Whereforto Ye Wanderers

Whereforto Ye Wanderers.



Wednesday, May 11, 2011

the boy with the city in his head

The boy with the city in his head

We trek across his skull

We jaunt across his skull

We jog across his cranium.

Look, examine closely the red brick crags etched subtly in his forehead

The imagination of corporations

Ticker tape on the soft fleshy insides between his cheeks and his cheekbone.

The elliptical daydreams of collapse, and relief

Sauntering at his wobbling shoelaces.

Watch him tip-toe across muddy riverbanks of decay.

The boy with the city in his head,

We caravan across the industrial desert of his skeleton.

We journey epically over the windowpanes of his thighs.

Dandelions sprout like whiskers out of his tender eardrums.

There are slums of hosannas in his stomach,

Slumlords fire hideous muskets at the unsuspecting mass of tenants.

He has been drunk more times than he has fingers or toes this week

The calligraphy of bad decisions is etched on the skinny jagged point of his chin.

The black magic of economy is making him hallucinate something horrible and vicious.

He is cracking at the very seams.

Taxi cabs laugh with chattering rows of white teeth in his very daydreams.

Things are swell sometimes and unwell others.

The boy with the city in his head attempts to translate this into a mantra with fingertips and the remaining brick cobblestone of a typewriter.

It clacks like a semi-truck over the too-lucid illusion of what other people think is reality.

The boy with mortar for a skullcap needs some tuck pointing done.

He needs some cracks mudded.

He is hungry in his esophagus lining for revolt.

Something must happen,

His fancy shoes will dance unto its very meaning.

The boy with the city in his head will gorge himself on the fancy gin of insurrection.

He will dine impossible dinners of marvelous reanimation.

He will not go quietly.

He is a beast and a spectacular amalgamation of the extraordinary.

They tried to stick him in a carnival cage and he easily broke the bars with his hands of steel girders.

The boy with the city in his head,

Something is a-brewing in there.

Surreal burgeoning of tire treads pealing out on the highways of normalcy into the interstate of never-to-come-back.

The boy he is thinking. The little giant he slumbers, in search of a future for futureless thoughts.

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