Party Politicians love the hurt
Don’t feel anything, they will never learn
Money they push down, they push down
I’m the one “to represent you all”
Polls going up, representatives ring’ doorbells
But there is no love, there is no love
Throw the truth back ‘til we believe you
We hold these bayous close to hearts,
Between chicken wire these screams echo,
Held trapped blue jays,
Swan of evil,
Stripping away a soul guarded,
Leaving behind tears and shattered promises,
Hollowing out unholy, vows forsaken,
Inhaling until fire singes flesh,
Allowing demons to escape with every exhaled breath,
“You’re dating a slut,” I giggled against warm lips, swaying disconnected in the dance. Mind in another world I sat back, hands shaking. Voice interrupted by breath. Savoring this touch. I scold myself for being such a nymph, sitting in the rain, leaf decorated and gasping with the throbbing veins. Rushed and silenced thoughts, clutching tight and never stopping, singing to you, mirroring your hand’s euphoria. Together like this. Maybe this glory is imagined, but I do not pause to dwell, do not let it rise up. Instead, I swell with you and perhaps you are helium I keep inhaling and my feet might not be reminded of gravity of the sensation of tickling grass again. Instead this could be my only emotion. Sweet, full exodus and jovial ritual before twilight on wet mountain tops beneath trees, dew-covered like our bodies. Heaven held in each other’s gaze.
We create our own gods. Licked nectar off lips, heads thrown back, coupling, reaching, pushing in time.
The Descent begins anew,
Stumbled a thousand times upon
The pavement stones and
Will again a thousand more.
This Son of Man, in his infinite
Courtship with disaster.
He is now climbing the tree, tasting
the sky, and now edging sideways
out onto the slick rock, held up only
by a single twig
USA Network had it all, the hottest shows
And the summer rose, sizzled and burned.
It was the hottest line-up but over too soon
And we yearned for their return.
We dialed, we begged
Close your eyes.
Imagine you are George Winston.
It is 1984.
You are concerned about Big Brother watching you.
The technology of control scares you.
The clock is striking thirteen.
Hey! Hey! Hey! She was just walking down the street, and they come blasting, chased by the heat. The kid is playing outside while he is asleep, and now one is lost with memories left to keep. And some days I can’t even watch the news. It’s killing me to see the good guys lose. ‘Cause guns are not the things of play. This weapon claims lives and …continue…
Tom walked in
with the bouquet
the first sermons
he could ever really
he passed his fever
off to Joe, who then
cooed the dharma
through my soul.
One of the car bombs peeled the lawn, then the smog cleared up
Anton stood palmin’ a beer mug, molotov in his pocket, balaclava & earmuffs
His parents feared him for obvious reasons: contras, arson, accomplished theft
was even dubbed a son of a gun…he used on his father when he shot him dead
Aimed white phosphorous at convents & consulates, dishonored catholocists
A martyr in his solemnness with the mark of the apocalypse
Now he’s out to make sure the carcasses of Sodom writhe
Used to be a postmodern kid, but now he’s not so nice