punk music like seeds has
the codes for a new movement
curled up inside your
hard candy shells.
Kiss me now, 'cause there's no such thing as private
living from toast to toast
under the branches of normal conversation
we play poker with ideas for our cards
Open the blinds and drink with the lights off
take in what ever your eyes can find room for
the world seems large but the skyline is shrinking
cut into by cities, and streetlights, and stars.
the ground is alive, overrun by congestives
that burrow, like roots, to make room for themselves
the cunning are culled, information is bleeding
let your questions reach up to the indentured sky.
We are the gypsys of your city:
homeland's sons, yet
we move uninterrupted;
brush your charity
with thieves' marks on our silver hands
Charlot Barker is a 23 year old gentleman living in the San Francisco Bay Area and making a life for himself despite having an effeminate name. He has been writing poetry his entire life, but has only recently begun doing other things like painting and studying guerrilla psychology. He retains confidence in his uniqueness in the face of overwhelming improbability, and fully intends to take over the world or whatever part of it he can.