Sway drums. Sway drunk.
The wayward bloom of smoke -
Home of the lung-gusting youths,
On a fragile, freak wind voyage.
Musing on the word “peachy,”
In a basement with tins of dales
And New England prophet tales
of broken augers and overalls.
Tickled to twist the sticks on
Civic steering wheels, roaming
The purgatory of winding two-tacks
In the unsettled deciduous distance.
The freight scoots the strait rails
Trailing a genderless caboose, sexy
Toots from the fast-life hit the dips,
Seducing the dangled moon-men.
It’s the booming earth exploding,
Nothing to prove, only to groove,
Steeping the teas of lonely misfits.
The dodge hall of fresh pilgrims.