Somewhere pouring out his heart like rain on the parched land of sorrows. The sky is crying for you and your majesty waves the flag that words unfurl for dew. I soaked in the crisis and breathed us out into the mystic. I took the bridge less burned and crossed the heart like fingers that didn’t lock out of luck, and hoped to live once your majesty, death, is served. Now where’s the rest of him. Don’t wear that dress for her. Now all the news is old, like all your thoughts as grey as days that wait to terrorise holy hooded babes of the the wood that lash at life. Pray you turn the knife that struck you deep in the fear that spins your dred head back on track, your majesty awaits.
Spring departs like the kisses that dressed you down to play grown up games with fisted fears. The visceral image collapses as your heart attacks the mirage we were. I had to write this twice. Say something sweet and spit on it. Then put a foot on it and twist. Fast and hard. That’s how words work. Quick as the sinking sanded song we wobble on in chordination. I had to tie my hands behind my back so that it wouldn’t cheat the eyes that nourished our hopes. Living the lie was almost too good to be true. Work the hips, grind the wrist into action, wreck the moment, burst the balloon, and pop the lock of your bubble headed majesty. Oh we play hard ball with twisted tongues, daring the heart to watch the flight of our shooting Star as it explodes inside our cocoon. I almost caught her watching me lose her to my fantasies. The kink in my armour, comes undone. I almost found me watching her lose us in her astonishment that I could love all the things that made her loathsome in her own eyes. I only loved her soul because I couldn’t afford the possibility of everything wrapped around it. So I lusted after her flesh to make a man out of me. I bit into the fruit of her neck, carefully so as not to tear open her sacred honey coloured skin which illuminated the Temple of her Spirit, to mark her as mine. And I watched her marvel at the pleasure it induced which became ointment for the pain. She dared me into the whirlwind of wreckless abandoned and I surrendered to my nature’s intent. I watched her watch herself knowing it couldn’t last the storm to come. Those secrets between the high fiveing thighs were not the children we had hoped for, but they were ours to burn on the altar of love, for better or worse.
Niap is a leftie loving bruised cheek. Sober side right will make a grown man cry for mercy. Niap is a disfigured sum of money. Run from the left only to be slighted by oppositional cool. Both sides know drama but Niap swells like old love that filled the belly. You like new love that promises you its promiscuous Moon made high and all the honey you can eat for a day. Niap won’t ever leave you. Everlasting Niap, the darling of foreknowledge, flogs the joy out of pleasure principles, you’ll have to chew on the right side of your heart in the knighted morning. Save some freedom for me.
Boomed and baped with that machine gun funk fire, boppers wore saggy jeans in 94, baggy from the seams to the screams of black bodies dying. Head nodding, beat rocking beds and boats, blunt rollers toasted, cops and the killer East coasters, Mingus cool and the ugly beauty of colloquialisms, native to your borough, drop deep like the lyrics held captive in the flow. It’s unbelievable.
Broadcast news: Woolworths survives in the lined pages of an unwilling Tree that was killed without ceremony, and awaits the trespassing rivers of ink which carry the translated language of the invisible world to tell us something we already know but do not yet recognise.
Brands die. Words live the virtuous lie of fictional truth and tell the tale. Brands lie. Words live the truth of satirical life, more familiar than what we ought to know.
Prostrated swine spreads apart from fortune’s pearls of favour. Belly hanging low. Back facing up to the submissive Sun, teasing the promise of the kill.
I haven’t noticed these flowers before. Although I have known Yellow in the black on black of Black on Black.
The neon siren attracts the gaze of my ears, but I am the still life that is drawn even as I am drawing. Always drawing. My eyes are the lens that persecutes in silence. How loud it persecutes. I am drawn to the mellow Yellow. It is as if the Stars fell to Earth but could not shake off their Heavenly glory. And yet we are never glorious in our own eyes. If our shadows could speak they would surely tell the truth of us when we do not see ourselves. The nude glory. Not the vanity of our perception. Illiterate yet full blown with language. How merciful beauty can be even as our nature rages against us. Black on Yellow. Yellow on Black. Always drawing. Always drawn.
I like the music of equipment punctuated with grunts and exhalations of grind. Not Grime. Not Trap. Not happy House or Acid. I’ve got enough toxins to deal with just from the warm air in circulation. If it got any warmer we’d be gossiping Harpies haggling for a ride before being escorted away to endure a crimson Carson sterilisation. Banter tonight is who would be a Gunner? Think i’m playing? The noise of the apparatus put into action alkalinises my mind. The silence in the space between an extended hour and leg extensions never sounded better. Yep. Who would be a Gunner tonight. Jolly good thumping and the young men that spoke a good game crumbled. Extended hour never seemed so long as it crawled tonight. Stretched out like her name before me. An apparation. A song in waiting.
Yesterday I felt almost as worn as an old record, but Neo Terra awaits the woken, broken, polka dotted. A sigh. A stumble and a landing, and a neck turned head that isn’t hising. Blushing tongue will pay later. Flushing eyes will smile again. Toxin taxes taxied out of town and laughing longs to crown your heart. Lungs to run the clown out of paper truths. No lie. Lungs so long, you dare not reply. Too much breathing. This is life. A song. The hat of the heart and your hand over it. Held back. Chords that cheer down the upper. Mellow up the downer. Spinner. Head tripping, thinner, like blood to clot, vital too.
We woke up today and watched you walk out of the dry seasons, and run through the scales of the uncertainty that is so dear to you. What would you do without the trigger and the chase of reasons? Hand me your curiosity and drop the grinding axe. We beheaded our love to know about everything. Polytonal like the sweet nothings in a kiss. To know is to know that you will never know why I like the way I feel inside you when i’m outside of me. Riffing without a score, I bet the house I don’t yet own that i’ll never love like that again.
Sainted night. Pablo’s streets are wise to the cold. Awake to the lights that stalk our shadows. Not a soul to sell. Peepers shut up shop too. I made merry with the easy lay of Death’s past. We jumped over jargon. Word weary on the dry eye. Trouble likes to talk. Leg of lamb awaits the victor. Laid down in your head for a little while. Tried to find you. Pull your straps up, when your done eating the remains of the day. It might be for Balletic fools gold, that the poor courier tarrys long. Easy going as you lay your head on the pillow of song that is cast out of her like the gloom. Night in shining armour, you’ll tempt the morning out of her when she sees you. Hands free. Wired up to Heaven.
She bends her head to turn your neck. She bows before the less words said.
She knows the room number to your heart but they don’t make keys to open the locked up masters of men.
Swivel, drivel, jab step to the plexus. She mastered men but her heart won’t set her free. She serves three gods who kill her lovers with religious guilt. Butter wouldn’t melt on the little Petal’s tongue. Water knows best so she just stays there. Waiting to die again.
She says living is easy, just let her die where her tears won’t be as long as lonely. Let that Water drink her up. Water knows best.