read a poem

The Lost Son Burned For Hundreds Of Kilometers,
An Only Engine ACross The Spark-Jetting Track,
Silver-Bullet Cometing On InterContinental Iron,
UnDieing Steel Smashing InTo The Thin Air Shields Of Buffoons…
…
Those Gods Armed With Blowing Horns And UnUberance Universal,
Some Drifting On Prairie Fumes And Trade Winds,
Latching UpOn The Wild Grasses By The EndLess Stretch Of Rail…
…
Some Of Those Gods Would Find A Method To Siphon The Anchorage
From AnyThing Rolling OnThrough To Stop And ReFuel,
Then Latch OnTo The Speed Like HagFish On Oxen-Carnival Bleeders,
Recedeing In Their Morbid Weenings To Secret BoneYards…
…
Where All Would DisEmbark From The SoulLess Molting,
Cackleing As Cross-Eyed Ravenous InTo The Circleing Gutted Skys…
…
…
They Could Pose Once Again By The Station,
BetWixt The Legs And Feet And Luggage,
Hugging Against What Life May Be In Exposure To Calming Promises,
AWaiting For ShoeLaces To Be ReTied And Ears To Nibble And Coy…
…
The Buffoons Saw The Lost Son As A Challenge For Blood-Letting,
For Lost Causes To Eat AWay At The Prodigal Drive,
PreTenseion To Swim ASide The Clot From The InGenuity,
Wagering Hoarded TimeShare And Bickering Over First Rights
For The Choice Cuts,
Only To Become Silent As The Engine Could Be Heard…
…
…
It Switched The LandScape With A Sudden Cracking Of Seldom-Feared
Thunder,
Tracks Bent Now Straightened… Where Straightened Now Bent,
Hills TransFormed InTo Gullys Swallowing ThemSelves In White-Water,
Bridges Grew InTo DisLocated Forests Only To Settle For Briar-Hearted
Mockerys
To Scratch The Former’s Hand,
And Where Old Air Could Be Trusted… No More… Now Walls Fortified
For Lazy Susans…
…
…
It Was Enough To Keep The Gods Guessing…
…
…
UnFortunately,
The Buffoons Soon Developed A Trick To Grow InTo Flesh,
Then To Crawl And Not Float,
Then To Walk And Then To Chase,
Then To Stumble When Not Seen… At Times To Tumble, For The Need Of
Sympathy’s Pitch…
…
All In New Postures,
With New Language And Wearing Silly Buttons Pinned InTo Their
Starch-Stiffs,
They Sought An Easyer Method To Suck InTo Their Guts
That Which The Lost Son Had Sung InTo Deliverance…
…
A Forgotten Frequency,
With Its Station Never A Station,
Nor Built With Platforms Too Beggar’d For Destinations Not Scheduled,
And Those With Memorys Of It To Be Cursed With Waiting For It To Pull
Them…
…
Out…
…
Out From The Roads Where No Tracks Meet,
And No Answers Come To Pass.

More at http://rwkt.blogspot.ca.

At the age of late teen age–
he with his thousands of twin brothers
leaves their paternal village,
sets a journey to unknown destination
hands over their tiny income to parent–
hoping a higher and handsome income
they will earn for their dear parent.

The vehicle- used in their journey,
runs fast as the race of time.
A town stands on their way, stops the vehicle
and checks them box by box with inquisitive eyes,
the face of the town glitters
in the reflection of their
transformation into adulthood.
They receive a higher income
from the blissful town,
Alas! The income is snatched
and pocketed by a stranger
and their parent get a thumb to suck

Again the journey runs for a few hours
until it is stopped by a city–
rich, colossal and handsome.
The same influence of
their enchanting colour and freshness,
the happy city feels good to raise their income
and to be democratic in distribution.
How sad! They and their income
both are shared by many gentlemen–
living in the city while their parent–
the poor villagers get another thumb to suck.