Accumulated Words

wall of bags
full of paper
the elder lady
limp in the seat
the smell of defecation
is this the way we end
our grand plans
fuel for the pyre
we never arrived at

Pricked
Blooded
Drenched in sweat
What key would prove the machine
But yea my voice is cracked
My fingers slip from truth to truth
No falsehood offered
Only the frailties of man divided
Who's aim is true
If another target struck
History is not changed
We are not other than we were
We were naught
Now we are not
What horrid wrenching
Has changed from naught to not
Stripped even hope of peace

Style is in the bag?
Style is on the hoof
Style is in the swagger and the sway
Style is cut from jib to jive
Style is lost on me
Freestyle

Pacing the train station.
The smell of other passengers.
Leaning on the pole
Preparing for your stop
Standing before or after the woman
You can make her feel attractive, if you want
The feel of making that decision
The jolt of the train stopping short
The pole digging into your shoulder
Your back, between the blades
The weight shifting on your knees
Choosing which faces will be people
Who is only scenery
Who is real
Who do you wish you were real to
Who do you believe in
Hogging the pole
Leaning your body blocks their hands
Clusters of riders
Sit to free your fingers
Which train is this