Confidant #3
Your hair is red because I weave
a phantom fair that shall not leave
me to a grind and pomp for death
where grain of sand and salted breath
reveals a lair of fallen nod
to beggar what is left of God.
Your eyes are what I wish to see
before that snake envelops me
within a gut of dull surprise
where all is new but all reprise
somehow perhaps molecular
with bits of dust most secular.
Your smile because I will it so
becomes one fuse sparkling low
among those souls who faintly bray
and stand between the night and day
to wither in the cool and dry
awaking neither you nor I.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Confidant #2
Confidant #2
A king be gone,
his bones now dirt.
So keep me clear
beyond my flirt.
A queen be dead,
her crown is dreck.
Protect me from
this watered wreck.
A prince returns,
his grace shall breed.
Repay me now
what charm I need.
A king be gone,
his bones now dirt.
So keep me clear
beyond my flirt.
A queen be dead,
her crown is dreck.
Protect me from
this watered wreck.
A prince returns,
his grace shall breed.
Repay me now
what charm I need.
Confidant #1
Confidant #1
Dry bones bleed for wasted want
comforting my confidant.
Maggots feed enchanted croon
flowering the dead lagoon.
Baby, baby, what you got
cadillacs a waiting rot.
Grim things creep on busted haunt
begging for my confidant.
Worms shall keep all holy dooms
muttering in muted rooms.
Baby, baby, what I say
cadillacs a scary way.
Sorrows breed the ghoul of flaunt
grasping at my confidant.
Fatal greed in damp decay
fingering an aching clay.
Baby, baby, what you got
cadillacs my broken knot.
Dry bones bleed for wasted want
comforting my confidant.
Maggots feed enchanted croon
flowering the dead lagoon.
Baby, baby, what you got
cadillacs a waiting rot.
Grim things creep on busted haunt
begging for my confidant.
Worms shall keep all holy dooms
muttering in muted rooms.
Baby, baby, what I say
cadillacs a scary way.
Sorrows breed the ghoul of flaunt
grasping at my confidant.
Fatal greed in damp decay
fingering an aching clay.
Baby, baby, what you got
cadillacs my broken knot.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
One False Move
One False Move
One false move, your world explodes,
one more turn down endless roads,
love that conquers lust expired
in a vacuum fear has sired
by the witch whose beauty turned
first your head and then had burned
God to dust by faded light
in the sorrow of the night.
One kiss stolen, one to please
angels with a sweet disease,
fever wrought by her intent,
she who breaks two backs now bent
in a dance of passion born
of a hunger which had torn
God to dust by faded light
in the sorrow of the night.
One last look at mortal fault,
when my form must turn to salt,
when my heart becomes a stone
buried where the weeds have grown,
where my chance and luck have died,
where the man and child have cried
God to dust by faded light
in the sorrow of the night.
One false move, your world explodes,
one more turn down endless roads,
love that conquers lust expired
in a vacuum fear has sired
by the witch whose beauty turned
first your head and then had burned
God to dust by faded light
in the sorrow of the night.
One kiss stolen, one to please
angels with a sweet disease,
fever wrought by her intent,
she who breaks two backs now bent
in a dance of passion born
of a hunger which had torn
God to dust by faded light
in the sorrow of the night.
One last look at mortal fault,
when my form must turn to salt,
when my heart becomes a stone
buried where the weeds have grown,
where my chance and luck have died,
where the man and child have cried
God to dust by faded light
in the sorrow of the night.
Bald Mountain Breakdown
Bald Mountain Breakdown
Apollyon has come and gone,
Old Scratch is on the rise.
He haunts your tortured fear of dawn,
your wretched reddened eyes.
He makes you hate the heat of late
that robbed you of your luck,
that kept you from a blessed date,
and stalled your pickup truck.
Beelzebub has made you drub
and beat your wand from fright.
His dybbuk rubs a wicked club
on your Walpurgis Night.
He cannot hide the evil bride
who tempts you to a kiss,
who rides alive your natal pride
but makes your motor miss.
The Succubae will make you play
until your speed is spent,
and when they sway your need away,
you'll know what love has meant:
it comes and goes and fades and grows,
its joys will show or hide
what only time shall last disclose
before the spark has died.
