she sits on top of my nightstand patiently waiting for all the lights to dim. she pulls back my covers and tries to fuck her way in. i'm better than that. i don't know why she thought that i was so far past stupid. the radio is her best friend but it always counts her down. the hours are a thing she doesn't know could turn out wrong. she spoils her appetite by consuming my human desires. she lives just to see and breathe all the heat we make under the covers. the sun breaks over the horizon every morning in an effort to oust her demoralizing seduction. the inlaid shadows on my wall creep in and out of the corners. i almost wish the moon would never leave us to fade away.
i've got an inkling of a notion floating through my brain.
it's trying to explain to me just how you are different.
you think that you're special.
i think that that's okay.
i've got a let up on you though dear.
crawling in the front door at only half past three,
i wonder did you even notice me?
i've got this screwed up idea that you know all my thoughts.
maybe you can see right through me and i don't have to play pretend.
this hurts a lot more rock, paper, scissors.
go ahead and get in my head and try to find that notion.
maybe i've been right all along.
maybe not, but i still think that's okay.
there's something special about you.
this rain ralls.
it's cryptic.
we're never hearing all the words that it says.
we're falling trying to get away, but we don't even know what from.
we're luring ourselves in as we try to come down from this synthetic high.
the rain falls and the smoke flies up into our eyes.
if we could all be living, breathing, caterpillars!
with sour smiles seeing from these slppy eyes at the ending points of our unfurling tounges. taste the chaous and dissaray that spread from smiles we caught in the plauge. it's ironic how the aging skeptisism leaks out of our bubonic brains. slowly melt down these brainstems. let's taste the rain on our budding wings.
the stars will shine from dampened skies and beauty will always be lost.
a slow state of suspended animation; the trees linger in the cold november air. leaves find homes on soiled grounds. the trees stand tall and naked. grass remains green under blankets of wasted leaves. november air rests heavy on the cold air left open for winter. the senses awaken. the trees hibernate. the children aren't dressed for the winter shiver. november remains a naked month. frozen in a snapshot of time, today was the first frost. perhaps it was the most nostalgic. i think my inspiration lies in the mundane task of scraping a fresh layer of frost from my window. the stars bleed for november, but it rests suspeneded above the ground.
there sits a boy with half a brain in a field full of dandelions.
he breathes the air he cannot see.
he slings his hook alone at last.
when no one looks, he pulsates fire.
when no one stops, he leaves himself open.
time to play dress up little boy.
put on your cap.
salute the flag and fall in line.
these dandelions are dead.
rape them of all innocence.
see the stems turn to skeletons.
the flowers turn to fear.
there sits a boy with half a brain in a field of dead soldiers.
he cries himself through the bullet-filled nightmares,
wishing the dead ones could all just be flowers.
a blackbird soars through the sky. did you hear the blood drip from his wings? circling above our heads and laying the work for falling bombs. the crystal clear blues sky shines like the dead coming back to life. the red cross trickles through the sewer. cheap thrills like bullets and train tracks. the tracks are full of faceless fucks, most of them just like me. the fires burn from every window. our flowers grow and entangle wildly. then greed consumes and new life emerges. the blackbird soars back over the growing cityscapes. the faces try to break free. these pieces bring us to neon dreams. the ground breaks softly with a fist, with a hammer.
the trees began to walk around,
taking steps through sleeping towns.
is it any wonder that we talk to the trees?
they've come and gone. they're moving on.
is it possible to sever the ties and walk off through the trees.
don't let them die. shine through the skies like a sun that can fly.
these trees may made away if they stand forgotten.
in the background noise of christmas, all the children sing. i hear whispers of the echoes that they have longed to bring. back from the ourskirts of a faded galaxy, a nebula that shot forth and breathed life into me. in the confines of crossed lines and pools we've filled with time, rests an answer that is coiled until we all unwind. in the snow-white static creeping closer to my spine, i retreat to background noise at christmas until the end of time.
in a dark cavern in the desert, six navajo medicine men partake in a transcendental plane-hopping journey to find a way to save. they search for the key to set their people free. they search for the compassion to communicate delicately with mother earth in her starry glory. they search for clues, for answers, for help, for hope. when they come back from their journies, they bid each outher adieu, and begin their grueling treks to their homes. they pass skulls, coyotes, and cati reflecting silently on their days. the trips they've taken have almost forgiven the unforgivable sins of white man.
