Canyons Poem by Tom Priestley

Vulgarity is dependent on the ownership of offence, heralded by someone who seeks to rid the world of foulness due to their own sensitivity.
Are you offended by my actions?
My foul language?
Or some of the other disgusting habits I imitate whether in public or at home? In the street? Or in bed?
As say the way that I am offended by your manners, taste and other proclivities that I have not yet inhabited myself.
If so then we're even
Toe to toe
Free to explore the other traits of human instability like soldiers of nature, sleepless in the valley, watchful of the ever changing sky and illuminated by the innovations of ones mind that ponders over the subject of death in neurotic bursts of wanting to know all of the world and it's extremities.
I seek refuge in these thoughts, in the actions I take with my pen, then become forced to shut down and immobile like a tin man in need of oiling.
If only such action could be taken when the brain stalls and the nerves are shot when just in the full throw of exertion, like the deep breathe of the morning only to cough and splutter and light a cigarette.
I am damned just like you are my friend, but there is a bigger price on my head.
A large sum that will keep a soul in laughter and stature for decades to come
But the bounty hasn't waned and the hunter hasn't made his attempt, so who knows when they'll actually find me.
Slaughter the ugly ducklings
Pick the flowers of beauty like death chooses the soul of goodness
Exterminate all the brutes and sail away with thoughts of glory that you'll endure within the next stem of livelihood, after you've unsaddled yourself with the lumbering's and stigmas that childhood dishes out in mass hysteria.
There is no more fear but that of the uncertain future.