John John the market dwellers son!

D. David Croot has been writing on and off (pretty much continually) for nineteen hundred years. He is no preternatural creature, no real special abilities or heightened desires to speak of, but he’s put in his four-trillion hours and it’s all for you my sweaty precious and sublimely beautiful creatures.

— — — — — — -

Lost his hair to something

Grew back in patches

And flew into furious rages

for no reason

the army took him

Fucked him in the rectum

Everything was always so serious

He sold crap from the market at school

He sold crap from his dads shed at lunchtime

He sold what little he had

for all who would surround

–

He’s got his hair back now but

his eyes have no glow

He’s a hollow husk

a mind with the faeries

marrow of dust

If approach

approach wearily

As he’ll tell the tale of

how he came to be