tricks up a sleave
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 a girl in the daisy May I trampled past shadow of a mention 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 rocket to my malaise, stab out my responsive eyes for they lie covetous 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 lofty beyond the dismay, and land smack dab in 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, 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.
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 a girl in the daisy May I trampled past shadow of a mention 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 rocket to my malaise, stab out my responsive eyes for they lie covetous 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 lofty beyond the dismay, and land smack dab in 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, 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.
yes... but for me..when it becomes attatched its tendancy is more toward implosion then explosion. I too have been more prone to bad reactions like symbiosis rather then equal balenced attatchment. my heart is a muscle in any case...love is a small part of my brain with way to long of a scientic name with latin roots to recall that needs attention....or that thinks it needs attention. right now i'm stagnant, and would rather settle for being blown away then blown off.
why do we writers crave so much for the altered states...and altered people? I love manipulators of words too much, i will fall for a poet 1,000 times before just a pretty face...even though i know if they are good, they are just as fucked...if not more so then myself. I leave you with a quote by a fellow word slinger, someone i havent had a full chance to love...probably for the better...his persona is the kind that terrifies before it attracts:
You can fuck too many people
If youre an autobiographical writer
You have to edit names and dates
Unless you want a lawsuit
Or bricks through your window
Or worse
So I called her and laid it on thick for a thin guy
the only secret is if you beat the terror of being alone
You can have anyone you want
I write her name on the inside of my wrist in case I forget it
You can never tell who feeds the monsters under their bed,
The closet carnivores, but Scorpios are a sure bet,
Thats why its tattooed on my arm
Poison should always be labeled...
Clarity always comes at a bad time.
Theres an ancient curse that says: May you get what you want.
My ego is a garbage disposal.
Shake its hand and itd spit it back to you.
-Jamie Kennedy (the real one) from "The Suicide Kings" tittle chap book: "Fight Naked"