"Paris buddy, a god’s on my shoulder with his hand on the bow; I was born fine-boned racing the..."

boredpanda:<br /><br /><br /><br />Pi... so passive voice is only a concern wh...

"Paris

buddy, a god’s on my shoulder with his hand on the bow;
I was born fine-boned racing the..."

“

Paris

buddy, a god’s on my shoulder with his hand on the bow;

I was born fine-boned racing the knitted fates home

find me in the South Mountain wild where through

the veil of the trees there’s a heavenly city glowing

brilliant and green walled in by its rivers and I’m struck

skyline blind- there’s a world out there waiting for

cursed children to find the fathers that bore them

that left them to rot that tempted the street-corner

prophets burning smoke through their guts to see

the asphalt hallucinations- my father’s a king and when you

got power bolted to blood you’ll believe anything.

pretty-faced princess of the Ironbound lord

he’s got the breadth of a bull and enough to

afford all his broken city princes, his brother’s

unsmiling mouth he won the hand of a beauty

though he’s no beauty himself- no favorite of the

goddesses with their high-laced-up boots they like

the way that I smile when I trace out their routes they

promise me gold and all that heaven can touch but in

mutters they whisper how it won’t ever be enough and

now the Ironbound princess is my runaway bride

and my father sits in his penthouse-

he’s wishing I’d died.

but life don’t come easy, it comes hungry and fast and their

road-rage boys sharpen their claws for the clash their

strongmen who hold all the factory lands their glowing

river princes with chemical hands their wise councilors

from the south, from their dirt and their pines and the

Airport King of them all gathering his boys to his side

(they say he fights for his brother, for the Ironbound lord

and his pretty lost wife though he’s always ignore all the

sentiment spoken- he don’t know love through his planes

he’s the king of the sky and he wants all that remains-)

the greatest among them now facing me down

from the dust bled out by my brothers all strangers

unwound to the cruel knitting fingers, those old

Brooklyn ladies spinning out the gold fleece of dreams

that choke kings with their crowns- aristos achaion

with his half-broken eyes stares up in a dare and a whisper

a prayer for the death I could give him and the god’s right

where he stands; a god on my shoulder and from the wilds

I came to this blood-brittle moment the streets all torn

up beneath the riverine warfare the blessing of grief the

wild lights flickered moonsong the tires shred to ash

the bright god of the sun is on my shoulder at last and

he’s whispering quick, pull the string taut I’m the king

of these arrows they’ll do what I want and they banished

me out to the darkness to rot and now the best of

my enemies is standing unarmed and he’s pleading

and broken and we’re all melted by war, sugar-spun statues

of what came before and we’re gods and we’re kings and

we’re pretty and dead and I let the arrow sing out

and the god keeps to the tread of the highways that

bind us that choke us that render us mute-