I Could Drop You Off

You're demanding my feeling but barely I'm standing I smoke on the landing as ashes drift silent, compliant to find the map, I was baby-born blind to the deep sweet recesses of a beautiful mind. Hipparchus could chart but numbers just are as peptides explode from Pandora's jar, far from the sequences plaguing my heart. Take these rose-colored glasses I've got a hunch. What do I see behind blue eyes like mine? Lights flicker and shine, wiring's prime, yet the brown-eyed guy sees just as fine. Magnificently I mourn-no-more, marred of heart, mind behind, married dreamed, mortal changed.


Lord Lord an echo in the sky, the wind through pristine leaves the roar of my memory caw caw all years a dream my birth a dream caw caw all Visions of the Lord Lord Moloch which shows me the way of the day Lord Lord caw caw caw Lord

Simply Refrain

I must make amends ('cause of porn with my friends), daintily trudging to the ends of earth’s bend. I’ve done things I’m not proud of, but I mustn’t be loud ‘cause my life is a sweet secret covered in shroud dust. I’ll never release it, keep it near and dear like an old unsung song to hear, cliché explained excuses I’ve relayed to such abuses. Please peruse my sad, blue muse to comfort and accuse, for my mind is fine with memories of times so flawed and kind, yet my darker heart rewinds to find the parts I deem unfit, not mine. And now I lay in bed, how many blades in hand, afraid of these black monsters I’ve summoned by command. Their fire-frocked eyes demand my reply, while my conscious mind cries for an easier goodbye.

Bishop Tears Your Pawn

Pull my daisy baby; stem first then the prideful petals burst exploding like a beastly piece, a swinging beat echoes soft and sweet. We beings, being humans with strings and keys, ask questions about things to people with pure ologies and lessons to sing. What funeral music to the men who choose it, asking my questions, proving to prove it asking only about holy Holy wondering if music that comes from my mind so low is holy enough to the man who is home free. But if heaven is earth and living is strife, hold my hand take this knife cut the fabric of life, my quilted patchwork; for reality hurts in the minds of the lonely.

Quickfire

It’s a coffee-driven ride, sixty- four plus five, there’s always more power when the louder man cries. Ecstasy crystallized, Aphroditic surprise, Delta of Venus seen with glee in your eyes. Oh how I wish I were that glass of absinthe, crème de menthe, that fair night (what a stint), I swear you could taste revolution hellbent. Synchronicity what simplicity my Bhuddic love-mystery synesthetic accessory to the future of history. It’s my metamorphosis mixed, backwards like a trick so let’s wait a few months and welcome the bricks.

Then I'll Get Something Done

One night I’ll invent the greatest thing, its lights will shine and its bells will ring when you turn it on, the universe sings, whisking you off to a time before seen. You’ll notice yourself in better health with a smiling face and life’s true wealth, seeing the things that you couldn’t see before my master time machine. The rules all break and all time ends and all of your friends just die in the end, why even worry about past pretends, step up to the plate to make amends. I wish I could invent this piece of steel so I can heal these hurts I feel before I try to fix this ordeal, oh how I wish my dreams were real. This power we wield yells at kids on the field, licks dicks of tricks so ashamed of their spiel, cuts our heart into two equal meals provided we let them know how we feel. Imagine the abuse my tongue could produce to confound and confuse the most outgoing recluse.

Sistine

Run over my skin, you sweet deadly sins, as sweat runs down your brow scoring one for the win. Attention begin situations relived as body leaves mind, throwing glitter upwind. And life rewinds as the sweet jazz reminds of nights at my doorstep, those black-and-white times. Carry on gently as the tired rhymes slow, and as chilly winds blow, see remnants of when you never grew old composing the prose where words work and flow. So straighten your track take the slack, sit down Jack, please slap his hands and help bring him back. Painting faces from places so lost in the cracks where pure art is found and symbolism is lacked.

Pleasant Dreams

Will you go and find our kind? The ones who ask questions that set free their minds and crack open windows then pull up the blinds maybe the warmth of the sunshine will brighten our lives. Setting fire to candles left burning too high let the wax drip drop and sit to admire the pain for the gain, soft skin with a burn, discern the flavor you are the braver one. Bittersweet and sour, shower your lips with replete desire. No respecter of age, this enraging upstager, this drama-engager, It gets what It wants like the bouncer backstage. Do you really think I would give up like this? I could give you some reasons; the silence, the youth, brute truth resolute, sweet dripping fruit runs down lips that sip champagne flutes. Mortal unfortunes do not be dismayed, for Lust is the poolboy and Love is afraid.