Bronze Atlas

by on June 15, 2017 :: 0 comments

Born of bags, sirens and moon dreams
Jumped on the rail spilling clean shirts
Slipped off your dirty one rubbed it on your
Unvarnished mahogany face
Rubbed deodorant under your curved arms
Unmindful of your budding glory
Shorts highlighted your hint of pubic
Man promise
Run and rise our Moor
You may save us in our decline

editors note:

Saints of the streets; makers of mythos and money. Who will judge whom? – mh clay

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