The Outlaws Poem by Leon Moon

The lime sky hums the Dawn of Summer boundaries
Of horizons ripened and soured in modesty,
And the melting, green manes of the Sun
Scars all limits across the Earth;
The horseman have chipped their histories
Unto their dusty, cobbled plaques
All villages have vowed secrecy.
The children prey to their boots.

The blood-glowing whiskey
In the wooden barrels of the heart,
Have curdled into lukewarm thaw
Making fit enough cure for an outlaw;
Shacks offer archaic invitations
Of acidic swirls for cough medicine and opium,
The smells of coffee swoons the maidens blushes.
All children prey to their boots.

Armadillo's squat on the horizon,
Eyes are dry and the rubbery shells
Make it seem like the Sun is no king,
No king of voice or hellish venom;
Saliva tips the arrows of a snakes tail
And Billy the kid and Billy the Goat
Trot on the fiery leathered desert.
The children prey to their boots.

Imprints fade into whispers of sand,
Dust storms form the drought of posterity,
Prostitutes pride the truth in their lies
And slick-back saloons turn their mouths into doors;
Ram shacks and dam stacks
Line the pious rivers gold in blood
And the orphaned mother buries her skirt.
All children prey to their boots.

Bounty's swat in the belly of forgotten virgin dunes,
Facades of tropics drip like sweat from the horsemen
But are made naked through the inevitability of birth,
The sounds of gunfire;
The Moon, as always, is slashed through the centre
And all memories drip onto the innocents of America
Whom claim ‘indigenous salvation' and ‘reasonable carnage',
While the outlaws fasten their boots for Winter.