In the junk yard sick bed of
Generation Y
Where the waves break too soon
On apathetic shores
The seagull are crawling with mechanical limbs.
We cough up scabs of uncertainty
Sore of despondency
Scavenging for discards and dropped change
The unseen undercarriage of the day
We are children of dusk
Comfort in off white
In shadowed corners of dust
When light is drained to fade
Blurred ghosts on the horizon
Tear stained pages
Soured milk spilt across laps.

The peacocks are dancing

On testosterone pastures
Sparring in our bullfight backyards
Birds of prey
This is predator territory
Guardsmen of themselves on raised lookouts
Gnashing their ivories within self made towers
Lock the door and throw away the key
The dumping ground trash can sands
Where lost boys play hide and seek
We are all lost boys in this broken toy shop arcade
Searching for roots to pull up
A space to claw out
Soil to sink fingers into so as not to lose hold
The drifters on unlaid pathways
Paving slabs of steel under barefoot steps
Oiled feathers shine under flashes of bulbs.


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