like buses

Where the hell is my belle, Southern and the like.
Like cashing a big check and splurging fat wallet, fail safe, love doll.
Now we’ve cut throat-nagging nannies, lasts two weeks to scream out in a blazing fuck all you all.
And crypt truly from the grave blown out antics to make one piss and run.
It’s a mad goon’s paradise.
And time becomes real when added to the life race.
And your guts feel just like your mirror as you look at your face.
And the bags under your eyes and spots on your skin show all too well the places your mind has been.
They make it hard to decide weather to sink or to swim.
But I know why they sail when the space becomes grim.
Know your time is too real and your life is too slim.
Know your mother was right when she said, “It just isn’t tight honey”.
And all the booze in the land still can’t beat down the fright.
Know you’ll sleep alone again tonight, with only your fowl dreams, your memories, and spite to curl up with.
And you’ll wake in some time and your body is stiff.
You ran out of tears trying to remember the good, which came in those years.
Most of the time gripping only your fears.
You’ve got no choice but to switch gears.
So, you try and find some type of new shit to befriend.
Hope there’s a new peace in the end, some sort of new love in which we’ll all blend.
But most of all what you need is to not bend.
In this bowl you’ve been swimming, to the fates you’re denying, and all the songs you’ve been singing or the tales you’ve been buying.
It’s alright if you feel like dying, it’s just about normal, and it’s only a state of mind.
Because some day again the light you will find.
You see, if it’s there for one, it’s there for the rest.
You don’t have to be good or worse or better or the best.
And you sure as hell don’t have to be sick as well, the last person on earth to look again for your belle.
And you might even find them on the next bus.

we all are artists

We All Are Artists


A wild place, it hovers above us and makes us whole.
Retrieving the sky to steal its wisdom while spitting it out to create the tides, it is natural.
And all these charged roses, which they’ve tossed at us gladly; we’ll make with them the paper airplanes to be passed to us in our future.
Much to our surprise, none will wing.
So, why can’t you slide down to meet this drastic nightmare?
You’ll always have that scent, it’s very becoming.
And a tragic separation and change of perfumes, and all these worried spastic mothers in tattered nightgowns whom only wish to provide a better globe in which we’ll all sleep.
Heinous realms to divide and store, to talk about, trustees do our talking and machines do our walking, they rage.
But tonight fountains of grandeur will oil our eyes as if in Paris or outside the Lincoln Center.
As if the blinding concentration of the master painter or symphony pianist was dropped upon us from incomprehensible heights, the weight would be astounding and we’d all double over.
Later in non-leisure, outings, to travel outwardly west and north in search of new leaders, which we mainly become or create, ordained into thought and later to teach, the latter crevassing and crumbled, tomorrow is known.
But we pre-write this fabrication.
And if this is to be our fate then we’ve already lived it.
What’s making all divine noise is to be our provision and necessity.
Tragic though it must seem, these are wet sculptures, we must sculpt in control.

Poetry

We All Are Artists


A wild place, it hovers above us and makes us whole.
Retrieving the sky to steal its wisdom while spitting it out to create the tides, it is natural.
And all these charged roses, which they’ve tossed at us gladly; we’ll make with them the paper airplanes to be passed to us in our future.
Much to our surprise, none will wing.
So, why can’t you slide down to meet this drastic nightmare?
You’ll always have that scent, it’s very becoming.
And a tragic separation and change of perfumes, and all these worried spastic mothers in tattered nightgowns whom only wish to provide a better globe in which we’ll all sleep.
Heinous realms to divide and store, to talk about, trustees do our talking and machines do our walking, they rage.
But tonight fountains of grandeur will oil our eyes as if in Paris or outside the Lincoln Center.
As if the blinding concentration of the master painter or symphony pianist was dropped upon us from incomprehensible heights, the weight would be astounding and we’d all double over.
Later in non-leisure, outings, to travel outwardly west and north in search of new leaders, which we mainly become or create, ordained into thought and later to teach, the latter crevassing and crumbled, tomorrow is known.
But we pre-write this fabrication.
And if this is to be our fate then we’ve already lived it.
What’s making all divine noise is to be our provision and necessity.
Tragic though it must seem, these are wet sculptures, we must sculpt in control.

Poetry

Like Buses

Where the hell is my belle, Southern and the like.
Like cashing a big check and splurging fat wallet, fail safe, love doll.
Now we’ve cut throat-nagging nannies, lasts two weeks to scream out in a blazing fuck all you all.
And crypt truly from the grave blown out antics to make one piss and run.
It’s a mad goon’s paradise.
And time becomes real when added to the life race.
And your guts feel just like your mirror as you look at your face.
And the bags under your eyes and spots on your skin show all too well the places your mind has been.
They make it hard to decide weather to sink or to swim.
But I know why they sail when the space becomes grim.
Know your time is too real and your life is too slim.
Know your mother was right when she said, “It just isn’t tight honey”.
And all the booze in the land still can’t beat down the fright.
Know you’ll sleep alone again tonight, with only your fowl dreams, your memories, and spite to curl up with.
And you’ll wake in some time and your body is stiff.
You ran out of tears trying to remember the good, which came in those years.
Most of the time gripping only your fears.
You’ve got no choice but to switch gears.
So, you try and find some type of new shit to befriend.
Hope there’s a new peace in the end, some sort of new love in which we’ll all blend.
But most of all what you need is to not bend.
In this bowl you’ve been swimming, to the fates you’re denying, and all the songs you’ve been singing or the tales you’ve been buying.
It’s alright if you feel like dying, it’s just about normal, and it’s only a state of mind.
Because some day again the light you will find.
You see, if it’s there for one, it’s there for the rest.
You don’t have to be good or worse or better or the best.
And you sure as hell don’t have to be sick as well, the last person on earth to look again for your belle.
And you might even find them on the next bus.