King Chicken

Street Sweepers Leave The Loudness Of Hip Cages For The Swinging Kings Of PotHole
Anachronistics,
Limbo Kremlin With Their Eyes Peeled Like Onions,
Spires On The Backs Of Their Commands As If They Were Newly Bedded Horses,
Straws Could Have Been Drawn And Then Quartered For Wish-Bone Midgets To Pull Fingers,
With Witches For Time-Consumption...A Common Fantasy For Gold Watches,
One Of The Concords Barks From The Depths Of His Barracks...
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To Me... Me, A Lone Stander For A Stranded Stray,
I Could Never Betray The Cross Of A Talker,
Entertainment Flys Through Brained Storms Like Sparrows In The EavesDrop,
Sober Shades Of White Stabbing PinPricks Against Thinning Perspectives,
Split Hairs And Spilt Milk...
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Nails And Teeth To Scratch And Sniff,
Bent Over Black Words Likened With Styrofoam Bricks Painted Red For Insurance...
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The Potter Molds His Bite To Match The Kiln,
As The Cigarette Burns From End To End Chaseing Its Tail,
InTo Another Session Of Small Talk With The GodHead For A Coffee Stroke,
Laundry-Change Could Be Pushed To Later Dates For Holyer Days To Dripping Ceilings,
For The Marryed To Call UpOn Spirals In The Dust...
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To Settle... To Score Like Its Nature's Only Child...
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Once In A While,
He Will Rise From His Bench,
Bum A Smoke... Or Roll A Syllable With A Yeast-Coated Tongue,
Only To Lie Through That Cage...
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HoneyCombs And PitchForks...
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Sorry Buddy-Boy,
No Fool's Parade In My Shoes...
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Man Is A Lone Walker That Hikes No Hill For Its Bravery.