You.

You, the non-aligned. Celebrate for its own sake, complement the creative, rough the smooth out of the level question of hate, vitalizing the style of hard-line writing leverage, spurning the potential agendas of a system whose vital interests supress a stronger passion ~ go join, if you must, be the instrument of forced craft, it has a definitive strength that soon runs out of legs, yet beware variety marginalised within each organisation, compiled for the passionless hegemony, subjective to the hard line ~  within the manifestation of movement it too soon becomes a pleasant walk, the rare occupation of ethos, exploited and edited, handing the baton of preferred style over reinvention

Look at you. You, amongst this catastrophic herd, running down the overexcited shelves in a mutinous rattle of empty dustbins, drunk kissed down the Saturday street. Look at your prayers, dying party by party, risen through the dirt of red rosed scepticism and gnarl rooted malady. 

Dusty is the quietly gripped organ of this man's frugal communique, regardless of who  chooses to attend its rationed outcome. The drop of honoured sculpture that slopes the uphill, gradient spark, of fanatical acceleration relies, today, too much on filtered flesh and broken backed guesses.

The honeysuckle, sir, does not expire, so long as you recognise your shameless squirt is spent less wisely than your heart as it ploughs the dark of so muscular a chamber

Wait upon the sun to squeeze its fingers through the cracks in the roofing, the collapsing eaves, and run its hands over your broken body leaving fingerprint evidence of its intrusion. Wait longer and still the hairs on my arms and my neck will refuse to awaken, too late in the day to stiffen