Permeating frustration grows,
And my anger and restless light glows,
Faintly at first like an LED in trash,
That illuminates the contents there inside,
And inside me is much but content.
I am mine an me is who I am being, now, then,
Forever the shifting reluctant beastly gent.
The times roll on, and as I feel I turn corners,
That’s a true event!
The honors all go, to my intuition’s scent.
Uphill’s way’s the only way,
I’ll get beef throttled onto these flabby bones,
As I climb, and I push, as I haul and pull on up,
Past the peoples homes, where,
Surely they’re retired and listless,
Watching the deathly, on telly-sets.
And the poet, I, makes venomous visions,
With his eyes into their windows,
Throned on dirty sofas, they sit fat,
A tea-cup-storm, drinking their emotional toil,
When they see what the chosen money-lords show ‘em.
The Humble Rock Dove 