My lover and I lived on a hill;
our castle was frequently destroyed
by knights from opposing nations
but found that place
meant more than the struggle of rebuilding,
even if that meant shivering in the cold
on winter nights where insects
stop existing, and summer days
where they are starving and mad.
Struggle was an opportunity for us to bond,
and we felt dull in times of peace and abundance,
loving the early mornings above metal skylines,
never having knelt under bosses
who screwed the world
and expected us to do the same.
It was a privilege to be wild,
writing erotic poetry and sick novels,
burying them in dirt for future archeologists
who will know it to be mild
compared to the robber barons of the day.
My lover and I lived on a hill,
eating out of dumpsters
filled with minutes old food,
foraging berries, cooking
mushrooms over campfires,
sometimes getting high
on purpose or accident,
drinking and scaring parents,
laughing with their children.
The times were awful.
The times are alone in their duende.
The rich dream of being vagabonds
but not for the poverty,
and only for the style.