stolen verses blanket the floor space
encircled by the inspiration of others
tastelessly faceless
pests controls fail
as the numbers overwhelm
everyone thinks there are special
and the selfies are there to prove it
zit faced miscreants misrepresent mankind
in asexual fodder and anthropomorphic
suburban camo
turban wearing wash-outs
hold court over newbies
attempting to sew again
hippy seeds
their stench, deafening –
sandaled dirt clods
scamper
seeking selfishly surrogates
someone to birth their ideas
raise and tend the dreams
fund the movement
all the while recognizing the futility  
feverishly fapping the frail phallus
frequently finding foolish ****-tards
flipped in their folly –
******* the finale
freakish frogs filibuster
night creeps in as the soft sound of mating toads
fill the air
stars dot the moonless night
complete in its absence of clouds
only the wash of the milky way
holds hearts –
pandering to the philanthropist
looking longingly in giving eyes
for a scrap of dignity
and bread –

A single blade of grass pushes out of craggy block of stone next to my sandaled right foot one seed of defiance from a dusty crag....suckled on midnight mist. Blood in the ragged stone from dying warriors holding. Holding ground from the battlements girds the will of the solitary sprig...by my sandaled foot sprung from the ragged stone.
Suckled on the erie somber midnight fog bolstered by dying blood the warriors blood runs down the ragged walls of the battlements high.
High on the walls, I scan north to south from aloft from the fateful walls of the Keep.
Dying.
Is
The
Order of the day....the single sprig will witness all from the craggy wall  and men will fall by the score from grace. From breath and senses. From the cursed battlements to perdition.

Souls submissions to bloodlust and material gain.
Will soak the stolid stone and wash to earth to mingle spirit and blood with mother earth. And the grass will grow  unfettered from ground. As the killing season
Moves on.

Hold me in place
from the ocean
nothing but
a face with legs,
small sandaled feet
I am heavy
with hopes and
water and bones

Take my hand
We will walk the forgotten lanes
Made for iron shod hooves
In the footsteps where sandaled feet
Of the lost legions followed the eagle standard
~
But I see you grow weary of beauty
Of the counterpane fields of green and gold
Miss Marple villages, soft in the twilight
Then come, down to the Romney Marsh
Where time is in tune with your deepest fears
~
We’ll take the old road to the Burmarsh Chimes
By the ruined church of St Augustine, silvered by moonlight
Where communion wine and the Free Traders Brandy barrels
Once rested side by side united under the Lords protection
Where the tolling bell called the dead to evensong
~
There, by the east wall of the Lady Chapel
Tear washed sentinels lean against the west wind
Underneath the wild thyme and harebells
Lay the sad bones of the forgotten children
Come, this is not the place to linger
~
Safe home under the oak beams of the White Heart
Amid farming folk with the smell of the land on them
Setting the stage for beery nostalgia
Sit here by the warmth of the fireside
While I tell you tales of the Night Riders.

the rain makes the asphalt look sad and pregnant.

i turn my head for one moment and a lonely 7 train skitters by, barely grazing my left ear. i close my eyes. i close my eyes because if you look, you get sad and that's how you lose. so i look down at my feet at the soft, shimmering asphalt instead

and i watch the train through the asphalt. it torpedoes by, one silver frame at a time, like a silent film still bobbing around in its chemical bath. i continue to watch, from a safe distance.

(its like looking out the window at the cars zooming by. its all fun and safe until you reach your hand out a bit too far and the next thing you know, some ******* car up and runs away with it.
its like marriage.)

except im in college and the wheels of the train never quite touch the ground, but hover, hover over like some kind of homeless intoxicated guardian angel stranded in a sprawling urban desert.

(he lies on top a one of those BigBellys, lies on his stomach, sandaled feet dangling just inches from the ground. blink blink, goes the BigBelly. Gabriel groans,
incomprehensible muttering)

and the train throws bleachy yellow squares of light throw themselves onto upon the pregnant asphalt in fits of just destructive laughter and when they hit the ground by that time they're already hugging themselves, hugging and shaking all over like fuuuuuuck, it's sooo cold in here (in my body!) each one of em murmuring in a foreign tongue about how someone keepzon etching street names into the bathroom walls

Thayer and Broadway at 3AM on a Wednesday morning is someone's oasis, mine for as long as i stand here, my mind stumbling back n forth from one airpod to the other as i feel like im sinking down, down into the soft squishy asphalt wit the weight of my backpack making my shoulders touch the floor wit my bleachy yellow head dangling from my neck as i blink needily / cravingly / searchingly at a sidewalk that stares back at me with the most deadest honest (to godest) blankest expression i ever seen on a no-body

and when i look into its eyes i can see myself but im standing in the  middle of Times Square and -- hey -- everythings looking up! but it cant be me because im here at Thayer and Broadway dangling my head and angling it AWAY from the passing train because if you look, you get sad, you think of home, and when you think of home, thats when you really know you've lost, not sure what but you've lost and you probably cant even actually go home after youve lost because, well, mother**** it you've lost and life just likes to call you a cuck and hit you in the throat like that

but i wouldn't know, i haven't gotten that far yet