Somewhat Me in Somewhat You

Once I felt
I could be vulnerable
Around you.
A castle made of sand
The wind can
Blow away.
Gently,
Grain by grain,
Or brutally,
Like the ocean could too.

Once,
For a fraction of a lifeline,
I let the invisible hand
Steal a piece of life
And sow it
Somewhere elsewhere,
Where seeds never grow,
Just linger.
Fallen asleep,
Dreams never seemed
Any less real than the
Wake-up reality,
Just better I guess.

Bristle up when paralyzed.
Contrast shower in the desert.
Public transport with no one.

The way of the soul
Always leads to
Where it began.
There ain’t no time
Going forth,
Not there
Where I see
Somewhat me
In somewhat you.
I have well known
I’ve been lost too.

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Dumb-Bush Trouble

Dare doing the song,
The dawn won`t wait,
The cornet can’t play itself
Away from this sad world.
Ask a bypasser for the tune
Or at least tell him your trouble,
For trouble it is what writes the notes
And singing it is what shares the pain;
Lonesome jazz is all but quiet.

Rumpled brass players often gather,
No arrangements whatsoever,
To set off the sweat off their cheeks,
Down along the veins
Under the black skin of their necks.
The suicide of the century.
They won`t show it in the papers,
They won`t shout it on the radio,
But the dawn will witness
The slaughter in those pork pie hats.
Overly haggard and very very drunk,
Still dismatched with the out-there,
The jazzmen can stop the sun
And cover it all with the dirt of their souls
And the blues of their notes.
The sun can then go
And take care of the day,
Not sure what else to do anyway.
The trouble will stay there,
Towards dawn,
Before any light appears
Above the horizon and beyond,
And will live in the bush.
For who else but a dumb bush
Has time for jazzmen`s trouble?…

Bright Wellingtons Size 5s

I have been
Pushing myself so hard
Lately…
I`ve been doing
The staredown
For so long…

All I am is
Bright Wellingtons size 5s
Landing in a rain puddle.
No fear of the dirt.
Through the water and
Into the bottom of mud,
Huge splatter,
No one cares,
It’s just rubber,
Put it under the cold hose,
It’s gonna be fine,
He’s just a silly boy.

Altitude gain.
Stall.
Falldown.

So by the time the rise closes
And I feel like falling down,
Who’ll carry me home?

I can’t look up to my messiah
And do the staredown,
But I`ve been pushing to do it
For so long…

If the boy can`t sleep,
Pour 40 drops of liquor
Into his milk;
He`ll forget all there is,
His mouth soaked up with malt,
Until he rises.

Neitherwhere

Check your temperature
If you get an early flu,
For the teller of your fate
Might have thought of
A secret vitality.

The sperm whales of The Blue Trench
Have been taking an odd course lately.
In their wombs,
They`ve been carrying
Killer whales` babies
Conceived in the immaculate waters
Of deceptive perception,
Where the song of the siren
Can ruin a man
In a single note.
After all, deception begins with a note.
A high-pitch note,
A low-pitch note,
A note to oneself.

It could be
The sign of a wicked crab
Lucidly dreaming of
The Sun you were born under.
He would maybe reach up and
Burn his body of oracle bones
In a suicidal attempt to
Transcend into nothing
And resurrect into a sea lion.

A whole lot of time can pass
Before you hear the song of the siren.
But once you suddenly do,
You can bet your soul
It’s the sunrise that will
Burn you like fever. Both,
An ever-lasting seduction to hell and
An eternal ascension to heaven.
The Great Route to Neitherwhere.

Man and Lion

Lying in the Sun,
There`s the Lion whose
Portrait has never been conquered.
The whole of the savannah is
A metrigold playground of
Still winds, dry roars and slow rain
For hunters and prey.

Lion. Beauty. First blood.
Play. Pray. Unsay.
A self-consuming devotion
In a mahogany state of imprisonment.

The mesmerization of an entire civilization
Won’t suffice.
Eventually,
One man will pick up the scent and
Begin to imagine climbing the
Waterfall of human desire.
Judging by the eyes of the Lion,
Before long,
The man will find his way into
Her belly.
For civilization,
He died
Many times ago
When freejumping didn’t need inventing.

Of the Impossible Heaven

This is the end of something
That might have been beautiful
But never had the chance to live.

A sad truth,
But a truth,
Nonetheless.

Action is the enemy of thought,
They say.
But
Do
You
Really
Believe in
Thinking?

What about when
The mind turns
Inconsistently epileptic playing the game of
The pounding heart,
Soft and delicate like a big, ripe plum?
It bristles.
It stops.
It hustles.
It flops.
It rises.
It stalls…
It mostly fucking quits on you.
The main, in fact only theme is
The pitch-cold hysteria of a
Scarlet Would-Have-Been Heaven
That you frantically see
Dissipating into midnight air,
Only to become
The ghost of the shadow of the seed of Everything
Left to never be in the ash soil of Neverland.

The True Image

As my eyes were rolling down those leather sleeves,
I heard the tons of years crushing down on
My adulthood of boyish nearsightedness.
The world has twisted like an ocean swallowed by a wasp caught in a twister.
My sink of thoughts just overflew in awe of affection
But also was done with keeping water`s composure.
A watermark of a dambuster.
A cunningly erotic Waterloo.
And a very liquid spelling of watervah.

“Wateryoudoing?…”

Encore.
The gospel of intended reality.
The horror of digesting duality.
The manlessness of losing divinity.
How true is the image you see after you wipe Jesus`s face
If you ain’t sure your towel was really ever white at all?
Wet it was for sure. And very dirty.