Black Rebel Motorcycle Club The Graves

Ask iAN

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The Graves


they make all the difference in the world...

                                                                    what you may have felt was important, collectible, worth your while, amusing or keep sakeful...just loses it's majik when the people and animals you
so Loved
go away.

They take to their graves
secrets, your heart and things you held dear...

I hold nothing now
I am  a hitchhiker
a nomad
i am a forgotten field inside of myself
all people seem to know is pricetags anymore anyway...
Nothing is sacred anymore...just that little bit of blood left over...and time, water, space, and, booze and love.
I am my own Medicine.
You don't find a lot of God in find more nurses that don't know what lactose free milk is and you find more unhealthy food in the cafeteria that helped get people sick in the first place.

I don't follow...the path of diamond rings, cruise ships, new cars, new studded jeans, name brand mockery items and hellfire from the corporate fashion elite.
I don't follow your fashion rags, tags and blue bonnets...I follow the birds, the incest insects in lew, I follow the lawlessness of homeless dogs, I follow the heavens where ever she may roam...i follow the foul stench that leads me to my sprinkle born grave...and I will leave nothing...
I will burn with my boots on for less than 500 dollars and you can dump my ashes inside of  blurry motorcycle wheels racing at 66 miles per hour on any given American highway...

After they have died and left you with the heavy...nothing makes any sense anymore...
just a bunch of items all out on loan...just a bunch of rented material to fill up your world...just another vending machine item on your tour of this life...
Sing songs
feel weather
smell burning wood
sing burning words
holding hands in the dark
find sunlight in your friend's eyes
run with the happy dogs and sleep with the lazy cats
feel the water between your dying fingers
forget your face as it looms like a child turning away in a mirror
what you love dies
and passes into the Graves...then you will know that you've been born...
you will know your childhood is a haunted house
you will know that God's flames are real
you will know that nothing of you ever mattered except for the goodness that spilled from you
into other's lives like cool water
but you will also see that the pain you brought others...slightly crippled them...but hopefully changed their road for the better
what sometimes feels like a curse can be a true godsend...a turn around...another chance...and a new birth of creativity and a hunted chase for Love...

I rub my knuckles into the cement and press them into the asphalt under my big boned knees...pressing into the tip scalp of earth's man made cover...this city of exchange...this city of brass knuckle taxes, flying all around me a murder of bad ideas, zales beaks, money stalkers, scarecrow hearts, and technology mods...I get sick in my boots and duck away into the pub for a pint of piss...nobody knows me...and i like to keep it that ah way...i was dead before you ever even knew how young you was...happy to be so...long gone and true.

These Graves
that bite at my boots and at my spurs...
that bite at the tires of her sailing away motorcycle blues
I am not any flag
I am no country
i am of no colour
i am a dying recording device
what will you record?
Pain, murder, love, fear, angst, sleep, thirst, or the path?
These graves that snap
at my unraveling heart
revealing nothing but my secrets
as I fall further through the blankets of my dead ancestors...
as i fall further into bad modern american corporate medicine...
as i lose control of my hand that pointed skywards...
as I lose the shapes of you friends and loved ones in my mind for infinity....
as i forget my own name and who and if i ever was.....
this path...calling me like a lonesome the Graves
these dead holes dug like gaping holes of a mouth into earth...
this nest of death
this last chapter
that sews the mouth shut for eternity
this poor boy
this poor girl
this poor pony
this poor pocketless coin...

ride on the wind with red eyes and let my heart be as strong as the mule....

kick up dust...while becoming it all the fancy while....

The Graves....

they never let me forget...

the flesh is not weak

it was all we had to warm up to....when everything else

was propaganda



Bless all our ashen little galaxie wormwood hearts.... .*
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