Poetry in motion is what it is. Wow, what a message in a box of seeds. Hidden away in a place like this, that, and these. A place where one may find lots of rats and all those other bits of scraps, too. "Like who, do you, no?" "No, but? look up at these."

Rotting bodies waxed to a shine. Gazing up at ancient corpses wrapped up in twine, and went dazed from looking at them there for days. Wasting away, the longer they stay. Tears calling, emotionally falling to pieces in torment and decay. Unsocially, worms and mots, picked rapidly at the cups, although upright on two, those same ones, on two, were to have stood up, like you.

Strange sightings have been showing up in and around humanoid space, a place they call Earth and home, of late. Seen folks living in an age where servers and pretenders in eateries and bar-tenders are doctoring food in the weirdest and strangest of ways, presenting "Noods." Now don't ask "What's that?" Because that's rude, and you're not that hot, and nobody can ever accuse you of ever being that type of food, from the pots. They're bringing it in, dressed up and with frills, before half-starved gills. In restaurants and diners down there on the corners, food that kills.

Meanwhile, said folks are quickly losing their taste for home-cooked meals. Arguing their dissatisfaction over discounts and your inattention to details, and for not applying the offered deals, as is offered now on resale. While raising hell, upsetting those who were doctoring fries and bringing them back before them on platters to enjoy. While banging angry arms on counters and ringing the bells. "Oh boy!" "Yay," they say, "What a joy. Now it's good, okay, I'll be coming again, for more of this, the right type of food", now, hiss and send. Good.

Look at them, there they are. Zombie-like bodies between the cars. They and their daddies are walking our streets. Or not quite walking, are they, on the beats. But getting by on irregular contraptions and gadgets to reach? When crooks, pirates, and snake oil salesmen. Rush on in to set up for them, shady schemes to seduce and to snatch, friend. Separating people from their money and their hard-earned cash to spend. With trickery too, and adding some feel-good dash, to them. When churches are being made to become killing fields, and the powers that be don't see a gun issue with which to deal. Rather, a mental health issue, and still, they go on pretending and selling you that pill. But could it be that they are amongst the mentally ill? Are they living among us, still?

Some weird-looking beings have been showing up there in recent times, and an altered stately gear. Some of which seem to be floating about on two and in upright mobile forms carried on by air. But slightly, or slightly more than slightly off-balance, they are. Cross-walking still, against the car. Now, tell me, are they? Really, are they like, like, living? Which leaves one to wonder at times, really wonder. Are these even humans at all? Are they of the earthling kind to crawl? How secure is that call? Hmm, hmm, and humming yet some more, Paul, while walking along through the mall, as before.

Whereas on this side of the great divide. One may be accustomed to seeing the earthlings in their goings, going about walking, walking right upright on two. Two things, side by side to do, new swings, like you. Legs, they called them, I think, or some other such dancing walking thing. Or feet, maybe, or something else like that thing taken with tea. "And buttered biscuit fat, Leigh?" Yes, and that, as I hear tell-tales of it, was to become the established normal habit. However, in recent times, on the river. There have been reports coming out of their behinds to deliver. Which tends to leave some of them and some of their ancestors' kind, a bit more than slightly disturbed over there near the spotted blinds. Reports are coming of some rather strange sightings.

Whereas that was the norm over there for beings of those same humanoid kinds to care, and go about walking upright on two feet. Putting one of those things in front of the other, and the other one behind you. "Neath." Those things on which they would move about further, and go wandering, from place to place, and yet further, in your face. Lift them up and put them down, one in front of the other, heels and toes round. While lunging themselves forward to get from point A to point B, and all the while with a synchronized movement for us to see, of the other upper limbs towards me, hands, they call them, I've heard. Or arming some other thing like that nerd.

Those upper limbs, afore times back and forward, too, would likely have been moving in line. In sync with the lower thing of thine. The one on this side of the being would have been moving opposite to the one on that side of the same. Simultaneously were to be those movements even in the divided game. As the upper and lower limbs would have been moving likewise, yeah, yes, Stephen. Opposite one to the other one-eyed void in a very synchronized and smooth manner, that's the reason, Mama. Which would have rendered it effortless and smooth, more like poetry in motion. "Nude?" "No, don't be rude."

Of late, however, reports have been coming out and over. And it's not all good, surely, not clever. Reports of some rather strange sightings, out there on the hood, unsightly graffiti writings. Isn't there a cause for these harsh writings? Yes, because it's the right thing. Sightseeing some beings appearing among them whose "walking" motion runs alarmingly counter-course, and contrary to those established norms, it's not good. Cause for alarms, now they're unglued. Hearing, seeing, smelling, tasting, feeling, seeking, and speaking, too. As in lies, to them and you. Slanted truths across sharp knives to cut them through, by surprise.

