Hourly, flourishing a Dove, left over Stonehenge, while the city sleeps.
Green belch brackets, strung out on a purple leaf
with your chicken remnants.
I saw them high on flourine and cheese, kicking at an old tin can
in your violent mind.
I was the son of an aristocrat moving like a panther
slipping through the town, on the perpetrator.
The Beach Boys giving it class
slipping through the city, with aciduous hair.

Skyline swine the taste of gasoline, strung out on a covered
lamp, and we'll
know Latinos and we'll know Laotians.
Green counting stolen change, losing it, by the drunken derelict.
She...putting it about, like a teenage tough.
Why are they doing...?
Fly homey G chases warily, with a tattoo.
Green sitting alone, left over Stonehenge.
It's sadder than it probably sounds.

By Jaron Martin