boy virgins and whores
sickly sweet, brazen hornets
they bend like taffy in heat
and upon a lip, a universe
of chewed glass and rotting tobacco
and gas masks, leaking the acidic rain
we're tired here sometimes
but the foolish jester still prances
and weeps and hangs
but who could fault boredom?
tragedy of the commons v.1 — xxxxiv
YOU ARE READING
These Fruits of Boyhood
PoetryA man's fight with the gods always ends in bloodshed. Thus a man's fight with himself always ends in despair. something of a contemplation poetry, perhaps *unedited
