The Outlaw

Rating: 5.0

These are lovely things we leave

collecting dust, and careful-tucked
aside the gilded consternation of
that average working class, so relative
in reason

the right and intent to life and Love
for life

for the well-informed 'n disillusioned
in the end, are far too free Who
in their places must have made conceivably
but never be-forecasted: a smothered liberty

They are alleged-to, the wakeful populace
who with no worldly heart can swear off blinking,
for they dare not sleep a wink, who surely have not
dreamt, as neither could they slumber through
another summer’s sweet demise the alibi

It is silhouetted
sterile human things—

What stands clustered on a
politan old hill
that infinitely sighs, yet
does not speak, hence tells
no lies

The free society is done, apparently to
blame for What weird Earth
a machination come:
Order is a mutiny, subterranean somewhere
out of reach in fuming scenes; cruel vapors
somewhere come bale towers, plumed and hotter
boil't somewhere than the ashen crest of Ares'
decadent Greek brow


By a thousand hands rendered
on uproarious orange cliffs, the starved man’s frowning blue
grimace of stubborn defiance, a misconstrued resistance
hard quarried
by back-worlder men, wherein ill city scenes
are commoner things, day in
day out with all the same crass:
Let the last innocents pass
through the veil

of a grey asphalt

bed. It's a grave

human state, like graffiti on bared backs,
stripped fine of a few sullied young;
these being ragtime
rag-doll stewards of a well awaited Ren-
aissance in the customizable, and the
artificial, herding hashish from the new republic
of a secreter Persia
long-out some ivory embankment,
skywardly seeing in unfurling green drabness

The glutton, wading like a monk through a
white cotton field; elysian through blue cascades
sewn on a God-given day when good
intentioned pontiffs come to pluck the crop.