Apollyon has come and gone,
Old Scratch is on the rise.
He haunts your tortured fear of dawn,
your wretched reddened eyes.
He makes you hate the heat of late
that robbed you of your luck,
that kept you from a blessed date,
and stalled your pickup truck.
Beelzebub has made you drub
and beat your wand from fright.
His dybbuk rubs a wicked club
on your Walpurgis Night.
He cannot hide the evil bride
who tempts you to a kiss,
who rides alive your natal pride
but makes your motor miss.
The Succubae will make you play
until your speed is spent,
and when they sway your need away,
you'll know what love has meant:
it comes and goes and fades and grows,
its joys will show or hide
what only time shall last disclose
before the spark has died.
Highway Nine
Highway Nine
Nine hundred miles and not a sign
of God or His benign design;
just Man with gun and pickup truck,
and sin that shoots a hole in luck.
Eight hundred miles of twisted fate,
infinity a sleeping eight
that rises from the steamy tar
and calls her light down from her star.
With seven tens times ten again,
this highway bends to now and then
mirage deformed by parallax,
a sainted beast with many backs.
Six hundred miles that curses mix
from broken bones to stones and sticks,
to hatred for that hijacked Name
who takes the heat and takes the blame.
Five hundred miles, and five to drive
to peace that leaves its charm alive,
for love that takes us to the chance
of shattered dream and drunken dance.
With four to go before I know
the wreck which kills us from below
a Hell of speed and brutal greed
where in the night our devils breed.
Three hundred miles of fantasy
distorted into you and me,
a phantom rent by what was sent
to bleed us in our discontent.
Two hundred miles, two hundred due
before I drive my love for you
away from strain and waning night,
the charnel mares of false delight.
With ten times ten my travel then
will end and once begin again
in search of what we must resign
along our ride down Highway Nine.
Nine hundred miles and not a sign
of God or His benign design;
just Man with gun and pickup truck,
and sin that shoots a hole in luck.
Eight hundred miles of twisted fate,
infinity a sleeping eight
that rises from the steamy tar
and calls her light down from her star.
With seven tens times ten again,
this highway bends to now and then
mirage deformed by parallax,
a sainted beast with many backs.
Six hundred miles that curses mix
from broken bones to stones and sticks,
to hatred for that hijacked Name
who takes the heat and takes the blame.
Five hundred miles, and five to drive
to peace that leaves its charm alive,
for love that takes us to the chance
of shattered dream and drunken dance.
With four to go before I know
the wreck which kills us from below
a Hell of speed and brutal greed
where in the night our devils breed.
Three hundred miles of fantasy
distorted into you and me,
a phantom rent by what was sent
to bleed us in our discontent.
Two hundred miles, two hundred due
before I drive my love for you
away from strain and waning night,
the charnel mares of false delight.
With ten times ten my travel then
will end and once begin again
in search of what we must resign
along our ride down Highway Nine.
Little Darling
Little Darling
Little Darling, don't you know,
love is mostly tell and show;
what we want we need to hide
from our chimera of pride.
I took you down, I pulled you up;
I put my honey in your cup,
I pinned you back to better feel
your tender hand and softer heel.
Little Darling, don't you know,
love is mostly tell and show,
with a lie we fantasized
while another fiction died.
I made you moan, I made you weep;
I kept you from your peaceful sleep,
I mixed my salt deep in your wine,
my hands upon your rising spine.
Little Darling, don't you know,
love is mostly tell and show,
what we wish we seldom get
without worry and regret.
Little Darling, don't you know,
love is mostly tell and show;
what we want we need to hide
from our chimera of pride.
I took you down, I pulled you up;
I put my honey in your cup,
I pinned you back to better feel
your tender hand and softer heel.
Little Darling, don't you know,
love is mostly tell and show,
with a lie we fantasized
while another fiction died.
I made you moan, I made you weep;
I kept you from your peaceful sleep,
I mixed my salt deep in your wine,
my hands upon your rising spine.
Little Darling, don't you know,
love is mostly tell and show,
what we wish we seldom get
without worry and regret.
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