during the given 72 hours she will unscrew the wings from her back and hope the breeze will take her
on the Vin it is recalled those summer nights high on poppy brown smiles and warmth
when in the past oh how she misses discovering the awe in the hand of God when the orange peel was made to dry in the sun
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i have walked in the magic and slimy entrails of the night you can sniff the carnage reapered dreams collected bodies bought sold butchered put back whole on the cool objective table of community tax payer yet the sheen and cigarette scent of your rugged lips captures what is left of my imagination the face ive worn the whole day through with guilt rage pain and embarrassment in the pores cracks a useless smile thinking of our bottom halves entwined twisted and penetrated in a vortex of denial and after all of these years that calloused touch of your hand intrusive through the strands of my graying hair
dull the sky amid smog sin cocktail
thoughts blunt against my skull
drink without soul
noir talk lady cries
her man is always right
yet never is he there
crescendo music hear her cries alone
on the sidewalk
on a night like this which is all the same
my glass runs under still they eyeball my keys
do gooders young and haven’t lived long enough
to feel to feel to feel
i chose this card for you
you chose this life for me
America
we dance and laugh
we crawl and weep
America
i love you all the same
you’re not sure what to make of me
America
we are on going revolutions
we are pacific sisters
America
i watch upon a most psychotic rooftop
you direct the wind of our commotion
America
we in destiny
must not manifest infamy
America
tan dulces sus ojos gotas tostadas de caramelo en platos de praliné
tan fina que es su nariz salpicada con escamas de ámbar
sus pensamientos están tan confusos que tiemblan como dientes de león en la madrugada
tan tierna su sonrisa torcida sintiendo que soy una sinvergüenza
so sweet his eyes toasted caramel drops on praline platters
so fine his nose peppered
with speckles of amber flake
so confused his thoughts he shivers like dandelions at dawn
so tender his crooked smile
sensing that i am a scoundrel
even as you are
here bruised and
curled up begging
for a breath’s instant
of attention i am not
willing to give it
beyond fragile are you
so much that weeping
you can’t do so you
look to me for comfort
i admit that i take and take
and when i am asked to share
i only contribute hollow tin
words that dribble out
of a no longer necessary
part of me
i don’t pity you
and i realize that i don’t
really care about you
i string you along for
my base needs
your tears and hardships
disappointments and pains
do not steal neither my
appetite, rest or peace of mind
i am perfectly happy if
you die but if you live it
does not really matter
you are welcomed to
continue down this road
but if you turn back
i will not follow you
not one thing can make me
love you or want you
i can not say i need
anything you give
neither your joy or smiles
or sophomoric gifts have any
value to me
albeit if you want to enter
you have been warned of the risks
and know that i don’t love you
the beach is really quiet today in spite of spilled ice cream and footprints left behind by a generation who still has not known the shores of old and the foxholes through which a reluctant liberty quietly arrives like a heart broken whore the breeze is desperate to make me smile and see me flicker my arms about my head like a puppet the breeze is not at all like the chiffon of the bride turned widow on that shore of ashen filled dreams collected by a letter delivered ten weekes later no these children with the ice cream and soccer balls and songs about a dance that is so disassociated from anything that i know will never understand these shores the way these shores have come to know me
the beach is really quiet today in spite of spilled ice cream and footprints left behind by a generation who still has not known the shores of old and the foxholes through which a reluctant liberty quietly arrives like a heart broken whore the breeze is desperate to make me smile and see me flicker my arms about my head like a puppet the breeze is not at all like the chiffon of the bride turned widow on that shore of ashen filled dreams collected by a letter delivered ten weekes later no these children with the ice cream and soccer balls and songs about a dance that is so disassociated from anything that i know will never understand these shores the way these shores have come to know me
the beach is really quiet today in spite of spilled ice cream and footprints left behind by a generation who still has not known the shores of old and the foxholes through which a reluctant liberty quietly arrives like a heart broken whore the breeze is desperate to make me smile and see me flicker my arms about my head like a puppet the breeze is not at all like the chiffon of the bride turned widow on that shore of ashen filled dreams collected by a letter delivered ten weekes later no these children with the ice cream and soccer balls and songs about a dance that is so disassociated from anything that i know will never understand these shores the way these shores have come to know me
As a taster to this summer’s publication of New Lyricist magazine (EiF)…
The Table
words less spoken 