the entrails of playgrounds
lie in cloudy wax paper
crumpled and littered like the remnants of subsidized housing
lined with orphaned children
copulating in muddy blankets
and feather pillows

they are illusions of this world
ignored and betrayed
seen and unseen
bound to the probability of lighting kerosene in
the sweltering heat of summer

yet somehow
this is all giving hope where there once was only promise,
confession where there once was only intrigue
the sound of tiny bare feet
smacking the pavement
rising like pigeons diving upon their doorsteps
parallel to the dizzying smells of burnt tar and
gastrointestinal contents pouring from mossed over drinking fountains

amidst all this,
these delightful youngsters sit swelling with crimes of passion
holding their toy guns with bare white knuckles
as police continue to cruise on by with wide-eyed grins
bolstering their decision of intentional

inaction

there is nothing quite like the explosion of pipes
rusting, leaking
ripened by frigid winds of fortune
reddening their runny noses
fattening their bloated bellies with the luxury of royalty
and the gregarious, precarious, and often times
overzealous quest for

hegemony

Just like its unforgiving ideology,
the camera focuses in and out on
these memories captured,
these motions frozen,
these minutes held delicately between fingers
blistered by the day's events
left for the iris to attend to and
interpret the inevitable awareness
of the iciness of this modern world

he is a cyclops let loose
in the labyrinth of emerald absinthe
and misdemeanor petty theft located around every unknown turn
spinning in one place they are trying to discern
if the fiction of minds swimming
in the diction of intelligent discourse and
still photographs graphed
to baths foaming over with suds and serpents
nibbling on their calloused toes
can truly relive and give in to wind
to attain prosperity while its ugly head
slithers among snoozing cat naps and speakeasy taverns
near the playgrounds of every day life

forever stunted and petrified
by the shackles of confused self interest
it is only then, we begin to see

we have all fallen prey
to the promise of their tomorrow

07/04/2007

Posted on 07/04/2007
Copyright © 2024 Curt Allday