Roaming the Debris

Before the Revolution

Cows would keep the grass nice

Such nice grass

I would romanticize it occasionally

Jump fences

Tenderly place my cheek up against it

Feel like a noble savage

A teenage fiend

My scraggly beard with the earth’s

As though roaming the debris

Searching for the quiet countryside

Calling out

Befriending the free filth and vitality

A funny contrast for the mind

Amongst the blended crashed bankrupt Technicolor

Yet the sun shines pretty well

When you don’t worry about disease

This springy absurd green

That smell of burnt plastic replica hurt

The sneezing rumble in my nose

And sometimes 

When I'm off by myself

Along to fill my canteen, stomach
Along to kill some pang
(I forget how hard those pangs pang!) 

I pretend my life's a film

I think of that last shot before the dark

Before the credits dissolve the threads

In that tumbling tense frightened resolve

When the hero is vulnerable

Lies bare their neck

Discloses their gentle hopeful forgiving path

Everything they've got to the World

It's shaky and mumbled

Yet warm and vital

For we live to say just a few things

Tailored, slowly orchestrated

From the weight of the world 

To pefect their delivery

Getting nearer and near to their source

Just as cows used to keep the grass nice
In that world market of nostalgia

So too we'll keep our words warm

At least this is my thought
Off in the collapsed acidic slimy erased

And I think this, too: 

I’m an old jungle

And some shinny things

A bit ill nourished

A bit cold

Tight and bruised

Some more sleep would suit me

And the course of events

Warms my speech

Despite the fall
That burning of magnificent fields
Where cows would practice their art 

Indeed, revolutions gotta fly

Revolutions gotta come

In this world that needs gentle hands
And gentle words

Wrinkles

The streets of the city

They’re filled with cows, apes, and pigs

I watch them

What they get up to

Their shit and feed

It builds up

So damn hard to breathe

What once was a path

Now is a dump

My God!

Such efforts spent

To find some transport

The gymnastics I do

To not ruin my shoes

But perhaps this is an Island

And perhaps I cannot swim

Such skills were never taught

I’m placated

I’m ensured

For everything we need

Is right here

Of course!

And how can I argue

When I cannot speak

This among other skills

I was never taught

For everything is as it is

No need to elaborate

These practical animals

They’ve worked out all the wrinkles

Like jocks and journalists

They bore me in my sleep

Where the commonsense should have no reign

Yet my wrinkles

They dry me out

And the mirror

A dispassionate reminder

Asking me

From where do the wrinkles begin?

From where do they unfurl?