

And your solidity as a king on Tuesday breaks down
Like the skeleton of a storm
Broken branches driven over by squealing tires
Streetlights fade on your cocaine parade
And your midas hands begin to fail
Your mid-life crisis begins to feel more permanent.
By Thursday, you're the talk of the scene.
The words don't come out easily,
You've been pawned and left raw.

Those paisley shirts and Raybans can't hide your lies
And false charms,
What is secure?
When the floor has been swept away from your feet?

The week will not lay down like a lady at your beckoning dream
DENIED in red ink!
Remove and brush away

Clouds spit out the greenish hue for you,
the Old boss on Friday.

Wolfpack Contributor EIC Bios:  David L O’Nan & HilLesha O’Nan