|image by EJR ©|
forests of iron and sugar
she had a round thick ass,
I couldn't help myself, mentally
venturing to, when I was alone
there were things that grabbed my attention at first...
like how beautiful they seemed
and how joyous the fans rang out, voiced frequency...
the poem was a camera too, wanted it spoken...
broken into the pieces of life that you were
comfortable sharing in full swallows and little bleed(s)...
needs met are seeds' wet germination periods...
the future hold waves of disease pocket resistance...
with fantasy joystick control methodologies...
we would be thinning the herds...
outside the air lock
sharpen the rain...
we decided that living
longer in chains was pointless and Icarus may have been right
all along careful planning of future events is a quicksilver
money grab...dash-cam justice and mob-mental-ism,
fundamentalism, as a form of worship is seriously flawed
because it excludes the very real possibilities that love came to
see you while you were otherwise engaged in the pursuit of
proving something that doesn't matter if you exist...
there is a widely held belief system in place here:
deeply administered parts of you
e.g. a soul chalice-d thirst that
gives rise to your inner voices,
and you, left wanting
to drink mercury too...
is buying into the media driven world view
to make you forget
there is a net constancy
wiping, dry erase boards
along side boulevard shard
neon troubadours, dragged
through saloon doors...
"we're all whores here, eventually..."
the sign above the mahogany rail doth preach
we have all become that which can be sat
in a barber's chair asking, for a rum and coke
and a little trim to tie my shoelaces with...
send in the roller skated girl with loose morals
and a raging daddy complex
tell her to call me Oedipus
and herself Antigone
and we'll devise
some inappropriate role-play
I swear I haven't been here before
but the church bells are ringing-ly familiar
maybe it was the way every bible seemed
made...for not telling me
all I needed to know...
the light from the pale yellow incandescent lamp
on the octagonal night stand...said look I'm atop
some cheap furniture...you dropped your phone
like Gideon bent down for water
she gave me a look that said,
a drum's purpose in life
is a beat...down or up...
wanting to complete you...
art catches part of it in dreams...
tries to repeat the paintings...
or poems, one at a time...
the rain knows your name by heart
especially when counting scars
and stars and all the dead
things that tell stories
of what once was...
grabbed my intentions
knew what words
never need be spoken
to be understood...
over the Edwardian cask flicker lighting
the gas age was steam punk before I knew
to look back beyond my means to know
I might have always wanted
to be what was bargained for
on the wrong side of greed...
bleeding seems necessary
hope says, "I am ripe, cut me"
watch your life by after glow
and all you will be trying
to be leaving behind, not lying
when tying together, what is
oh so familiar about all this...
"...the woods still hold Hansel and Gretel's bones
being so bold, with need for meddle and stone
here are their two souls, fats in her jars, a-mason-ed pantry
Baba Yaga, humming waif afar, still dancing, in key..."