Ray Strickland RRFTB

Lysergic acid diethylamide

She reached over and pulled a morning after pill out her purse and lit me a cigarette.
There were versions of things going on outside but none could
get a foothold on our positioning.

We had shelter underground and carpets that weren't shagged.

There was a night when a young girl
was reclining in a chair and she
lifted her long slender leg and looked at me.
Her acid soaked eyes were black and beautiful
looking not just at me but in me.
"Steel pole bathtub.", she said
in a voice that can only be described as
a universe full of warriors screeching to a halt.

She looked beautiful to me.

Her black and white
striped tights and dilated pupils
were there and shining.


Ray Mitchell Strickland Jr.
September 23,2010

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Free Creamer and sugar from McDonald's on 6th and Alameda

In Downtown Los Angeles
near 6th and Alameda
I never paid for sugar or creamer.

I'd just walk about a block down
to the McDonald's and stock up,
pockets full,casual exit.

Today was different though.

Slouching tongue ran freely across caked teeth
and blinds were opened.

Same crusted socks,
clouded with semen and cat piss
never felt so right.

I, in morning haze,
found hardened swiss and sour tea
in place of fruits and vegetables.

Even my coffee was black,
lackluster and lifeless.

The creamy swirls on holiday.


Raymond Strickland jr. May 25, 2010

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There is no sadness to speak of.
No bullshit spiel about little red wagons stolen in alleyways.

No mention of that ancient babysitter with the hole in her back calling
"SPIDERMAN!! SPIDERMAN!!", as she leaned out the 2nd story window.
you cowering in the corner trying your best not to piss your pants.

You held your hands out and acted as though they were rides at a carnival.
Those around you sat on them and pretended to ride.
There was no admission.
There was only nap time
and the smell of fresh wood thrown together
to house the lot of you still teaming
with the world that was yet to come.

You would kick, pinch and scream at the hand off.


Ray Strickland jr.

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Fixture at the end of the bar

I'm still here at the end of the bar.

Looming behind a sweating glass and ancient
oak trimmed with tarnished brass.

A sexy blue haze unfurls from
the ashtray and I staple myself to
the cluttered walls lacing the torn flyers
and protruding staples.

The room is filled with the seedy murmurings
of strangers, bed fellows and whispering lights.

It's a lonely place where every song is reminiscent of
cold industrial skies and frozen sidewalks.

Reminiscent of soft spoken nights
that were riddled with
all those glorious stars

I had promised you.


Ray Strickland Jr.

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Down in the park

Sit and spin.
We are plugged in for yet another seemingly endless night.
Our bodies rippling in glorious oblivion.

Our nosebleeds slide down the slides and

we crack open our 40s in the swings.

Around here the film of burning eyes, stolen cans of tuna and blocks of
sharp cheddar cheese are openly condoned.

We were the big fuck you.
Tomorrow never came for us.
We were never far from spinning records backwards and never missed
an opportunity to feel as good as twenty five dollars would allow.


Ray Strickland jr.
April - 1990

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BP Oil (a hot place in hell)

There will be bloodshed.
all the stars you once wished upon
will hurl themselves to earth
destroying all you've created while
rebuilding all you've destroyed.

All that have danced blindly
on the killing floor of vanity and greed
will all at once meet their end leaving
thin crusts of fingernails layering the
sides of their open caskets.

All your witty bumper stickers will melt,
gas stations will explode,
the stale cafes that freckle
this wretched town
filled with the politically correct
shit fucks writing some freelance dribble
in their journals, NOT with a black pen
but an African American pen mind you
will splinter in glorious flame,
churches will collapse,
flags will unfurl and fall,
your Prada shoes will be
used to run your selfish asses to the
place where your useless
currency will be nothing more than
kindling to warm the peels of lewd shit
that encrust and dig outward from within.

Your facial scrubs,
your spa treatments,
your 80's dance parties,
your electric corn-oil cars,
your self bronzers,
every shit hole cd you own,
your stocks,
your bonds,
your boobies bracelet,
your Lance Armstrong pipe dream
of doing something good as long as you
get the credit,
your bags of seedless grapes,
your bottled water in recycled dolphin safe plastics,
your tofu dildos,
your dreamy button down partner,
your maggot brained so called friends
that consider a good time sitting around
in a hot tub with filled
with dumb snooki bitches
that can't spell the word integrity,
your gold cards,
your platinum cards
will no longer buy you time to gouge
this gift you stand upon
but will allow it to
open up and swallow you whole.
you will all lie in
unmarked festering holes
of filth and waste.

This one thing i can promise you.


Ray Strickland jr. May 25, 2010

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KBWC radio station

Remember KBWC? That radio station from Wiley college.
Marshall Texas. 1983-1988?
The Dj called White Pony,
The song "White horse" by Laidback

play every time he would came on.
I was busy mowing lawns.

Jordache jeans but I had the generic.
Parachute pants.
The zipper on the knee
that would dig into the bone
when you did a knee spin
at the roller rink.
Paid lunch token,Green.
Free lunch token,red.
The boogie down bronx.
The visits to see Dad.
You thought metal detectors were soooo cool.
Wild berries covered in snake foam.
All cats are gray.
Bubble gum after a haircut.
Roxanne Shante.
Green stamps.
Your television baby sitter.
You loved the smell of permanent markers
and remember them well.
The drunken walk home.
"Whatcha gonna do when ya get
outta jail?"
I'm gonna have some fun.
What do you consider fun?
Fun, natural fun.
The acid soaked sunrise.
Checking mortuary doors just to see.
Sweet tea.
Rusted dumpsters all ablaze.
Your escort outside the city limit.
Your complete understanding
of the things that should and shouldn't be.
Your fascination with graffiti on trains.
The sock you had to wipe your ass with.
The smell of orange blossoms as you tried to fall asleep outside..
That beautiful cobweb strung between branches, you and the moon.
You running out to the highway that runs
in front of your house after hearing tires screech
to your dog as he lay dying.
His tail still managing to wag as you
scream his name.


Ray S.

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Bum Fights

There's a video out of homeless people fighting
each other in exchange for a few bucks, a hit of crack or some beer.

The creators of the show are lily white suburban boys with blue eyes,
clear skin, and knit hats.

They filmed the sick, the hopeless, the lost
(never to be found)
and made a mockery which made them a fortune.

A fortune that will probably be spent on topless dancers, strawberry cocaine,
supreme gasoline, distressed denim, whores and high definition Sony flat screens.

They will never truly see what they've filmed as it really is.

They have no right to even look upon the tightly packed shopping carts
filled with letters from home, matted clothes too tight, transistor radios in
cardboard shelters that broadcast the hot spot

vacation loops to the ones that will never go.

They have no right to film the loitering tickets issued,
the blistered feet, the tired eyes, the needles void of hope and filled with anguish,
the tiny tarnished locket that hangs from a neck housing the
faded picture of a loved one that doesn't have
the money to help, but keeps you in their prayers all the same.


Raymond Mitchell Strickland jr.
May 26, 2010

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