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.