Minding Bulls

Looks like morning drizzle.
Broken scapes with scattered thoughts,
Rolling out from my rock
I thought I’d hop the midday rail
And ride jolted gallops on rusted freight.
Bracing fast for northern skies
Laughing at the bastard son
Of legacy now lost.
Momentum gained as speed it grows
And the brakemans gone to lunch.
Whiskey-stained dribbled spit
On a man of sea and land.
My train comes crashing
To the fast frictions command
Hollering ugly screams
Whilst sliding to a halt.
Eyes well spent from grease and grime
The railways soot and dust.
The jungles on fire…
Four mad cats burning deep
On brown brick pot
And brown paper poison.
And skin burnt brown from sun.
I’ll sit and dig and feast
With new found kin
On scraps of skin and wine.
We’ll rap on fortunes lost and found,
Running with the bulls…
Broken bones and battered skulls.
Of prison walls and county doors.
The silly, the damned, and the innocent.
No religion lost on the rail,
But midnight prayers to greener pastures
An adventure in the wind,
Without sneaking suspicion,
With no paranoid thoughts
Of being rolled, and left for dead.
With a story still untold.
To wake another day.
Minding my good time.
Trying to catch the next noon train.