The Tipping

At the mind's edge is something

that sits restlessly, hungrily, waiting

for something to pinch the gooey lobe.

This formless, shapeless, senseless

something is the bleeding work of a

heartless cadaver; he made it implacable.

When he coated that warm, glowing,

golden, growing jelly, into the crevices,

there was a messianistic purpose, meaning:

But the shapeshifter had such a strange,

disturbing, purposely yearning,

stressfully egging, gloating intent.

Because underneath the curious,

incontrollable, sustaining structure,

the skull that shields and binds the muck.

Inserted was Gaia, gay and gouging,

so everlasting, and so enervating,

and so unnerving, and so evading.

And at what point does such striving,

and such streaming, while screaming,

can we find the elusive answer?

When we approach, a bit audacious,

but so afraid, acquiring aura,

also observed, he starts us over.

Because this is tipping, falling

forward, freely floating, feeling

fettered, he chains us in again.

Then spun around in insane circles,

realizing, rendered useless, running

toward rabble rousing, flunking, failing, fucked.

I have no idea, what he wants,

does he wail when he sees the woe?

Does he cry when he sees the blood?

Sometimes while stopping thinking,

I stop to wonder if I was pondering,

a strange, and desolate demise.

He must have known that we'd go hungry,

that we'd soon be thirsty and parched and

far from perfectly peachy, but infertile.

That when his smile soon surrenders,

and his eyes, they grow enormous, here lies

the end of the age, here is the beginning before us.

Started anew, but are we still not swine?

But no, no, it tipped before, it tips again.

It tips again. And out pours, for the final time:

Out pours the pure.

Sleepless in the big H

18 in the big hell hole

altho alas this is the time to party,

at last.

whadda time to branch out

purple streams of syrupy sickness

on empty stomachs it strings out

and down down we go

free free at last

free to pass and to love

sweet sweet summer love

belle and twang, if you look past the past

it seems at first they were all ah-taken

both Gs with leddehs

except for thatta time by the fountain

chopped (chopped) and screwed (screwed/screwed)

haha

haha

drink

drink

stop

stop

drizzy dizzy - wayne stain - luda buddha

^^ those are the prophets of this art ^^

until ephemeral, nostalgic highs bring us on rooftops

where the cigarettes burn until the sunrise

and continue again to the eventual sunset

(tired bones cannot disguise the youth and joy)

with byudehfull babies with belly-rolling galore

these ladies are absolutely impossible to abhor

and so with a double-shot I sip on

my weary, but happy eyes continue onn

with messy ghetto grafitti

believe me,

it only makes me more comfortable,

when the kissing comes,

unexpectedly

and so that's what a brazen bit of bush can do

to you

you

when you're tryin

tryin

to enjoy yourself

self

self

in the big H.

Oxidation

Hey, you...

And what of those times;

merry May: a dilapidated rusty iron pig

outside the gates of Providence?

Preoccupied with the swine,

and the rust, it oxidized into its bones--

- those dry old bones.

How sick it made me feel,

when I finally could step into the divine light,

and having forgotten,

to see once again the elements of my eternal fire.

Beatrice I saw then,

but you so many years back,

what had I done? Used you? But for what?

And blame it on the fatigue, or was it indecision?

But for insecurities, all man's worth would crumble.

To prove a point, as many a Jew was a martyr

to an Egyptian ferrying the sands,

a-

Mercedez-Benz clipping off the wet street.

and yet still the same hope,

powered those: Ashira! (even a wet, sad ghetto face alive now)

And here a boy impresses his father.

---

And back then to you, my dear.

When the sunrise became apparent,

and the last seed had been planted,

and a field had become a forest in my body.

Where were you to be found,

and what had the past afforded?

All too dear,

and all too clear,

the turmoil was apparent, a

delectable delicatessen served on a simple flatbread.

See now:

When the man focuses too much on the flavor,

when he focuses too much on the falsity,

when he focuses instead on the delusion it provides,

is he not rejecting the beauty of her simplicity?

It is back into those dry bones, those pure bones, that goodness...

That the beauty of her simplicity lies abound.

And my love, what have I done to you?

To have made you a hapless creature,

lit on fire, and sprung into a whirlwind of emotions...

Emotions not meant for you-

free as a gust,

fiery as a fox,

flowing as the Mystic (and so mystical), and yet

stable as a rock. (if need be, and I needed you; so badly, desperately)

Emotions that eventually created a ravine,

grand as a canyon.

Turning on the barren stoop, I barely managed to say I love you,

before you turned, and the door shut, and I never saw you again.

---

In the end, I wished to have no regrets,

and as I mourn the past, and I lie here in a foreign land,

where the sun has begun to set in the East, [you lie to the West, my darling]

and I cough the last blood of so many migratory Indo-Arayans, mutts,

-- started by the noblest creature. (we all thank him)

I had a regret eternally.

I pondered a past where,

instead of allowing her firm and succulent breasts to set my eyes ablaze,

I instead allowed the veins underneath that skin to guide me to her core.

[Is this not Zion?]

Take a trip to her very dry, and very beautiful bones.

So finally when Death itself was lying on the bed with me,

sharing a drink of that hard rubbing scent that characterized my

Eastern soul and drink, and the vodka cleared all of the concern,

she came to me again, but in the saddest way; but in a relieving manner.

And stripped away was excess,

Gone was temptation for that redox of greed, gluttony,

that I had inched into her all those times, (an infinity)

and instead there was the inkling I tried to deny myself.

