Friday, October 22, 2010

Shallow low...

I wish I was lost, playing
in that field way below;
breaking shackles, and the
rut from dreams of proletarians
and their bald-headed run
to office each morning.

The dark depressed pitch,
a gift, in a silver platter
by daddy dear to the
bastard, brought up
by pay-roll husbands,
canned milk and man toys.

I could only touch, just;
the manicured grass
and skim a few lines out
of it to feed my manhood.
For I have to leave, to scavenge.
Aye aye, boss I'm hungry!


mary said...

real gud....!!!!!

mary said...

jst so true...!!!! lov'd it...!

Thought-Les said...

thanks mary