Stood up like cornrows
The Perishers
down here in the cell
we drift in the gallery of days and trade stories and lies
Us men, we fit through cracks in the walls
and spitroll tobacco and paper suns...
...and when the blood gushes up from the gutter in the floor
we'll collect it
and sip it
and wait breathlessly for more.They'll say that our endgame is a prize for our ancestors
they'll say that our stasis has thickened the blood of the herd
these promises accompany our cause like radio static
for now we are
quite alone
with just the tinkling of waterdrops
and our faith disturbed.Yesterday, before dusk, the circus pulled out of town
a quiet phalanx of childhood lumbering over the horizon
and the phantom aromas
of the straw, the candies, the popcorn and the dung
had us pressed up to the bars
with our nostrils flared
like those of angry animals.Lately, there have been no scarlet sundowns to behold
just the gently mocking blanket-effect of the stars
and we howl at them
give praise to them
throw our hearts out to them
knowing
all the while
they are not ours.
© All rights reserved - Barclay Kenyon
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