And to think that. And to...

To end it that way, killed by the stuffed and treacherous horse,

---when instead we could have walked into the sunset.

And why did we not?

Cause we rock...

Hyper-shift cykotelekinesis over drive hippie shit...

yeah, that's the way we cool, because we rock.

And when the guitar strums.

Strumming---

Bling.

Super duper uber waves vibrate within us.

The long-haired guitarist rips onto the stage,

and we're camping there just checking the sights.

A-hah, it's the festival didn't you know?

This new ride in town, the caravan,

the kids we be followin' are all the rave,

you funny knave.

I be ki-kidding, and scared as we are, rollin through.

That all we do...

Cause we are this generation,

stand up when the music goes: pop!

And wave your arms in the air.

Millenium has passed; no shit went down.

Give us about three more years.

Are the Mayans right?

Candlelight, the fireflies are waving back and forth,

baaaack and forth, back-and-forth, oooooh!

(the one man in the middle point up and says "ooooh!")

[Except for the images I'm painting,

are you inspired too?

I create this artwork for you!]

Extremely possessive child of greed,

why do you come this way?

Except for to be turned down by the children of god?

And to be wondered why, why?

Forthcoming are the sinners of Ezekiel,

when they walked into the sun and died,

because the air was so god-damned dry.

And will the oceans still be safe, when we return?

When we turn back into those impish creatures and re-return.

To the ocean of life,

but...

For now, for now, for now...

Us pinko-hippie socialist freaks keep rocking on.

Because we rock on...

And we rock on...

And we rock on.

Kid, we rock.

Feeling

This forlorn feeling,

I feel when I feel I have felt,

life, feeling.

Thinking back on those days,

when life was so easy,

and today,

life is so bored, tired, dull, except.

For when I played that song, on-

one more song, sad, but-

so full of life, I know.

Living life, is love to life.

Your face is so beautiful,

and when you smile, I shiver

because I feel that feeling,

feeling you feel my feelings.

Kiss, on, I kiss you, une bise.

Because the kiss is so full, so

tender and gentle and feeling.

And there it is again,

that feeling, feeling, good,

but also sad, all yearning, knowing feeling.

And if I imagine us, one day,

sitting in a warm, rested field,

drinking ice tea, sweet, making them feeling,

I get that feel of that feeling.

I dunno if it's love,

or maybe it's the loss of love,

cause life is all about loss,

and that loss creates feelings,

that create feels of stuff.

But I know right now this feeling,

is a feeling I want to feel, I love feeling free

with you feeling me,

I want to keep feeling you, forever, feeling.

Bonfire

As a pop gun signals nightfall,

and a star twinkles in the East...

Well the boys know the night has begun,

and the infernal fable,

- it begins to be spun.

And what of the heat?

The smoldering ashes...

that bake a face and sear an eye,

but also excite the human spirit in face of the inert,

- and make it ceaselessly, relentlessly try.

When the boys light it off,

the wolves howl,

the cats cry,

the tigers pounce,

the second coming is abound,

and they howl too.

The girl with a love listens, and she listens good:

because something intrigues her,

necessitates her movement towards, and her attraction to,

her spirit, and there her lack thereof,

because it is musical, her dance, her flow,

and her skill, and the vision she holds.

When those two all-encompassing globes,

glazed by the lackadaisical,

burnt by the selfishness of man,

and used in the face of evil,

stumbled upon such a tremendous sight...

She craved it among all things.

These carefree boys,

and their goofy toys-

- extensions of such a simple reality,

products of such an ephemeral moment of:

combinations and permutations,

and chaotic actions and livid visions.

Liberty,

and what was apparent freedom...

appeared in that glade,

between the sweaty palms,

and the ocean - wishing in and washing out.

A half-empty Corona, with a sandy lime,

smelling with aromas, with a seabreeze,

- not quite unlike a divine wine.

And she saw tremendous things,

holding her breath in fright of discovery:

She painted lines between the trees,

where the boys swung like monkeys;

She formed shapes in the sand,

where before there were only mopey mounds;

She saw the colors - oh!

And when she saw the colors, the unimaginable happened:

lights, and wavelengths, and palettes, and verdant rich tears of beauty...

envisaged in a moment,

created for a lifetime,

because she effortlessly made music.

Something gripped her suddenly, tightly. (playfully?)

Then she screamed, and yet no sound,

a strong clamp of a palm held back the utterance.

(but also a hint of understanding? a tenderness?)

The boys in the glade were still playing,

yet one was missing, and here he was.

The wisps of her silky hair felt his movement,

a hair's breadth from her acute ears; and a whisper!

 - "Your eyes... They hold the world.

I didn't even need to spot them, to feel your gaze.

It warms.

You have seen the light.

You don't have to be afraid.

The beauty you see.

Deserves to be shown."

So she wasn't.

He threw her upon his back,

and out he jumped, and he howled!

---

Just then, as if a message that must be sent,

for the world to hear, and meditate upon...

the fire erupted in a cacophony so great; an echo to his howl.

Not only boys now (they had whooped into the distance),

but hundreds came,

not just man, but ideas, and shapes;

forms of things long past that must be seen now, for it is today.

Never before were such things seen in such a tandem.

And the boy understood,

and the girl understood.

They had stopped becoming beings then,

for only a moment,

for the slightest of seconds.

Their realities mixed...

And underneath it all...

the smoldering coals

tenderly caressed the gently licking flames.

A sign of the souls,

that needed to get lost.