huddled in the green trees, encircled in a mist, the sun spots through in peculiar places, sometimes gently kissing the fish. they swim blindly through the waters always doing what so ever they may do. the fish in the ponds beneath green trees and mist are a lot like me and you. gentle brookes break and bend searching for an ocean to overflow. these winding streams under trees of green are more like us than you may know. in this humid continental we stand dominated year around. this time would be best spent if you'd hold my hand in the clearing atop solid ground. huddled up, all through the night, let your body fuse with mine. encircled in a deep mist, tucked away from prying eyes, we'll swallow down thoughts of worldly things, and enjoy the decinigration of time. all these thoughts i though i knew keep drawing soft lines back to you. spend some time, let's go unwind, your hand held softly in mine.
my eyes go blank and i smell ginger creeping right up through my nose.
the piano in the parlor pounds out a gentle tune.
i'm staring out across a sea of deepest shy maroon.
it's almost noon! epileptic, blind confusion claws into my lobes.
my eyes go blank and i smell ginger seeping through the road.
green, yellow, red.
are the homeless fed?
are the kids all tucked in bed?
are they waiting up for me to tell them nothing's going on?
they are sitting in their beds ready to sneak down.
they'll rush down to the parlor and hit the ivories on the piano trying to wake me up and call me home with the dirty smell of ginger.
blank eyes, egg whites, broken ribs, and fun nights.
my eyes go blank and my memories roll back like a train of molten steel.
i can feel it in the air. there's a problem sure to arise.
the children hit the ivories trying to roll back through my eyes.
the church bells toll and leave us, but the sound waves still do linger.
i can hear a dull metalic clank and i smell the stagnant smell of ginger.
get away, stay away.
a million tears can ruin the day.
sever all those broken ribbons.
chains may taste like fate.
all you are is all i am.
bury the day.
breathe without feeling.
the only good remorse is in your eyes.
feel the passion burning down.
forests feed on the minds of a shallow soul.
steadfast and hungry for weapons on the ready.
fear not!
this point of view is obscured by wisps of smoke.
deep within this cavern of lust
i will claw my way out
broken ceiling mirrors
bad trip, santa maria.
broken ship, save our souls.
message in a whiskey bottle, sinking fast.
no water waits.
blood on the blotter!
bad story...
santa maria, going down.
whiskey bottle whispers.
to me, the meaning of life is simply the journey itself. we are here to exist, to navigate whatever is set before us, and finish the journey in death. perhaps there we begin a seperate journey. perhaps there the journey begins again. we are here only to exist. no "mark of man" can seperate any one man from another when ultimately we all take this journey and finish it. there is no set time in which to finish, and we are not living to continue pitted against one another. the thing that dictates what our own personal meaning of life is, is the one life that we live. we live to express, retreat, continue, and end the journey of life that we at this very moment are set in the thick of.
they flew me out across the sea.
they pumped their drugs straight into me.
one painted symbols on my face.
they seemed archaic, complex, and high.
one muttered something in my ear about protection.
i gave it a try.
he asked me only to believe, to not let my vision become obscuted.
he held his palms inches away from my torso as i began to feel the cure.
it worked slowly at first, but fear not love, it worked.
my vision is crystal. my words have progressed.
it's all thanks to the healers who watched over my bed.
as i danced in the waterfalls, flowing labyrinths of time,
they healed my impurities and gave me back what was mine.
all the spite-filled took heed, and left me alone.
i had progressed thirty years by the time i was home.
the bar is full of whores, smoke, and cheap beer.
chaotic echoes fill the spaces inbetween the jupebox pause.
they're all sipping sweetly in a state of pure innebriation.
glass tubes filled with glowing gasses hum electrically.
at the center of the room, the mood is calm- just for the moment.
all afloat by the confined corner, the lingering smells stop to collect.
white whores, black whores, and whores with sullied faces, stand smugly by the pool cues waiting for some hotshot to seduce.
all around the bar i see abuse! i taste abuse.
halfway through a highball the scene slows down nearly to a stop.
so many whores, so many drunks, so many stories many punks.
the bar is sludge, impermeable, full of crimes just waiting to happen.
i see stabbings, shootings, rapes, and doings.
malevolent thoughts float around, barely moving through the muck.
one more highball, one more cheap cigar...i'll close my tab, review my finances, and go home tonight with a whore. the one i've chosen looks far from broken. blonde hair, green eyes, huge tits, full lips. i plan on steadily fucking her brains out. tomorrow morning she'll be broken to hell. she'd better ice that down. i'll be back to the bar tomorrow night smoking a cheap cigar, drinking from my highball, waiting for the right whore to buy that night.
