the beast of blues

not so good these days
much better at
pulsating personality
much better at my rants
rave on and hope for no flashbacks
take me tight in the mother's arms
hope I don't cry
look up
above
avoid the curse of
wash and disrobe
while I am carried high
hoping to be quiet
I know I can't stop
talk on and on
talk until
still no one shuts me up
evil is as evil does
pentacostal fear of scream
I don't even like Frasier Crane

manhattan garden

travel deep through the deserts
dry nights that make you cough
stand tall and know
speak clear and breathe deep your water
drink it down
in the dawns you shun
do not take it all in
take ti with a dose of pride
do not explode
do not make the men cry
the collared men
as you babble long
and
tall
and
proud
and small
with no more
love found within the walls of
primal scream
possesion and Yoko Ono
are not so different

shim sham
rim the scam
and make the eyes wide
while the garden still makes flowers grow

alliteration

bus benches
bother boys
berated by Breslin
before bothersome
boredom by bretherins
bought
bore
berated
berated
berated
bi-coastally
bought

beware bestial betweens before breakfast

I'm into bedtime now

kill me
done
dead
wrapped in a sheet
if they read this; what would they know
done
kill me
dead
and then we read into
what we do not know more than we could want to see
dead
done
kill me
and the music plays on with blonds who cry
red heads too
and brunettes just shudder

they know what happened
they know so
they do not cry

they spit with the ferosity of young men in green clothes with guns

who's palace

pillows
to silent
me
when
nothing but the soft
of pillows mean Vegas
as the dice roll
the cards fall like
whores in bedroom
romps
forgotten by cards
that trace the play
and hope that I
that we
in velvet
come back to say
jackpot
nice fuckin' pillow

an alley

silly little man
put aside
for other times
of other fascination
take no one on
in other lights
where tones shudder deep
and water
refuses to ripple
in the steadfast beliefs
of a solitary
night
when all is dead
not just the moon
whose puckered, pickled
smile
is nothing more than a drunk man
in an alley
who smiles from ear to ear
offering only what he has
nothing

rebirth

make the night
go away
into the night from where it came
make street lights
dance into silence
as the dawn fears it's own birth
the moon should
shun itself back to it's night
where skirts tear
words dance
in eratic gyrations
that leave one drooling
others mystified
left with words dancing
in the front of their tongues
that go on pilgramage from exchange
mothers shun
fathers hide
sisters died
brothers fled
and all said and done
the box and the womb are neither made of pine.

plant me deep in moonlight

sweat
tears of salt
make the men fall down
sweat
like women of disregard
while they cry
for children
tossed aside by the men
where
no one
will make a claim or call
but you are too big to cry
but the salt cleanses
all with a sting
a sting that can only
come from within
as the readings
read on and
the sweat of the children crying
wet shirt backs
as lilacs bloom
and roses bloom
in gardens of secrets
in the peat moss of night

Berlin with a Taste of Birmingham

Too fake
Too wrong
Too much delusion
and only thank you
to Casio can be achieved
Ahhhh
the wonders of tape editing
I only wonder
where
when
how
why
the men
the women
cry
at keyboards that flicker in the night

Possesion

Ok
scandels abound
maps can be wrong
no holiday for me
dance me up in David Lee Roth's
furry boots
spin me neither here or there
but make me know
that when
boys are boys
and
girls are girls
that children are what they are
hold no fury
towards the sun
make no preconceptions of where they go
know that only the sun
only the moon
only anything above us
better than us
have faith and hope in
a child's smile
that makes a man cry
real tears
in the cold of nights where
priests won't even walk
goodnight to the silent children of master's abuse

Bering Straight

call out the soul
in languages that hold no rhythem
that take no prisoners
that make men cry and
make women laugh
like that of warlords
that have killed in battle
the cackles
fray the day and the moment
and hold high the souls of men
who die into the youth
of children's pillows
the demons fly
through the night
on the radio waves
that lay chalk on the ground
as the wake of family
make waves that can not ever be touched
rogue I think they call them

two minutes in the pan handle

the salt ...

come on now ... the salt

let it weep down
like lines of Patsy and of Hank
make the salt flow

From Willie to Graham ...

