FeaturedNew York City Years

Evil

Poetry about Robert Johnson by Greg Powell

Evil

(For Robert Johnson)

locked out from history,
rage bleeds red hue in eyes,
exiled by hell hounds in ghetto
of hope mocking days. skies crying
cremation for my soul. nights churning
blues in haze of whiskey spells. aint got
nothing and nothing to lose.
i be evil. satan is my insane name.
thirsty razor in pocket. murder vision
churning in gut. guitar my woman
this solitude night. guitar my woman
this whiskey tinged night where poems
drip from cheap chandelier ceiling.
don’t fuck with my blues. drunk blood
eyes red with warning. I slice you down
to underground. ear to ear so sly,
you die before you cry. you
expire before you sigh. you face truth
before you lie. your funeral,
my trial