We wander through society
only to find this idea opaque
for it is only the dream of
love and beauty which vanishes
Listen with opinion for
you have yet fall upon
his form of song
-Anonymous
i
piece
“slather my munificent paragon
a morning moment
murmurous sleep
me, an ersatz endeavor
a verbose empty caterwaul
mother, see—i am shadow
an early sanguine lapse
a nefarious snow blows blue sky winter
an amalgam, a trenchant…
to question how she use her curves
man ebbed after his earth-march
(these be wordy and curious like always)
almost delighted with banal, arid mind
a valid observation so tantamount at this hour
delve
influence
ask
elucidate me in my deep dark
ii
“above him a torpid din
herculean storm
from vapid summer
here are ‘drool boor’
he said ‘go
you must expunge every individual
and then repose
all factioned
and remember
and understand
reach through our acumenity
feel why you are here’
iii
“how did it come to light?
time would dance with guile there
make a cunning solution
could never mean a drop
eschew there
like turgid lair
sun were out in full…”
…end piece
iv
i write a piece to capture some drunk young angel
light could shine as day & still be black as death
you know best
but what does this song mean?
some glorious elaborate silhouette masterpiece?
my gorgeous manipulated language symphony of the void?
would they draw from out this mess?
original fashion-passion; open form
my absurd electric rhythm composes an empty picture
the music a delirious dream
sculpting smoke
throw the fiery chisel with grace at your head
no wild joy in raw dry sex
through surreal latex
lived part of my life for a girl
but that love
lust
drug did soon know death, too
from dead pain i could never feel as angry as I did then.
i create my subject
she, a paint-scale model on canvas to dazzle all you men
i use luscious color, black and white, to produce a picture
of a woman
i recall visions of she the goddess
her bare feet; her skin
tongue worship of her beauty
but away with you then
like you have sense and can think
there must be more to life
so here you have it
the psychedelic metaphor of the shadow
i am yet bitter.
v
raw rock music is almost always in free time
its rhythm pounds through those watching
if only as a whisper
shimmering like water in your garden
i think about me, an icon
singing out my chant like wax in the sun
sculpting gorgeous symphony pictures with my song
sweet as a summer peach
may it drive you
as i am by rain and television
i would love for you to hear it live someday
as a scream captured in a studio could never reproduce it
my metaphor so electric
a mess of a masterpiece
the languid power of language
modeled here to create this music-drug
psychedelically absurd
let it come over you like a vision
grace like bare feet
harmony boiling from open tongues as water
composing a picture of beauty
original yet white-blue like winter
or green like the feel of spring
if smooth or frantic
the glorious art-storm is not weak
and i perform the show
i break sweat & ache & drool & scream this ink dry
beneath the sky so blue
and when i fall through scales
these instruments empty
and am too old and dead to soar;
in that wild and windy void
my light will still shine
vi
life is sex is life
one after the next and on and on
smearing man over time
making death appear only as moments in eternity
you must use your senses
have passion—
not manipulate it into a repulsive yet essential demand
we fall into the flood-lust panting
still young and drunk from breastmilk
wanting to elaborate on the subject
and worship the goddess of form at the mount
we experiment with this wet canvas of want
every stroke painting a deep rhythm
smooth and balanced
but after it all, there we are—
boy and girl—
two put together
lying nude in bed
without that latex junk
his arm about her waste
and who would say they are in love?
it is absurd
they lie, too
vii
see her shimmer there in her fiery red dress
showing leg to be observed
she is bitter-sweet honey
a luscious drug
a vision dazzling me
her smell draws me in
i dare you to watch the woman
no, the girl
capture me.
she uses that power of lust
over us, the young
we sweat as we imagine her butt, her breasts
most stare to try to take in her form
so they can use it to crush the urge in time
pounding their meat freely then
your pain is her sex, though
it will hit you like hard iron
when she becomes smoke on the wind
and disappears
and you will not stop the blood
as she sings you her “friend-song”
and sprays that death at you.
she, drunk on your shards
and you, only a void.
viii
how are you doing today
under the wild purple sky?
please sit and think with me for a time
to investigate our dreams
and produce art in the cool of the misty moonlight
or do you want to use the car
to go and get away from here?
we could put this place behind us for always
and never recall what was
for we are young, yes, and will not break yet
still in love with our absurdity
gone from the dust we are from
hot honey on man’s tongue
together approaching eternity in this moment
here only to create life by living it
so let’s do,
my dear old friend.
ix
what was life like out of this place?
i cannot picture it
when we drunk deep from the spring of the free
and felt it within us always
an eternity has come and gone
yet here we are
has the summer rain run dry?
how can we investigate this?
or are we here to suffer on?
our frantic search will show…
…nothing?
and is there power from above?
would it be wrong to ask for it?
but i am still bitter
i demand more
no, the best
and i must have it
there is no time to waste.
x
can you paint life any more than death?
can you capture that on canvas?
compose a symphony of spring,
or sculpt a sunset?
make it shimmer and shine like the sky?
no.
no metaphor or masterpiece will ever do so.
the rhythm gets repulsive.
life lives only in moments of the day
they are as they are
would you seek to have it remade?
with the light all above and about you
why would you waste your time?
but then,
through that storm and after all,
is not art for its own sake?
xi
the sky will go red,
leaves will be purple and fall,
these days approach soon.
you can smell it come,
the still of dying season,
whispers of the storm.
then all is winter,
white like the driving snow,
knifing through the void.
she composes song,
cooler than the sky up above,
cold off of your tongue.
her glorious gown,
white about her goddess form,
a scream and dead cry.
milky miasma,
blows like a death-symphony,
they think this surreal.
i am young and weak,
easy to beat with this mess,
delicate i am.
a thousand visions,
we cannot see after it,
dazzled as we are.
a light through shadows,
soft silhouette masterpiece,
among a deep death.
i dream of spring,
when the sun would shine again,
and recall the green.
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