A change of scenery can be refreshing, but can't delete the past. Use the shit you went through to fuel the nonsense. Make your own continent with chalk.
Red and then blue. Walks like you do. Even when I stop to tuck the laces in my shoes. Run back to catch the ending. Man I hate that. When you got a cast of phantoms. Don’t you hate that? Aint nothing like gliding by parades beneath a canopy of earth bones, trailing ladies mouths like cigarette smoke. It’s autumn and the library kids are stealing bicycles. Welcome to our city say their hands. So let’s dance on the back on the bus with sleeping mothers. In the welfare line with little brothers. On the project staircase, on syringes. Let’s dance like it’s no ones’s fucking business.
Wood brown eyes burn backs on the regular. Sad like a robot that can’t do math. Rather watch the city sink slow from Spanish class. the beauty never lasts, in fact, in fades fast. Elephant graveyards and cigarette ribs. Paper bones. Waylaid at the ghost zone. Eat the dead eat the dead eat the debt. On earth, we pay good shells to have our skin covered. Wrapping every inch till you can’t see the color. Suck on animal bones for nourishment mother fucker.
We crack to marrow and lack poise. Pinned to the planet. Constructed -“pinned to the planet.” I conducted my own continent from chalk and pavement. Names on these phantom trains till we famous. Stray aimless. Hi. My name is other. Stained hollow. Endeavor to sever self, come the morrow. We the rotten ones used to regulate aversion. Forgotten sons are not the ones to demonstrate a person’s willingness to take part and break hearts when lakes start the dragging.
The same heart we gave shark teeth for gnashing. It’s shark week. Catching ratings now. On my paper route. Eating vapors now. Wow. Mainline el veneno. Hold that L in your chest. Under duress. Under these trees my bones rest. Couldn’t pull the nerves up from under the shell. Legs shook. Fully crumpled. Bled out in the cell. In full lotus, I wrote this with the blood on the soap dish. Note this. Operandi Modus. It’s the closest most kids hover to hope. It’s the locus of graves of those that died hopeless. Counter clock docked still on Escher steps. We looking real good and the letters spell medicine. There is no bed that holds my head and Rome was never real. There is no bed that holds my head and bones were never peeled.