2
There never was a garden,
nor any snake to tempt the beauty,
just a desire to blame it on the mother.
Religion is wet male dream
with women in their place
that they may serve
insolent man in his ways.
It was with Sumerian cuneiform
men took control of business
and piracy first saw the light,
slaves were introduced into economy.
The cult of motherhood
died at the sword of the market
where Cyclopes of greed breed.
He is the sea salty thumb
in the blue sore eye,
in the fat, fairy illusion
of a world without consistency,
where weapons of deadly distance
don’t make beautiful pictures on CNN.
The death of innocent women and children
are simply forgotten by the those who gain.
The enemy gets what it deserves,
civilian or not.
They are not white,
they don’t live next door,
their dying do not make the news.
Second class citizens lay
in the coffins of the parade,
the prosperous prosper,
the poor pave the way,
sweat in shops and die too young.
The storm did not do a good job.
Soon there will be more fury
rolling in from the sea;
annoying, shanty town dwellers,
grey and groveling,
longing for the obliteration
of Christian hypocrisy.
The less fortunate ones,
the ones of the wrong color,
wrong creed or wrong place,
are ghosts in Arlington
mumbling in wet despair;
principles of free air
crumble and die
beneath the worlds boots.
Death is an aged companion
reinterpreting all regret,
paving all days with dejection,
preparing for a different frame
where one may crumble in peace
with words of obliteration
and a smile of bone.
The cursed mile is not endless
as you melt into the grassy mound
with no memories of loss
in a dying autumn day.
The sudden fall of a head stone
marks the collapse of rulers and war.
A civil suit, broken on a windy street,
howls to oppressive tenants,
snarl in favor of more money,
tears the day
out of its dreary context.
Persecuted for centuries
the family hides their precious salt
in the shadows wagons,
the lost camp fire playing
in suburbs with no hope,
struggles with grandchildren
and oppressors.
3
Tiger of silent night
where oblivion still rules
– there is no return –
carry me on your soft back
beneath cellophane skies of never more,
bless my ignorance with a last kiss.
Grinding grey days
into pulp and foolish pivots
I drive clones of history
and nails to match your eyes
deep into the rotted wood
of long forgotten crosses.
I am the still born
of fake fathers in communion,
eating dead flesh of corpses
not even crows consider kosher.
I am the hopeless future of a child
no longer burning in capitals
of long forgotten legends.
I am no more.
Soiled to the tarnished bone,
furnished with a creaky moment,
slow creepy aftermaths
and all the bitter wine
a man can imbibe
too keep fresh wounds open
I offer my control.
Of all wayward journeys
across the cultural belt
where emotional analphabets
dance like puppets on a page
there is none like the crossing one
where married prostitutes
vacuum the dance hall floor
for a true meaning
of facing up to integrity.
We are all master of nonsense,
always daring the expression
that breaks the illusion,
that speaks straight from the source,
never behind a social convention
or a desire to please at any cost.
White collars of a decadent order
dream of young boys
and a career in the clergy.
They flock at broken words
of a senile old man
waving at the crowds.
They think he knows the how
and the why.
A damp autumn mist
hides the morning lake.
Tiger, tiger that lurks at night,
preying on lost conception
leaving but fear and fright,
runs away with perception.
Children that bleed in the dark,
dogs that snarl, loose in the park,
compassion falls in a dark pool
of the blood of the last fool.
A tiger that lurks in the night
where not one thought is right,
collects the human refuse to sell
in a church with a cracked bell.
Who wants to figure out the place?
Put more make up on a pretty face?
All will be a painful revelation
when gravel hastens acceleration.
4
Father of blueprints that erode the night,
enhanced in decay with lips that stray
on a meeting with toad tampered earth,
hand me your eye to dance with the she
with her easels and old trams to feed.
Old man sees the ships that load and groan
and fights the cry, the spray of further burials
where guns and fish bones scream,
slams the door, the fake, the road that fly
on beams of sherry lights, flips on the tray.
This road will never be enough for I
that once strode in such a proud procession
with a stolen flash, a chimney chance
to sweep a swollen bay by mankind made
to keep a balance with the loud.
Repeated metaphors will never be
a true rebellion, walls that lean,
ominous and dark, a hunt for the Persians,
a salt carrying one across many bridges,
just to spend the air that came after gills.
Remarkable be the first amoeba,
split with irreversible urge
in an early bio sludge ocean
without purpose or intention.
No first father fed the first thirst
nor any and nor all.
5
No consideration or aftermath,
in color or creed, makes a difference,
intercedes with the radio tonight.
It’s a question of purging,
a seldom considered variety of hearing,
that falls on skinny roofs tonight.
Voices of a thousand lives
fall like sharp barbed-wired trains
and wine constantly turns into vinegar,
into a corroding of the message
desperation really needs tonight,
the decomposed crumbles on the floor.
A gentle gesture of a coming demise,
a fear that will amount,
a roll of the dice,
a count caught thrice
before the still born dreams
and the shaman disintegrates.
No one can claim a total here,
nor a charge of chaos
with slugs riding box cars
all across a final continent
with Jack and the gang.
Time is a corrosion and a growth,
a constant reminder of the fleeting
that slowly digs holes
where passion can dissipate
into a no more here,
no frail concepts are valid.
Any man looking at a star
is ancient,
all intentions
are.
6
There’s a voice that can’t be hushed,
eyes that thrash, fools that grin,
a wilted belly, dancing.
There is a forest that logs slow rush,
veins that creep like vines,
murky manuscripts that leave no trail.
The splash of viridian is forgotten
beneath a cheeky blush,
there’s no pain, no tell.
