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CK Baker Jul 2017
They weren’t all cut from the same cloth
vilified tenders of an iron chink
some were lovers
or lucid dreamers
stage romantics
hidden behind jackboots
and skull caps
and switchblade seams

Caste members of a forlorn pack
counting their patchwork and deeds
conjuring demons
around the center console
filling dreams
with radio reds
and dusted quarries
and faded sepia prints

Brass knuckles
marches of the few
lightening bolt cracks
from a chilling blood moon
death’s dark specter
cold and ominous looms
the cobalt sea swells
near the nestled, and lost
Clubhouse at Kiusta
Show us some light, Mr Jimmy

— The End —