Michael Caldon


The fugitives, the outcasts, the outlaws.
Running wild in the shadows.
Far from the view, or so it seemed,
Of those who live for control

Spitting from the roofs of tree forts,
Down on the heads of Mr. Normal.
Running as far as possible,
Past all the limits into the worlds of juice.

The rush, the spinning, losing control,
Spiraling down to where freedom is just a song.
Flashing lights and broken glass,
The last fingers grip surrenders.

Control let go and freedom won
Punched in the gut with morning sun
The fugitives, the outcasts, the outlaws.
Looking up at the treetops, while

Wiping spit from their heads.

return to SHAMPOO issue #1