Hawks, hobos, drifters and madmen
Thus run my companions of late
Wiser than you'd at first think
All mumbles, screeches and dirt
The lot of them dissenting
Hostile towards flaccid, limp modernity
All blood, bone and sinew
Pumping and rushing towards an ecstasty
Unknown to settlers, passive folk, liars
Theirs is an unnamed freedom
Floating in the choking mists
Hanging at mind's edges
Transcending focus
Carving souls from the rock and
Watching them drift softly upwards
Any hint of reason eroded
Leaping and playing, not giving
A good god-damn about it
Whether that god be Avalokitesvara
Yahweh, Allah, or an open boxcar
Equally absurd and beautiful
The grass grows thick underfoot
Writhing, rapt in truth.
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