day 1
What discusses me?
Sits in its bedroom late at night
And debates.
Contemplates.
Deliberates and swaps memories
With fact like evidence.
day 2
What discusses me?
In a large cozied pot
Of herbal mint tea leaves.
A fortune read.
Destiny.
Visions undecided.
day 3
What discusses me?
In my discussions with my lonely mind,
Flip-flopping wrinkled sheets
That crease my minds
Soft footsteps
Through lazy Sundays.
I was escaping a tear drop I had left beside the bed:
Tears of mixed emotions, like a fleeting moonlit night.
Stuck there; family man and the rock and roll band.
Jesus and his long haired hippies that didn’t wash their hands.
I played a mouth organ as I whispered at swans
Floating by the dock of this lost lagoon
Where my nimbly toes wash cotton balls free like fresh sheets.
I didn’t even turn around to that old familiar sound,
Lost in a pool of choreographed love letters
I’d heard in a song driving fast and straight down Paradise Road.
The things we used to do, the life I used to live.
An old loon used to sing the sun to sleep here every night.
Could you Amaretto my incomprehensible stiletto? Deep soaked truths brushing up against the blue moon life story that shared Tom Waits and Miles Davis equally between the two top sheet stuffed mattress in a good lord rented room.
The walls were left bare; freedom and shit. Fucking expressionists and their lofty ideals pulsing rapidly amongst soiled novellas and empty chopstick promises. How did I get here. How did I find this spot from outside in? I left little spit smears on my way here to keep me from wanting to know the way back, to keep me from guessing at a way back, and to keep the collectors hot at my rented room door.
The walls never left me wondering for too long, they’d start dripping some smear mold juice as the clock told me late. This was after I’d fucked the last resort out of my head and told my mistress to make herself at home, to which she calmly replied she was at home. I was the guest. I was the visitor in this white washed world trying to jam my heart out in broad brush strokes and feverish memories. Not ones that were lucid, the ones that came and convulsed and controlled and regurgitated out my heart like lofty wedding plans standing alone with a big bill and an empty passenger seat.
Cause fuck brothers and sisters. Fuck their abuse and consumption and interruptions and impressions. I’ve got Miles Davis really laying me low when I need the time off. You’re not the legend I thought you could be, but I’ve sure left out a piece of the past like left over cum spots in a 17$ too good too remember night.
Daddy left me here. He was two dollars short on the rent cheque, he was two days late coming home when I held mommas starving and overdosed fingers, left the biggest hole in his smallest of hearts where I put an industry of lifelines and bagged political statements I had prepared for a two minutes long deposition. I wasn’t ruthless as I counted on my fingers the number of deadbeats I had written letters for, I wasn’t ruthless as I blew elitist smoke up the child-like innocent faces of the wide eyed yuppies.
Now dare tell me why my maidens eyes weren’t bloodshot. Why hadn’t the tears soaked through her indiscriminate and perked speedbags that kept me looking like wild Jack, wild Dad, searching for the red room. Red Rum. Fuck. Red room. What kind of luck should I bring down on such an innocent vixen? Such a loudly laughing white swan budding in my autumn garden. I’m not a troubadour. I’m a fucking junkie.
It’s not easy when you look that way
When you share that way
When you turn and face me straight on
Eye to eye
And whisper to my soul
With those pretty blues
Pulled low with last night’s lashes
“Hello lover.”
The crow looked at me
And I said: who?
To which he replied:
I never knew.
My path was left
Over it I scrambled
Into the night,
And left my calling
I want to stand with my old eyes
Facing the wind
Because I know distance
Shed after lonely nights,
Long long slow lines
From symphonies choir,
And my lovers second name
Echoing through my mind.
My old eyes decide.
My old eyes decide.
My old eyes decide
That I’m to have no shame,
And long night remains the same.
For how long?
For how long.
To which the choir stepped up
And out with my saving grace.
But all still remains,
And the wind blows my name.
There is no beauty in the sky
It washes away and falls asleep
Each and every day as birds lament loudly
We watch the happiness drain away
Into the night. Goodbye
Don’t confuse my verbs with my dreams
It’s a dangerous and wild scape to walk upon
With high hopes, hard work, long nights,
And milestones cajoled by the lot.
Refrain from imprinting your impression
With adjectives and monosyllabic rhetoric.
Stick to the purest of truths,
– The thick in this stock,
The essence of this admission –
And rumble on, like a night train.
A needle digs deeper guiding the well worn thimble on
Scaring dogs, singing and howling like Big Momma John
Like she’s snaking about a pale spotlight covered in sequins
Singing the whole time about a blue moon kissing her empty bottle
And filling each patron of the evening with wonderment
A quiet lady, sitting idle at the bar dressed only in pink
Clinks cold bricks slowly about the smoothed edges of her glass
Pulling at her soul for every single bit of truth she has
With high hopes that this very night will reveal all that could ever be
And harness her abandon like the piano pullin’ Big Momma John in
A mood envelops the patrons, sensually gliding from table to table
Touching far reaching itches only elation and jubilation can satisfy
Like the silver lining on a red velvet goblet
Deadly for all those unaccustomed to these desires
And final, like large Gothic keys hung around the undertakers neck
If lights of day
Took me away
Would I close my eyes to dream?
And if this bright
Far off light
Should cease to be my guide,
Then who – if any,
Would be my star
And lead me on my way?