05/07/08
Berkeley 3:07am
Hangover, still.
Berkeley 3:07am
Hangover, still.
Does this madness pass?
Will it cling to my spine?
They say it does.
I thought there might be some truth ---- in ambush (I knew)
In drunkenness and sliced wrists,
In blistered feet of prepaid lovers,
And there is, blurry in the might of doubt.
Eyes gloom in front of the mirror
In some white lighted diner bathroom,
And vents buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz steady.
There in the sink: truths scattered and thrown like used needles,
And purple eyebags turn to seek,
But no one seems to know what it is,
And the broken tongue licks the bitter rust.
Innocence lies taut like a wounded soldier,
Your will flickers,
And I can’t lend a hand to the child I once was
Who now seems so ballad and past.
All along the piano whispers,
And for some reason,
The pianist has such conviction,
Even though I only listen when I break,
But I break often and monk myself towards redemption.
Yet,
Is it anywhere to be found?
As I drop a tab of reality under my tongue,
The spider webs of these corners are abandoned
For some breast feeding loser archangel.
And God walks out of the room
With a certain sense of defeat upon his lips.
Yet it is the excess
of forgiving nights,
briefly Interrupted
by sunstrokes on hairgelled heads and nyloned legs.
And so silent are the nights we yearn
For multiple tongues,
As we constipate our minds
Between redemption and group masturbation.
Where is the respectable silence?
Do we awake pernicious madness?
Or will this hair shed
All its tradition and Latin?
Mighty Cricket:
Shall you now sing the anthem of my ancient conscience?
After I have tried to blow and polish your crystal paintings?
Later I will lick the dust of my churches.
But will I find home?
Or home be fourlegged benches?
Anyway, you have never been of any help
But to whip the memory of my golden manger.
I will leave these keys to thump
An ill purpose
And a faithless prayer:
“Deliver us from mystics,
Hold us from deceiving.”
Yonder stands truth
With the patience of a grove.
She leaps
And leaps for us
From the beginning of our path,
She will wait
And wait in peace
For our addictive ego to retreat.
Be patient unaccepted semened faces!
Be patient you who’s words are raped and sentenced.
Be mindful
For your truth
Is nowhere to be found in the mighty cosmic gateways,
It is within all of your sweet pathetic faces.
Redemption is nothing but the search
Of what was lost in the process of finding,
And who said truth was more
Than simple yet repeatedly wounded solitude?
Will it cling to my spine?
They say it does.
I thought there might be some truth ---- in ambush (I knew)
In drunkenness and sliced wrists,
In blistered feet of prepaid lovers,
And there is, blurry in the might of doubt.
Eyes gloom in front of the mirror
In some white lighted diner bathroom,
And vents buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz steady.
There in the sink: truths scattered and thrown like used needles,
And purple eyebags turn to seek,
But no one seems to know what it is,
And the broken tongue licks the bitter rust.
Innocence lies taut like a wounded soldier,
Your will flickers,
And I can’t lend a hand to the child I once was
Who now seems so ballad and past.
All along the piano whispers,
And for some reason,
The pianist has such conviction,
Even though I only listen when I break,
But I break often and monk myself towards redemption.
Yet,
Is it anywhere to be found?
As I drop a tab of reality under my tongue,
The spider webs of these corners are abandoned
For some breast feeding loser archangel.
And God walks out of the room
With a certain sense of defeat upon his lips.
Yet it is the excess
of forgiving nights,
briefly Interrupted
by sunstrokes on hairgelled heads and nyloned legs.
And so silent are the nights we yearn
For multiple tongues,
As we constipate our minds
Between redemption and group masturbation.
Where is the respectable silence?
Do we awake pernicious madness?
Or will this hair shed
All its tradition and Latin?
Mighty Cricket:
Shall you now sing the anthem of my ancient conscience?
After I have tried to blow and polish your crystal paintings?
Later I will lick the dust of my churches.
But will I find home?
Or home be fourlegged benches?
Anyway, you have never been of any help
But to whip the memory of my golden manger.
I will leave these keys to thump
An ill purpose
And a faithless prayer:
“Deliver us from mystics,
Hold us from deceiving.”
Yonder stands truth
With the patience of a grove.
She leaps
And leaps for us
From the beginning of our path,
She will wait
And wait in peace
For our addictive ego to retreat.
Be patient unaccepted semened faces!
Be patient you who’s words are raped and sentenced.
Be mindful
For your truth
Is nowhere to be found in the mighty cosmic gateways,
It is within all of your sweet pathetic faces.
Redemption is nothing but the search
Of what was lost in the process of finding,
And who said truth was more
Than simple yet repeatedly wounded solitude?
gorgeous
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