Men of the Future
The inner turmoil of survival
I want to join the ranks of specimen
who avoid the potholes
who grasp the rails with both hands
but my heart, thundering in my ear
with indignant blood,
yearns for a longboard to rest upon
supine, with arms crossed
yearns for a merciful stoner to shove
me alongside the Autobahn
keeping pace with a distracted capitalist
I want to be petrified, perched eternally upon
a terrace, my grotesque sneer eroded by years
of liberated seawater
but a lurking siren, roots dragged and leaking
topsoil along the highway, croons
a dreaded note, caked with mildew on the sides
and in their wake, strewn
on the glaring, broken yellow line
are mossy stones, doors torn from the hinges,
and shredded leaves from the nearby oak
I want to be stoned, usurped
used, spat upon, then left
abandoned
in a shack outside Toulouse
