And that was how We Ended….in sorrow…. .*
I have dreamt all my life that i would be held warm inside of a Christmas wolf fur hug...and i keep falling into the grave..
God damn why can't i escape this?
Did i ask why Again? Damn it....
Someday nobody will remember the photos of me when i was a little boy
Someday my fingerprints will be less than raindrops over a landfill... good...so what...that's what we say when the tears don't stop and the madness keeps buzzing round our heads
like dead circus trainers performing for a ghostly audience...unable to let go...unable to stop making the ghost children laugh...lie down son...sail into the midrift of the Northern skies and let the mental illness of your family tree fall
You peck at my brain
you peck at my pocket
you peck at my brain
you peck at my pocket
were you born dense?
blood and apples?
oil and waters?
Brown, Gold and invisible liqueurs mixed...what a dwizzler...a head made with a cunt of cement.
Throw on some jap junk
throw on some brown spice
hit your grandma's spoon
touch the moon as you fall out of the glass reflection
thanks for the bellyaches
the queen passes down her crown, but nobody left round
to worship at your domicile of insanity
............. .. .. ... ........ ...... ..... .......as my Horses blow like spitfire and sickness and wind illness and cruel underwater bewilderment.....i don't even belong to myself so how could you ever think i could belong to
I sit with this quiet black cape over my head
You keep the bed
only you can
I spoke into his brain dead ears that i loved him...i begged him with my blood to come back to me before they burned his beautiful face away....
and the entire world needed lunch.
I ran sick with a black belly
the sky was the lawn and the black above me was
all there was for me.
There was no where to go
All was white... as a snowed in forgotten song
and the rain sprang up in reverse into it all
I prayed for light pink...like the colour of her muscles...like the sweedish blood drained from his pretty lips... .
I walk the halls with octogenarians with fat murder of their white cloth on my mind...
I want to escape on his cinnamon motorcycle
but remember he sold it after the kansas rains...all the street lights look like tin cans with green hell cooking inside....
i pray to nothing...not even the ground.
gotta stand in between
cause when you don't
You hold the hand of a good dream gone dead....