This generation knows only darkness
and sleeps on its back
the sleeper windmills violence in upon
it’s own sensory plate
(the turbulence of
fit-fusion
and shapeless
mood based dreams)
protest whine
offence
a life less of assurance
awaiting instruction
bore
froth
tend
endurance
Days are no fun
played out underground
A Mole baring task-force
A clunder
Muscle beings
reading the darkness
Tales held of the higher plane
an existence firm upon the roof terrain
Once a thriving insistence
ocular culture and unpushed air
This is what came to the generation
of post surface availability
The Moles are quaked
they raise in hunch
reach out for their boots and tools
begin the awake shift
Notes of The Post Apocalyptic Underground