hellsforheroes

My baby is looking to jet set some star crossed bridgeI see well into a world I dont have the tools to dare so, so romantically, oh my little knees are weak, and, and my laugh just doesnt ring, like the telephone call you used to make when it rained from the eyes of the seventh harp angel shoestringheavens hath no courage but a butter knife and my drawer, spinning sure footed palms to a wrist blue like a lagoon, sex beyond slavery, syphilis for a whoreI am man with the guns not of Britton or the soap box sore throat of turpentine, I am a man of modest expectations fighting a war of a inkwell sunny day sunny shineI am playing the role of pretender, and marrying some creation, I am lost in the garden with thorns in my feet, praying for a Jesus of girl in the daisy May I trampled past the shadow of a mention sweet oh sweet graveyard with the stones on the memories, I am sleeping in the love vanished of parishioner sanctuaries, such mausoleums they make for the vamps I have mislaid, stained neck beauties on the bridge to some beatnik clayIn the smoking mirrors of the churchmens wagon, I see my bloody wrists slit from needles and pulpits, telling me I need value, telling me I need to make an honest man, I have enough of a time lying about satisfaction and believing in a god condemned by your thorny suntanlike near naked bosoms of the boss mans ire, I have something for the sweet little girl who has shot black tar into her veins, and drawn ghostly flames inside her pyreI am the satellite on the burning sentient, braded by misnomers, continued by my mothers delivering, safely stuck in a cold cabin years from abandonmentI dying in some hell created by the cold sword of Loki, I am balder to a reform, joy, light, and wasted ambivalence, take me away hand of thine brother, guide the arrow to my malaise, stab out my responsive eyes for they lie jealous in a passing wake neither the world could cry enough, nor the winds could talk, I am stuck in hibernation gone astray from stars, and barefoot to agates, you a tannin of chalk. Withered skins of etched amber, rarified birds of a honking deluge, I am begging for a case to fly high above the horror, and land smack dab in the slanderI want to ruefully cascade like triumph over good, beating down willows, crying if I should, I am graceless without Elvis and I am holy with no saints, I am sore from dropping the tender night she gave me in faithMy baby is running screaming and kicking out the door, mashing down nourishment, provisions for the belly, scribble deities, for the floor. With tricks up my sleeve, and manifestos on my lips, I have no chance but reinvention, and no prayer but sore knee sustenanceAgain the vagrant wanders with church glass knotholes to peer through, daylight a reminder, time a simple beat for a warring walk on throughAlone on the road the man and me, sipping from Daniels cup, singing the tidal wash of a soliloquy, a poet for advent, a slinger for trespasses, I am hoping for my baby, and dying for what it meant, dying for a bridge, to jump star crossed rivers, never paying my rent, only lonely reading my writing as if I have but one, and solemn comment.