003 Big Bag of 10-Months
Talking through thin teeth,
Low-note bones grinding their brief grief
Amidst old overtones sliding from clenched sheets.
Sunshine inside me in a sidewinding segue,
Cynicism colliding with happiness' headway.
On that held note, on that 'Schubert's A'...
-------------------
It all might just implode.
Make art to be Somebody, a body could choke on such hypocricy -
The great cradles of civilization are giant sarcophagi,
Necropoli where the headstones and skullbones
Of long buried and never-known peoples and cultures
Careen and charome
Slamdancing 'mongst the living huddled in open-earth homes.
Tombs with a view - the Ganges, the Euphrates, the Seine, the Nile.
Rivers where the dead have piled so high so long
That to arrive into the city is to at once renounce all
Contact with everyday life and at the same time
To immerse onseself into the historical everyday.
For here, as elsewhere as always is the same grind,
From glimmering morning to lamplit evening, just...just...more.
More people. The knowing that such people have been ekking out life
In that same spot for so many many generations.
Every city is the eternal city, some cities are just more conscious of it.
-------------------------
Tender heart-shaped assets,
Flicker-lit flesh so lascivious
With a copywrit head
Cleansed of conscience.
I'm for class war,
But fucked-up full of
Boring old lust for
Dolled-up dimwits.
I don't get this.
I can't win it.
-------------------
The rocks
like little buddhas,
roll their faces below my feet
to espy me as I continue on.
Oh holy pebble in the sky,
Oh holy pond of night,
Oh holy secular-seeing eye,
Oh light, Oh light.
------------------
Visit Your Bookie
A conversation between two strangers is overheard by a third,
later stock is declared to be rising. Come the next busyness cycle though the headlines they read
"Market Crashes in Willoughby! Capital Reserves Destroyed!"
Three-to-two, three-to-two!
The bookie of Fate is taking callers:
'Rats Alley' (where the dead men leave their bones) hell...
Rat City, oh crazy city - If you were afloat you'd be sinking.
Drunk double-dunked sensationalism, inflation-adjusted rethinking.
The new odds are in, and uneven. Three-to-two is offered saying
Warlord Bush will find a way to provoke war with Iran.
Three-to-two with interest and a twenty-month time limit.
But if politics isn't your game, if blind bets on bloated brokers
and aged imperial impulses isn't 'really' your bag...
Three-to-two, three-to-two!
Three-to-two the odds are in, odds for distress and misdirection.
"Now for PR News...how-now-Dow-cow? 43, 28, 32, three-to-two."
There's a man behind the art, the word, and a boy behind the man.
Now I could be talking about myself and as an aside...I am.
However, the odds are not in on me, this is stock taken down to market
For the goods on three friends interlocked into brief bad ends...
Things may go different and they can, but for those placing now -
The odds are in: Three-to-two and no one wants to see it
Really they've seen enough to know that such delicately piled flesh
Will tremble and likely fall.
-------------
that was an older piece, from before the bookie's bet came due - take it easy, y'all, nothing personal, just art and lonely journals.
Low-note bones grinding their brief grief
Amidst old overtones sliding from clenched sheets.
Sunshine inside me in a sidewinding segue,
Cynicism colliding with happiness' headway.
On that held note, on that 'Schubert's A'...
-------------------
It all might just implode.
Make art to be Somebody, a body could choke on such hypocricy -
The great cradles of civilization are giant sarcophagi,
Necropoli where the headstones and skullbones
Of long buried and never-known peoples and cultures
Careen and charome
Slamdancing 'mongst the living huddled in open-earth homes.
Tombs with a view - the Ganges, the Euphrates, the Seine, the Nile.
Rivers where the dead have piled so high so long
That to arrive into the city is to at once renounce all
Contact with everyday life and at the same time
To immerse onseself into the historical everyday.
For here, as elsewhere as always is the same grind,
From glimmering morning to lamplit evening, just...just...more.
More people. The knowing that such people have been ekking out life
In that same spot for so many many generations.
Every city is the eternal city, some cities are just more conscious of it.
-------------------------
Tender heart-shaped assets,
Flicker-lit flesh so lascivious
With a copywrit head
Cleansed of conscience.
I'm for class war,
But fucked-up full of
Boring old lust for
Dolled-up dimwits.
I don't get this.
I can't win it.
-------------------
The rocks
like little buddhas,
roll their faces below my feet
to espy me as I continue on.
Oh holy pebble in the sky,
Oh holy pond of night,
Oh holy secular-seeing eye,
Oh light, Oh light.
------------------
Visit Your Bookie
A conversation between two strangers is overheard by a third,
later stock is declared to be rising. Come the next busyness cycle though the headlines they read
"Market Crashes in Willoughby! Capital Reserves Destroyed!"
Three-to-two, three-to-two!
The bookie of Fate is taking callers:
'Rats Alley' (where the dead men leave their bones) hell...
Rat City, oh crazy city - If you were afloat you'd be sinking.
Drunk double-dunked sensationalism, inflation-adjusted rethinking.
The new odds are in, and uneven. Three-to-two is offered saying
Warlord Bush will find a way to provoke war with Iran.
Three-to-two with interest and a twenty-month time limit.
But if politics isn't your game, if blind bets on bloated brokers
and aged imperial impulses isn't 'really' your bag...
Three-to-two, three-to-two!
Three-to-two the odds are in, odds for distress and misdirection.
"Now for PR News...how-now-Dow-cow? 43, 28, 32, three-to-two."
There's a man behind the art, the word, and a boy behind the man.
Now I could be talking about myself and as an aside...I am.
However, the odds are not in on me, this is stock taken down to market
For the goods on three friends interlocked into brief bad ends...
Things may go different and they can, but for those placing now -
The odds are in: Three-to-two and no one wants to see it
Really they've seen enough to know that such delicately piled flesh
Will tremble and likely fall.
-------------
that was an older piece, from before the bookie's bet came due - take it easy, y'all, nothing personal, just art and lonely journals.