Feb 2016
Man, wraps his thin coat tighter, squinting at fine newsprint, smoking a cigarette. Lust thick she says: "Yes, please **** me."
Without grace he paces ***** streets, avoiding eye contact planning what next vice will fill his belly. Without tradition he sits before his television eating. "I am in the mood I think to drink until I become an ape." Without shape he storms about always with a shout. Fueled by rage, jaw clenched, he sniffs at every *****, fists clenched war bent.
He sleeps. He is lowered down into the belly of stone into a world of his own creation. He dreams of loading the magazine of his pistol and craves the hook of his finger on the trigger. His dreams are gray, barely lit through the smog. He reels through the pornographic cinema of his heart until a passing train wakes him. "****."
Man, wrestles with his son, laughing at the end of a hard day. Beneath his nails, black soil, wanting not but for her.
She loves him because he could be no better. He treats his dog like his brother, no man above or below him. Peaceful, green hills and cloud in a shroud of birdsong. Leaning on the sickle like a mountainside he smiles, straight-backed, sun tanned. He watches a silver-chest buck forrage at the tree line the fawn nearby still sniffing at the doe. The man's kiss is like a flower and his voice like a lyre,
Forearms of stone and legs that rarely tire. At night they lie around the fire. He acts, he sings, and tells them again the stories of their ancestors, unforgotten. He says "There are heroes still if you look for them."
He dreams and sunlight fills his core. He stands upon a hill watching clouds roll. She kisses his brow, and the small warm arms of the boy wrap around his thigh.
Without grace he paces ***** streets, avoiding eye contact planning what next vice will fill his belly. Without tradition he sits before his television eating. "I am in the mood I think to drink until I become an ape." Without shape he storms about always with a shout. Fueled by rage, jaw clenched, he sniffs at every *****, fists clenched war bent.
He sleeps. He is lowered down into the belly of stone into a world of his own creation. He dreams of loading the magazine of his pistol and craves the hook of his finger on the trigger. His dreams are gray, barely lit through the smog. He reels through the pornographic cinema of his heart until a passing train wakes him. "****."
Man, wrestles with his son, laughing at the end of a hard day. Beneath his nails, black soil, wanting not but for her.
She loves him because he could be no better. He treats his dog like his brother, no man above or below him. Peaceful, green hills and cloud in a shroud of birdsong. Leaning on the sickle like a mountainside he smiles, straight-backed, sun tanned. He watches a silver-chest buck forrage at the tree line the fawn nearby still sniffing at the doe. The man's kiss is like a flower and his voice like a lyre,
Forearms of stone and legs that rarely tire. At night they lie around the fire. He acts, he sings, and tells them again the stories of their ancestors, unforgotten. He says "There are heroes still if you look for them."
He dreams and sunlight fills his core. He stands upon a hill watching clouds roll. She kisses his brow, and the small warm arms of the boy wrap around his thigh.
