Vagrant men smoking cigarettes in thine pasture grey,
black skies lay little lights hidden from glow;
howl thy voiceless;
howl thy thoughtless;
howl thy careless;
howl for thee, thee lives thou forgo.
Vagrant men smoking cigarettes in thine pasture grey,
la belle epoche; thus, we call today.

I could tell a tale, but its really not a tale at all.
It would be a series of endless walks in the forest and the park.
It would be the places between the world where we could find a place to lay,
where we watch the sky,
bow ties of light; ribbons of years long forgot,
when the grass was soft and the fall was colorful secrets,
when children were smarter then man and people were friendly strangers who splash in puddles, the yellow et red fall leaves curtain our forest in,
I see from the train tracks happening of the end,
barefoot in running to a horizon my spirit chase,
It would be its own bow tie ribbon of light falling where you left to climb the other side alone.

I have tried many times to write close to what ought be written,
but I am yet to succeed, the anathematization of happiness is what iced over when we left. Desolate clouds covering the stars,
and steps toward somewhere un-important,
when you were there and I didn’t tell,
why bother you with me.

Listening to peculiar strangers gather in the eavestrough;
Coddling the malleable bloom of rooted trees
An immigrant to prosperity cradled by Mercutio.
-Our revels now are ended. These our actors.
Burnt sand swallows the lighthouse where the savage hang,
melancholy-tea and a pulp-fiction spread
dismal characters, behaving bourgeois
-Gather in the eavestrough

Under the craters of a lune de blanche
the world muse a stage
slipping beneath my feet
six characters of myself
in search of an author
rotten boards
hysteria and anxiety
monotone madness
beaten by the happiness of rain
the showers wash a man clean
but leave us here.

Under the craters of a lune de blanche.

The infinite; staircase growing in the interior,
Men are but fractions of life,
Like a shiver in the wind,
Small salvating-**** percussion,
The passionate thoughts of appetite,
Dwindling in the idea that we live,
Tumbling down flights,
as monkeys with stone arms in tall tress,

the desolate; froze over in the hunger of the exterior.

The clown doctor gave lolly-pops to children.
The circus sergeant tames white tigers with red steaks.
The small professors pacemaker shout little words.
The unchanged man sit medicated empty of stock.
The heros drown in gun-power river radiation.
The operation of the new world, looks so divided.

Today heard I a train,
while I smoke my cigarette, I heard a train.

The rumbles came trundling over mossing steel street bars,
the hooves of an iron horse shattering glass floors-
pebbles bickering  like stone woodpeckers on the grounds to come.
The wind shudders,
and apologizes for the frost on the leaves,
the cracks in the ground and the holes in the sky,
my cigarette part blur,
awkwardness so comfortable,
this plastic train i recreate,
moments in-between,
where we lay down to day-listen.

The kinsmen that forgot call blacksmith,
scared with his welded skin,
protection in battle,
drunken dichotomy,
a hero ***** dans l’amour.

As great the fall of king, the fall of next in line.
The only thing to have moved quicker with age, time.
Lest we forget, the blacksmith here reside;(unfinished)
While the angel hath walk,
with long grey and black web moth wings,
stalking its sleeping prey,
his eyes wide open back,
watching the angel pace,
infesting the air with despicable knots,
its dangerous to stare,
but a contest never started is a contest never won,
and into the eyes of hell the blacksmith hast stared-
to the foot of his bed.

Where a three headed dog flap its ice wings to keep hell cold.
These nights in particular had been an awful one, and again the tapping, again the train.

Throwing smoke at scarlet monocles,
roots grow from the inhospitable grounds,
temperature flush, heart beat quicken,
rep tulips,
burnt rose petals,
hunted by time,
mischief drought,
we choke.
we drown.

Callused is history, in a rock on a thought.

how far we become a drift;                   out of place,
beggars grovelling before a strangers shadow,
no reason for right, violent colours stained grey,
lost memories trampled by the silence of tears,
the rain is cold, but listens, empathetic is no one,
we grovel, out of place, in a strangers way.

I hope for rain.

the wind does not howl.
the sun does not shine.
Concrete paste thickens,
and into thought we dive.
persecution of the divided ,
well managed,
we lie.