Wayne Russell – 3 poems

The Giant Forged (New York City 1930)

His face stares out in faded black and white,

ghostlike, worn and weathered skin; expressionless.

The builder, constructor of iron giants, his profession;

not for the  squeamish  or faint  of heart.

Treading on the thin line of iron skeletal behemoth,

in sweltering sun, hazardous days spent in peril, his

livelihood; slave labor for pittance.

An inch to the left or to the right could be the longest

step  that this builder ever takes, and the last.

Slung over his weary left shoulder, in grease  stained  burlap

bag, the tools of his  risky  exhausting  trade,  lay in  wait.

Patently the tools wait for that precise moment of their  calling,

where  they  shall  be  used to  construct that looming  metal


Tools  to be hurled,  like tiny metal  daggers at the lumbering

sleeping giant that somehow  must be  awoken,  to stand

erect, for all city  inhabitants  miles below; to marvel at.

* * *

Two Hat Annie

“The entire world is going to hell in

a hand basket”

Meanwhile somewhere at the dizzying

heights of madness, there she was once

again, homeless;  on the mean streets of

a society at downfall.

She was known to all as “Two Hat Annie”

because of her  mental illness, some said it

was  schizophrenia, some said  it was a split

personality brought on by the devil himself.

Annie would walk around town rummaging

through dark blue dumpsters located behind

supermarkets, for her next meal.

Sometimes  she got lucky, sometimes not so lucky.

Sometimes  she had to jostle with  buzzards for the

“treasures”  hidden within the dumpsters; and  always

the rancid  stench.

As Annie would saunter around town, she would mutter

to herself,  if anyone heard  her, and made a glib remark,

she  would snarl at  them like a dog  with rabies, on a

particularly  bad;  day she would spat on them.

Annie jumped a homeless man outside a Wal-Mart one

day, making of with the five dollars in coins that he had

managed to collect from generous  passers byes.

When Annie could remember the way, she would venture

to the local rescue mission  for dinner, sometimes she

made a friend and got lucky behind an abandon building,

or  underneath an overpass.

One fateful night, Annie met a leather clad Vietnam Vet

outside the local biker bar, he was lonely and pretty wasted,

so he got to talking with Annie, and decided to take her back

to his place.

Annie and the biker had sex on the floor of his  dilapidated

one bed roomed apartment, they smoked a joint in bed, and

shot each other up with low grade  heroin, not long after that

the biker passed out, leaving Annie to a  fifth of  whiskey  and a

few wrinkled  fifty  dollar bills on the dresser.

Annie hung around the bikers place,  watched  some TV, had a

bite to eat and a shower, the biker snored; Annie cursed at him,

flipping him off  as she made her way into the humid night  air

laughing  profusely.

While outside, Annie spotted an unattended, unsecured bicycle,

she finished  off the bottle of whiskey, tossed it on the  ground,

and took  off  alongside  the  seemingly  lonesome highway.

Even though  Annie’s  prowess  on the tried and true  bicycle, wasn’t

what it used to be, it was still  fairly  good, especially at 56 years old.

However in Annie’s erratic,drugged, and drunken state it wasn’t long

before she met head on with disaster, the 18  wheeler never saw her

swerving in the middle of the road on her stolen rusted  bicycle, until

it was  too  late.

* * * * *

She Lived on   Debauchery Lane 


Sad lady blues beneath the

purple  neon lights,

she strolled onward into the

sleazy lanes, debauchery calling

her back into the cold arms of

the heroin clouded confusion.

That was her home behind the

battered dumpster, seeking asylum

in back washed beer bottles and

discarded food abandon by the young

horny supermarket clerks.

Someone said to the homeless lady

“Hey  it’s  Halloween tonight”

and someone  said to  the homeless lady

“Nice costume”

they  laughed, she flipped them the bird

and hissed like a cobra.

The punks laughed  again, as they pimp

strolled away into the  stagnant  moonless


Her face contorted  as the mindless syringe

tightened, and as the  spike caressed her vein,

she smiled, and sang in monotone

“I shall fly away, oh glory. I shall fly

away in the morning.”

She worked hard for  the hit, blow jobs are hard

work, rock candy. Shallow souls Rock and Roll

fucked and  bemused, overdose angels dancing

in her head,  transfused and float away.

Her  epitaph was  tattooed  in the pool of blood

that bled down her arm into the gutter, it read

“societies  burden no longer”.


Wayne was born and raised in the sunny state of Florida,

yet has lived from state to state and from  country to country.
Wayne has been published in  various  publications over the last
23 years including “The Cannon’s Mouth” “Poets Espresso” “10 K
Poets” and “Harbinger  Asylum” he can be found on Face Book at 
the following link.



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