Forever heavy waiting for the checks to come,
One with the bums, soul thumpin in the drums,
And though I’m stuck in sums, I had planned to succeed the regent
As the bastard son, like a man of the gun,
Deft puller of the fast one
Passion
Of two explorers left to fight for the last ration.
And I stand, blunted without the fun,
Before my icey eyes a dark figure split the sun,
He was
Forever heavy at a broke down bus stop
Heading down to cuss-town, runt sound, hobo hop
Cops stop and gawk, after all its their jobs
Like apples in cider possibilities bobbed.
In my head, til I’m dead, til I’m forcefed what I need instead.
His teeth punctuated by a corn cob pipe,
picked clean by the tip of a switch-blade knife,
To shuck away the tripe, right beside the hype
Of a comfortable life,
Where’s the strife?
Where’s the strife man?
I need a knife, man
Where’s the strife man?
I need a knife.
What souls are moving in the dead of night
Exiting their trains bathed in sodium light,
Breaking under modern blights for sure
Banded hands knocking down on Morrison’s door.
Bore! cries the lark, inhabiting trailer parks,
Twisting waxen packs ember-lit by the spark,
Off the rusted grill of a thrice-used car,
Lungs less lungs than black sacks of tar,
Like two blackened sacks of tar.
Has this gone too far?
I smell the burnt wood smoke of my house
On the breeze,
Watch the flickering flames lick and tease
As the fear begets freedom,
They said it was cheesy
It felt like you were cheating,
Self-defined meaning in the heart’s careening.
And yet you still find with the ember’s decline
You feel a little queasy.
A little queasy.
Not so easy.
Forever heavy eating road
Up under heel
Motion lust, bust a nut,
Feel free to cop a feel
Off the flatland grasped by the visual senses,
You’re restless, yet still bested
By that celestial pest,
It’s the catch, of the wretched slack ratchets and meth.
I am blessed.
I am blessed.
But nonetheless.
Where do I rest?