He said the world is forever weeping, as he ought to

knowing the truth and seeing it everyday, back breaking

heft of a satan symbol, flipped and held upside

down over all seen, while skipping atop the ceilings

of churches, Ramble Man screams a notice, “We’ve been dead

since we were born, now that we’re naught but treachery

fear and scorn, what is the point?”

 

Wearing a tin foil tracksuit, covered in blood and hair

from socks to garters, nightmare snatches of a shrapnel fog

dreamscape symbolizing nothing, in particular

anyway for it’s only a feeling, when it pervades and shades

with uncertainty, naught will be accomplished, “Calling for help

beckons bullets in the belly, rather than just the need

pulling out my hair, leaving me wasted.”

 

Sardonically transfixed on the hole of the world

empty of all but a spark, the beauty of love

puppy breath and bath salts, hallucinate the future

dragons glass and steel, sharp edges everywhere

the sun shines,  Ramble Man warns of danger, “Safety is a myth

children hold in their sleep, god knows we are his greatest

mistake surviving, sleeping in puss.”

 

From what I’ve been able to gather, Ramble Man died weeks ago,

alone in a pit screaming probably, and no one will remember him,

so I wrote this poem for these figures, muttering gibberish all day,

and I wonder if they had homes once, and what set them this way.