olly bryan | blue straggler


Blue Straggler

I am part of the people
part of nothing
isolated from the modern navy
serenaded by a night moth
declaring something
just to know I still exist
eating a brick to make my mouth bloom
giving a fist to the people ticks
a gadfly
or just a fly on shit
getting down dirty
to bring the end of the fall
by clutching the flowers of free will
embracing guttural gear
sitting with the hops man
embracing the poesy machete
talking to the whore on the street
greeting the stranger in the park with butterflies resting on his feet
flying with lotuses
floating with feathers in flamenco yards
sucking the sauce from the gypsy gutter
walking with the minimal
distilling the ghosts that drift in the morning mist
singing to the petals
crying for the dead dog
helping the ants
talking to the roaches
digging for the worms
finding the room
never waiting for the bloom
putting down the wrong word
running from the crazed herd
accepting the absurd
counteracting the forces that push up down left and a right
up with a handshake and down with a frown
left with a peg leg and right with a catwalk
just let her walk
and let him sing
let her laugh and bring what she bring
let it
straddle the kaleidoscope
drink whiskey with the antonym and bellow the broken hymn
kick the fiend by loving and listening
always marching to the humble band
chewing the xylophone and feeding the birds
kick those forced good and evil mongers
those warriors of nothingness
with harp haired bastard children
the spies of our demise
the news grunts distant from their subjects
the political pimps disengaged from their whores
the sanctimonious snakes pissing in to the sinks of our dreams
the suckerfish hipsters as guilty as what they hate
kick the fuckers with heart not hatred
embrace them to shake them
kick the frenzy of fashion with the spirit of Jack Micheline
vacate the scholar seminary
sleep with otherness
water the walking stick
liquor the stranger’s gut
spend days with the curtains shut
blind your eyes with the new dawn
let good and evil bed each other in the night
like a seductive seamstress with her prey
lying so close yet looking the other way
looking out to the sea
and manifold possibilities
whilst morality and purpose droop like Dali watches
here in this room
between the ears of a muse junkie
outside running
outgunned but gunning
making chase
barking with the demented dogs
eating the snow and calling the wolf
knowing that the only pure song
will be sung by the unknown mother
and it will be sung when we’re gone

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