Off-balance are they, and out of whack. Makes you want to tear your eyes out and say, wtf. Our ancestors had taken a peek down from the windows of time and home. They were to have marveled at what came a-crawling up his behind tailbone. Yes, his behind. The offspring's not the ancestors' kind to leave us denying. The form of his offspring leaves him oftentimes to wonder in grandeur. Yes, he was there and wondering, from whence did this kind come down yonder? From me, they sure haven't descended, no wonder. Because they bear no resemblance to me nor to what I once used to be, I can't be a pretender.

"I see." So said he, but these in no way look or act like me. The way they go about and do things ought not to be. The upper stump of them has grown elongated and out of whack. The sitting points on the hind side seem overweight and show a crack. Speak with a lisp as if he'd lost his tongue. Walks with spread legs as if a pole is wedged up where he siddung on the thing he's sitting. Sorry, I meant to say, go on over there and sit down, okay? Yay! Say it that way. But another of the ancestors was to have looked in there and was surprised to see. Nothing is working anymore as it once used to be. Lying and cheating in these times have become the norm. The one who does the right thing is ridiculed and scorned.

One man treats the other man like a brute, while he goes about amending laws and debating the truth. Whereas in olden times, you'd elect and send to the House, your representative. To represent you, your interests, and the way you live. Nowadays, it's to lawmakers that you have those great powers given, to give. And in crying, you cursed flowing rivers of tears. Because the laws that lawmakers make are theirs, bringing you to the mountains, yes, mountains of fear. Brighten your "Now" countenance, but leave you worse for wear. He only comes around your corner when it's an election year, while he and his cronies mount up and climb? Climbing up high on the golden stairs. Here, yes, go have a beer, I guess.

Because, in lying, it is something no such leader lacks, looks you square in the balls and sells you a pack. This is where the weasel bumps are upon the creepers' weaker spinal tract. Right there is the center spot of attention for that eel and to sack it. In that, there seems to be no lack of the key to the lock and to unlock all that they've got in the locket. No, not that, No? No luck. No? So what? Just don't lack anything, but look at that. Got it yet? Yes. Alright then. Amen, and there they go again, that said man now begets children, who place their safety in other people's hands. Along with everything else that they would have planned.

Well, all except those things he wants from you to nyam. Go on, eat it, eat it, don't you let me repeat it. Now go on, back to that one, and this. You do it, hiss, it's your job to make everything work right for me and fit. So said that man as if he and his children's pickney dem are living, but are they, like, are they living among us? Again? They walked around with their eyes fixed on gadgets in their palm. Wouldn't turn and waste a gaze at one on the right hand, unless it's to do him and you in, with harm. Or even the one on the left of them, because he's having an important conversation with a friend whom he has never met from Adam, though he lives just across the world in a foreign nation. Whatever you do, buddy, don't interrupt this conversation I'm having with my friends from across town.

Even though here in this city, of that kind, I've got none. Don't you dare stop me, don't block my way. I'm walking a straight line here, can't you see and obey? Don't make me have to turn to this side or go the other way. If a wall should fall before me, tall. I'll hop over it or even crawl. If you should ever stick up before me a long pole, I'll cut you through with my fierce indignation, or push you down the hole. Then record it all onto my instant camera and send it off to every living soul. So they will see and know how you lie there dying in a pool of blood at the base of a stake, or stranded at the root of a pole. No one bothered to lend a hand, couldn't be bothered with the rigmarole.

I can do whatever I want to, add as much shock value to it as I feel like. To do you in even, but whatever you do. Don't be shocked by that and react, or else, it will be all your fault, and you will be made responsible for whatever you do. Or not do, on the asphalt, and you only, pal. I have nothing to do with it, nor with that gal. "No, it wasn't me, Shaggy." Even though you might have been shocked out of your wits by what I said and did when I did it. It's still all your fault, admit it, and yours only. Are they living among us? A generation that curses its elders. The aged among them are ridiculed and scorned, because they know nothing and should be long gone. "Needs fresh ideas," they say. Because you're old and redundant, go away.

Take the running of their affairs and place it in the hands of infants. Dust your face with a powdered-looking glass. Then tell them that they're nice and you know, they'll pass. Break the pop champagne, man must floss. Waste the Rodman because correction is a thing of the past. Because we are in the know. Born that way, it's how we flow. Now hand over the doe and go. Wear chapped jeans if I please, below 40 degrees, and go pink at the knees. Because I'm free, don't you dare talk down to me, and one might be tempted to ask you and say, it's not everybody that you are having issues with that way. It's just him who is unmitigated enough and would have dared to try to lift you from there. Out of the dust, and from the pit of muck and toilet wear. With those words, of course, even, I swear. But as for you? To try and lift you, perhaps, you're sure going to have some issues with that. Are they even living?