Like I know what I mean
Like I know what I feel

take me into the sheppard's cloth
take me into the harp strumin' Angel's tears

Southern heart's make their way
they make me cry
sob and try to be me

Gators bite
men hate
God loves

I never knew
I am no better than anyone, but I understand now ...

parson's

burn me alive
let me overdose
and let me thrive
in the shade of the Joshua Tree
let the hotel know
that room keys
fly with the burritos
sing like an angel
of Jesus
make me weep
in the color of men who
do not know
even if they are aware
let the singing
of ladies past
reflect on kin
that can never, ever, be secure in the blankets
of night with the cool breezes blowing
blow on
breathe in and out
with the cool drafts
that need the editing of a drink
be good
be three
be one with what you deny
know that you are meant to cry and
it is nearly forgotton
pick the cotton
and speak ...

night spent worrying about dawn

only the men cry
in huts and shadows that hold the tight
in pages that no one reads
in songs no one hears
in clay molded just for them
hold on dear
sweet prince
of the night
and the darkness
with no script to read
your silken exterior
your flesh like silk
the eyes that say
fuck off
the mind that says
mine
the body that exclaims
dirty
you dirty bastard
with all of the
looks claiming civility
and this is what it has become
nights of no return
and
shadows of what once was
so simple
it was called
US

death's glove

I have written
too many history's
of men
that cringe and shudder
at the thought of my
typing madness
dance the skirts my way
you befuddled son of a bitch
dance my way
and dance so loud
to make the Devil's dance
cloven hoofed boogie
dance, dance, dance
and only the dawn's light will make you see
the waves in the sea
all salty
and sultry
and such
with crystaline
visages of what once was
and what could be
in the refrection
of a pupil's
reaction
I need no more ...

Saint Peter

I am crying oil
for my little girl
take me down and roll me in tar
the tar made of oil
make me dance under
sparkled light
beneath the globe
the polyester's oil
fill my tank and spank me twice
make 'em know that I am wrong
spread my right to left
cast me in a cancer mold
of cankerous folds
strip me down to what I was
and make me picnic with enemies
I want no
day
hour
minute
or phase
of ten million blinks
within the graze of
two hundred men
screaming that
I suck
I am better than that
all I want is the gaze of my seed
with splendor found
in night's darkness

the upinishad's revelry

scrape a knee
wound the flesh
dance about in ridicule
how do you measure up?
do you smell?
I mean have a scent,
These are a few of my many smells
and the Milkmen dance
Is word association a talent?
Is it a curse of intellect?
It is something to cast aside
like a commercial
being pompous in it's velvet flavor
tasting the grit and grind and grade
of sharp particles
waiting to be the pearl
move on
glide on
glisten glide
know that I am gone
I don't want the pearl
life is much more precious than
that
me
or
you
it is more than we know

The Keatons

Slap that Muppet bitch
shake that furry ass
weeble and wobble
through the fur
and dance like the horny bitch you are
all the Muppets revel in your ass shaking glory
hole
up inside
the demons that arise
in the dead of night
the visage of one shadow
held tight against
a chest
in fear of not knowing what one will do if it
claims tears as rivers
and
fears as lakes
of intrepid existance swayed through out the field
across the pond
and the tears still fall
but support is needed
even if just the cup of crotch
I need no grail
Arthur beware
unless you are of PBS nature
and the little girls cry
if your books don't sell

tale of a fisherman

Bring home a sack of burgers
dripping beef with cheese
know that I mean
thank you
as the grease drips down my chin
making you shake your head
and not know why
I am who I am
cast that bitch aside
with the whip of a bull or bear
Clark's hold on.
A drive in the day and then on
beyond that
tailgate pic-nic
in the anals of Osipee
by the lake with paternal arrest
ice fishing sucks
it does more
for the fisherman
and less for the fisherman
someone tell Les Claypool
that he makes sense
give that
son of a bitch
a hug
make him smile as he makes us
...

bathroom

I caught it
It hurt
I now know
no more bathroom drunks
sham the moment
disregard the action
piss in a milk jug if you have to
don't zip again
stand tall with that zipper down
scream
yell
cause a whole lot of hell
grab it tight
know that
if you don't the world will

Rythem and Rhyme

Hold me down
make me cry
cry through a day
when men don't cry
tears play
hopscotch down
hills and valleys covered in rain
little girls in skirts
flirt and flit
or is it
flit and flirt
make the punctuation matter
all the while
saute tables dance with
more passion
and
dance with girls
who politely
say
"arragato"
lay me down to bed
hold me tight
and know that I mean
"I love you"

A.M.

