Grey skinned young losers
Glaring down from the towers,
Framed in neon and dust,
Cracked windows and tears,
All broken industry.
Perfect squares
And the dawn of the ‘me’,
Of the ‘where’s mine’ and ‘now’,
Steel fences and granite,
Bad teeth and greed,
Filthy screams in the dark
Coarse as wild, strident rust,
Spreading like rumours
And pulsing like dusk,
Electric and concrete,
All sampled disdain
In the rain,
A rumbling hearse
Passing through cities,
The calculous curse.
His world went quiet,
People stopped
Listening to him,
The winds that
Wrapped themselves
Around the mountains
And the rain
That rarely stopped
Rattling
Stayed silent
And sat back;
They watched him
Gently rise,
Thoughts tickling
The fruit on the bushes,
Ideas shaking
The seeds in the ground,
And then one day
He woke up
To nothing
But sun,
His future as fresh
As the dawn’s
Scattered dew,
With a deafening smile
On his face.
It’ll be summer
Until we hear
Her sing again.
She wears a crown
Of ice and mist
And her hair
Sits crisp with frost,
But fear not,
The icicles hanging
From her angelic pout
Will whisper
The holiday winds
One day soon,
Trust me;
And those
Cold, stony eyes
Will usher life
Under moons
So clear
You could swear
They were silver,
Just wait for two seasons
And rattle.
She has stared
At this small town
For centuries
And a hundred
Harsh winters
Won’t stop her,
Hear the
Drip, drip, drip,
As she lies there
And know
The seasons
Are nothing
But chatter.
Slacker Shack