Amphibious nightfall,
control that might be honed
for visible reasons, full of rain.
It is but thoughts of cotton,
a glance at the final turn
where man will fall.
The I is like a slender fish
in deep Prussian,
a color, no more.
No shoal of merry tuna
in the dark water tonight,
no green gardens
smiling at the bait.
Subtle wings return
with yellow beaks, with leaks
in the unzipped sky
in a motion of good bye.
Do not envelope your dying days
in a calm that copes with fear,
nor with a walk into water
hoping for a final element.
The wind that rakes the sand
rejects refuse late at night.
It would be bizarre to use the stare
of a water bird that falls.
7
Observations collide
with an inexplicable present,
a soft respite erases
all circular movement.
The night is not barren,
nor devoid of any mystery
in creeks of your own making.
See! There are streams in chaos.
There will be another coming
when masters of expression
will crush the easy way out
and demand content.
There will be an end to public nonsense
and silly letters to imaginary mates.
Faith is a word no one takes seriously,
effort is still deemed ugly.
8
Dark legions of leisure
lead lame followers astray.
It’s only for pleasure,
only a part of the play.
Peace at the present
wills that man is kind,
that all is honestly meant,
that all is a caring bind.
Breathe you beast, you earth,
cry for the blue loss
where living is birth
and rivers to cross.
The mutinous love insists
on a continuous trust,
leaves naught to dark mists
filled with tears and dust.
Bombastic apparitions are trite,
dancing for you no more,
a feeling of simplicity might
be stirred and spiced with lore.
Electrical storms
rages over the city.
See! A rainbow!
9
Local tribes of rain and bitter fall
call praised bronzes by their true names,
roll seasonal wounds
in muddled reflections of history.
Streets and pavements fold,
steps hum in city sludge,
call for chains to break,
to let the unborn go.
Too many silvery promises
have died, whipped by life,
falling into a sea of lies,
struggling with virtue.
Seven times the sea
rolled its corroding force
over the bleak eye
in dark water silence
before winter rolled the dice.
Seven times the gull
speared a windy infant
lost in the breaking debris,
in grey froth
and seaweed in decay.
Seven times seven the mist
wrapped frost and fire
‘round a running river
with salmons and cataracts
no longer caught by chance.
Seven times the boat
raced down a watery curve,
climbed the crest,
pounded reason into night,
spraying all in time.
10
Dark designs fall in a park
calling for chimes.
The last tea
comes with anguish
and amethyst.
Denying death in lime,
in tiny cups
with sparrow blood,
he comes to winter’s end
with tears and a taste
for soil.
Wispy darkness , bells
of broken promises,
nights of careless walking,
children plummeting into the sea,
it is all a continuous night.
The brush spills its figures
in pigments of imagination,
falls on a crimson canvas,
conceived in veracity
it taps on fibers that seek the light.
Time is old men’s fear of waves
late at night when the piano
plays a certain key.
All a sailor can whish for
in a last night of sin,
is a liquid resurrection of the child
that once rolled down soft hills
with virtue and warm winds.
Time is an erased line
no longer read in lit rooms
where ghosts of the past
wander in search of creed and pride.
Marble boys roll in expectations
down fading streets
of longing and stale air.
Liquid nights fall and fetter
scores of unborn tales
while you charge the floor
with hoses and death by brush.
Only yesterday there was a rent
in the frivolous sky,
a tiny orchestra
tuning the threshold.
Love is a dead cat
buried in the woods.
There is a candle.
It is raining.
11
Grovel you dirty mongrel,
never touching a perfect sky
with your guitar hands.
Your shortcomings
wrap arms around you.
Geiger ticking’s
flow in waves or aftermaths,
never reposing nor repossessing
the veracity spoken in a world gone mad.
He doesn’t care anymore,
he doesn’t give a damn
whether what he says
makes a difference or not.
Perhaps collected say so
has grown beyond a meeting,
beyond an importance
of disparate self.
Perhaps a tree is just a tree,
not a green spirit bending
to the wind’s wishes.
Wrapped in a street longing
for sea winds and salt
he desperately tows himself
back into the bay of the braves.
The song is a mix
of a gloating sea
and a reliance on belief:
No more remorse for the relentless!
The way response breaks
is a dull knife.
The temple of theater,
the rain of the night,
… too much presence.
Netherworlds of compliance,
extravaganza,
a poor man’s table
surges like a guilty wind
through the theater.
Who is he now?
Yesterday have already
surpassed today.
It is a painful joy,
a melting stone meeting
with all in timed friends,
a small satellite
smiling with a radiance
only a father can be.
All his guitars
have fallen to the ground
moldering in the rain.
He dreams of thin sopranos
dancing in a floriferous wood,
naked under the moon.
Streets heave in city dreams,
in a surging ocean,
in smells of decay and cinnamon.
The night is through
with looking the other way,
neon and liquid shelters.
He has not encircled dominion,
nor stoned the chiseled epitaph,
no other swirling space
where winds might die down
is in a seasonal peace,
composed by turning wheels.
It’s a painful joy,
this backward samba
with no other percussion
than a beating heart.
The night smells of tangerine.
The hound is chained.
Choral buildings
sway in dark derelict requiems
with gathered voices
burning comet restore
in November’s final gesture
to winter.
There is no conflict in the air,
no unrest stored in bottles
with a flagellant past,
no one rolls over the timeless,
unfettered boundary
of no return.
The bright voice of sunshine
might be named tonight
by he who left his echo
burning in a cavernous night
with whatever happens,
with never to be forgotten.
It’s a painful obsession,
this unexpected propeller,
this maelstrom,
never stopping in the light
of all that never can be undone
in an afterthought.