"Don't talk down to us," another man said. Then send you off to go to bed, and to sleep. Weep. So you're acknowledging that the place where you are is down, right? And that the place where that man is talking to you from is at a higher place than where you are rebuffing him? Bright. So, am I allowed to ask that rhetorical question of the past, again? What is that thing that makes you want to become so comfortable at that low place? Why are you now so ready to go dragging the man down to the low place where you are, in the waste? For no other reason than for him to have the unmitigated gall to try and lift you from where you are? Beware. Friend, beware.

Could it be that there are interested parties, with a vested interest in having you in a lowly place and tumbling down yet further with the expensive car keys? One who's very skilled at the art of getting you and yours to think just like he wants you to think, on these? And you're busily doing his bidding even now? Wow! There he is, telling you that you're really that, and this. Could that be the same "someone" right there, and fat like puss, square? Could he be just a bit interested in dumbing you down and succeeding at it, fast? Telling you about self-esteem and the other bits? And send you over there nearer my god to the corner beam, to go hang your head and sit? "Let no one talk down to you," he said.

Which seems to some folks I know to mean, listen to me and to what I tell you, mi bred. Don't let anybody else tell you anything, like when to go to bed, what to do. Wake you up too, with a gas-lighting finger on the queue? Not even those who love and care for you, and like, like, the most? I'm the only one you need to hear, because I'm the only one who cares. Care for, and about you, over here, man. True? True. Yeah! Right, and why? Because I said so, guy, gimme a light, man, no? Phew. And, and? I can prove it, too. Look at how I make you feel. Powerful, valued, worthwhile, and shit, look at it, this way, puff, and sniff. Okay, cough, cough. Now spit, then continue with it.

They're nothing to you, can help you none. They're old and know nothing; they're already done. You and I are up and coming. Fresh, clean, nice, and young. We now know everything, got the world in the palm of our hands to swing. We don't need them. No, not even in the least, my friend. Go. That is how they flow. "You do it," they say, "go on now, go, go away." "Go out and fix it for me, make me feel safe and shit. See? So that I may walk around doing nothing to quit, and with my mind out of it. As my eyes are always focused on my gadget." Since you already know that that is how it goes, it's you who has to go out and make sure that I'm secure.

Whenever I go about, like, to go shopping for things to buy in every store of yours. And much, much, and even much more, of course. It's you, yes, it's you who must make sure to do all those things that you've got to do, for me. Don't you see? You had better be very sure to open up every door of the opportunity store. And let me in way before, you know, like. Before I freeze out here in this cold weather that I did not dress properly for? why should I bother when I can pass off this responsibility to another? Or dump it over your shoulder. "Cause?"

Because you're older and don't have much further, you know, like, like, not much further to go, other than to show that you know, that I'm in style, and you're done spoiled. And you don't want me to go and file. Like. File a suit against you, yute. So said the young youth to me, and you. For in failing, you have failed to do what you already knew you ought to. For me. You'll soon see what shall become of thee. I don't have to do anything. I've got you to do it all for me, if anything, even to think, and the kitchen sink. You do it, I quit. Now puff and phew, and spit. Blowing out what's left of you and his cigarette. Are they living among us?

As is now the custom, this overly tattooed generation can barely answer one out of two questions. Sometimes he's right, sometimes he gets it wrong, both of them, even. But he's answering yet, he's a confident one, you bet. Self-operated devices and machinery are there because such is preferred and trusted over and above you and me in the car. Us, of their very own kind, who had designed and built it, fuss. It was we, yes, us and our kind who had built it in the first place, though, wasn't it so? But there they go. Are they living among us?

No compassion, no empathy. No feeling of love for anybody. Or concerns towards each other. No love for the man who is his brother. "No, that's not his brother, but yours." "I know, I know, so?" They gleefully eat up glistening white snow. The one on the lot with the heavenly glow they'd picked up from the side of the road not long ago. Not remembering that that was where they had seen the pile of dirty black snow, not many days ago. And that, that's how this beautiful white pile is going to look in just a little while. But you're in style.

So, go on now, go ahead and smile a while, you're on Candid Camera, my child. Whatever you do. Don't ever think, flush that wasted stink down the sink, and blink, rapidly now. Are they living among us? It makes me wonder sometimes. There must be somebody somewhere working on us. Or over us, under us, even. Working undercover after all. Covering up a stink, under all of that ink, yeah! All of that: Tattoo ink. Now, go on. Wink. WritingElk.