Lost souls,
their pockets full of holes.
Where once they kept their playthings.
Dreams.
Fast frozen by wintry winds.
Melted into mud frosting.
Sun-dried into crumbling dust.
Heaved onto herdless rangeland.
By brown Prairie winds.
Blowing, blowing. This way and that.
Scattered along pock-marked backroads.
And deeply scarred.
This one is vain.
That one is weak.
We're all very perishable.
Something different... and odd.
You don't know yourself.
No one else does. No time, no time.
You say, "I'm your friend."
I say, "I'm yours." We all lie.
Is he a thorn?
Soon,
he is plucked from the flesh
with pointed claws.
Is she a prod?
Soon,
she is disemboweled
with clicking tongues.
When I'm not there,
I too am plucked and disemboweled.
When you're away,
you too are unsuspecting prey.
All of them are just a little mad.
Harmless mad. Fashionable mad.
More than just a little mad.
Normal! But on a mission!
They pump their own water,
eat out of cans,
shit in ramshackle outhouses,
and catch mice.
They pump the hands of betrayers,
eat out their hearts,
shit on mediocracy,
and catch Hell.
They pump each other for gossip,
eat out people,
shit on themselves,
and catch scant glimpses of insight.
They are honourable bastards.
Magpies with their feathers clipped.
Afraid of wars and wounds,
and their own hairy genitals.
And late one night,
I cut a hole in my pocket.
As I reached down to check
if they were still there,
my dreams spilled to the ground.
Sweet playthings.
Scattered along pock-marked backroads.
I am one of them.