Two times
two times baby
lay me down
in my beard
to pray and hold me tight
as others want me
they want to take me away
from you and our nights
of simple pleasures
and rites of passage
yet to play out in the sun
and the sparkling daylight
that never once found us
in the panic of dreams
with the sperm of nature
and the seman of moonlight
the night time laughter can only sustain

rides to an airport that hurts

Seventies cars
thought in a dream
where everyhtings faded
not just the paint
bridges that glisten
in the light of a sun rise
and hospitals don't matter
for bandages hurt
all of the girls
and the nights
and the booze
with the drugs
and the pleasure
that could never be found
comprable to any day
that has a light
so bright
and makes cars
look like faded matchbox dreams
rolling over a bridge
to be fallen upon my passage
in the morning
sun glistening down
like drops of ice tea
that no one will drink
becasue there is beer in the trunk

JFK

Don't tell me the secret
the bath water won't
smile
it won't
even hear
the Dylan that plays
plays on through the hatred
of dawn's early light
as seperation dances
waltzes through
Canadian whiskeys pour spout
in the parking lot
of amputions sake
with the cold breathing in
as the breath breathing out
cold as fog in a child's mind
and the cars all became something of dreams
with the planes taking off
and one more swig from the can
in a world that was not understanding
of what would be left
at the doorsteps of all our goodbyes

whore house motel

take my hand and let my
big ol' bear claw hold
your pretty little prissy hand
tight with it's feminine nails
your polish been lacking
just natural nails
that scrape at my palms
and hold me tight
in the darkness of Beelzebub's belch
as your nails dig deep
deep into my back
and you are inside me and I cry out
for more of the thrusting
and pushing of my childlike cries
as you make me your whore
and we hold hands even tighter
in the glory of breakfast
breakfast in bed
with tossed over sheets
and stinks that defy smelling
when all the maids ask
"what the hell happened here"

appology needed

you hate me
you hate me when I drink
you hate the trips to the store
you hate my stumble into the john
you hate when I ask if you are all right
you hate when I ask what did I do wrong
you hate when i stand the way I do
when I drink
you hate all the rants
you hate all the raves
you hate when I tell you it's my choice
you hate when I tell you I love you
you hate when I get excited about benders
I love when you say I love you
I am sorry

hold me

Tie me down to the rantings of yore
make me smell funny
more foul than I do
but smile all the same
with that lustfull grin
of wanting me so much
you don't know what to do
with me and yourself
and the sweat inbetween
they don't make incense that strong
they don't let us lube up the way that we want
but it is ok
because the sun
will rise in the morning
and we know it gone in the night
all things are ok except
shards of glass inbedded in palms that drunkenly fell

cup of coffee anyone?

No greetings here
you fat son of a bitch
just sit right down
and die in front
of the queen
in front
of my lady
your tears
crystaline only through night
cast away argues
cast away sun
throw away all that could ever be done
and fly to the glory
of lonliness peak
and stay there all lonely
without any voices
of friendship and comfort
and the pain of the loss
take them with you to bed
in the dusk
under your pillow
underneath your grease head
the pillow is stained
the moment is dead
and the lights will not glow
in a night with out light
but that is ok
you'll all be gone
in a song
in a poem
in a thought of attempt
gone in the day I hide from the light

Liz Phair and Mick Jagger have Lunch

Time dances hard
in shoe shuffle time
holding onto things
that make now not
too many changes
too much to be sick about
and the galley screams
in dissatisfaction
no white shirts needed
no cigarettes smoked
except round my neck
except in my mouth
except in a sun rise
where there is only one son
and never a daughter
but only the light
shot through the breakfast of children who cry

first date done

hold me tight
make sweat pour
flick your flushed lips
out into the night
make me cry
make me cringe
make my soul
do backflips
I care not what you wear
I care not how you walk
I do not care when it all goes down
but all I know
is that if you
don't hold me now
I could escape
like a sigh from crimson lips