I met a girl.
She was Christian.
She said her name was Faith.
We talked about God
And all my sins
And all that I waste.
But in the end it was not about God,
Not about me,
And not about her.
Nor was it even about
The petty little
Pitiful pieces of picture
I painted for her.
It was about spirit.
I met a girl,
Her name was Faith.
Parted Perceptions of
Particular Persons, DIVIDED by
The Reasoning and Rationality
Of Man –
An oath sworn Failed to curse,
Nor did bellow to the yellow walls and
Blackened Roof. Thus,
A Gapless Grey and
Opinions filled the floor
Like an Overload of Soot and
I was the Chimney,
Smokey and Impartial,
As each corner
Of the Room Perceived it’s own DOOM.
And the fire spread Eternally indifferent
To the flickering flakes of it’s forlorn Ashes.
Whisper eerie words laggard through the weary wind.
Send me a note in the fog as I call out smothered thoughts.
Open up a tombstone for the day of my birth
And shimmer me sideways, for the knots of the
Past and the present remain as mumbling in my brain,
Unknowing of any beginning, nor end.
Shout not in my ear as you speak out in such impatience.
Then let me roar to you my daily doings and spare you
No time to listen to distant ocean waves
Or singing birds in the morning dew as the trees sway immortal.
They’ll be no time for chronology. The air is wet against my neck
And I think I just heard a clock grumble like lightening.
Hail stones mock my attempts in speech.
I refrain to a being, but for being a being,
Forever distorted and drenched.
Not for beginning, nor end.
Whirlwind from yesteryear gusts guilt into
The gasp of many mouths, drowning in a lost past
Which only lingers as the landscape pours out of an echo, echoing
Lacerated lacerated lacerated scar tissue that was created
In the days of marching numbers, who
Had it all
In their spears
And their swords, and
In the ever crescent moon travelling at demise.
The magpie shuffles
Both brisk and sluggish
Amongst the harsh, hindering harassment
That is the tall grass, parted by bullish trees.
The magpie knows
In his handsome wisdom
Like an old oak with vast invested visions,
That the wind soars it’s fluttering sights.
The magpie feels,
As well as he flies
From open wasteland to tireless terrain,
That concrete slabs and statues have no flight.
The magpie is,
A farmer of all small
Pieces to forage, cascading his clever calculations
Of separating the crumbs from morning harvest.
The magpie calls
For all other magpies
As fields aching in acres are amply aroused
By the momentary sound of a fellow chirp,
The mellow tweet of hers.
I proclaim in our spiraling universe
The first and last stars molds truth and bounds worlds,
Curling nothingness which goes on and on
But I still say we’re far-gone and far more wrong
Than the song which blasts from a bubble of mute.
As for our father and further much closer to mother than revealed.
Safe yet twitching God
Angels which cry at angles, positively styling trying contribution
Of lost mental entrails and words which mean nothing, something
To scientist with more time than activity.
At least notify direction of my negativity ‘cause morbid halos
Are all I have above my head and beneath my feet is a polished rubble.
What that in which you spoke out of turn, what gives you the right
To think for yourself and be individual?
No, Imagine your fear of drowning without learning arithmetic.
1 + 1 = 3 as far as breathing is concerned. And
Imagine the universe without knowing that
Wall to wall
Wall to all, that to all
There is more than one face.
So to the same I proclaim the spiral is spinning but not sinking,
Nor growing as we are throwing everything at a single answer,
Perhaps we should prepare to not exist, first.
What was the question?
The meadow glistened, then faded as an Aztec house
Suddenly morphed into a clock, and back into
A house. The flowers withered only to be replaced by shrubs.
All of us (whoever we were) ran our separate ways.
I was on the roof and it was moving, swaying with no rhythm
As two suns closed in to become a single moon.
Then crickets and frogs and Aztec walls. Echo of
Croaking and tick-tock surroundings.
The chimneys were like helicopters and I was
Alone. The meadow was yellow again.
Bless for you
And a glass for you,
Me as well.
Drink up old friend
As I’d be a sinner too.
God bless the truth.
Stroll towards. Shimmer back.
Crawl towards. Stumble back.
‘Her’ words were whining and what’s worse was
Still to come. Come-hither and see you later.
The nightmare in which every door is the same.
Her room is cramp like a spacious and sleeping virus –
Lodged behind the heart. The heart lodged
And caught in the door. The door locked
And caught in the heart. Miscellaneous will.
Fall towards, stammer back.
Turn around and walk away now.
My clasp slithers snake slippery and ghastly,
Hands holding, folding nothing so sheets remain creased
Like the grease which trusted your fall from solid grip
And a trip that busted your hip, hop and hot metal leaves u hanging
From the floor.
Trust me, it must be, must bust scenes
As effort and energy condense to trickery
And the walls of Niagara float harmless to the slope
But backwards soaked in gravitational pull, full throttle
With no message and no bottle.
We end to start again.
We begin to march again.
Nothing more to stand for,
Nothing new to harm-
I choose waterfall over scolded palm.