Final blues for the bloodied youth

Epic truth from Howl Davies

The Sounds Inside

I started out watching from afar, the humiliation, the panic, the generational famine,
I wish I could con myself to identify as a flâneur, but the word sickens me,             leaves me
Stricken with the sense of observation without acting, as I’m watching others pounding the hard rock
With bloodied knuckles, repeating, repeating, leaving stain after stain for the sake of the action,
And I join in, and I let it strip at the flesh, leaving bruised bloodied knuckles to remind me of it,
And the act is there – but we aren’t doing shit, we’re persevering, surviving, waiting for
The night to roll around, shotgun, south bound, in the Argo of our own sort, wound up to hide
The scrapes and the dents and the cuts and the ruptures, and I miss my cue and we’re backseat, and hungry
And we’re looking for paradise lost, just waiting to get fucked…

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