Economic Earbudsfourty-nine listen tobeggarman'streble cupand chalkboard tongue
MuseIn 2am midlightThe speakers playing softYou're still hereThough we tend not to speakIn the wakeful hours of the nightHow do I define my heartWhen your lips are the dullDingOf a chat windowAnd your eyes are BBC code?Well, I like you more than stale breadI'm no knight in rusty armorBut you never liked those sort anyway
The Model model snaking beautiful broken heels i amsensuous and lovely sarcastically so looking drab in bellevue blues on runways cattle runwayswhere everything isjust so and my waist is cinched tightly wrapped once then
welcome springwelcome springwith(posiescrown)with nurtured illnesswithsnow bluestraveling mountain passeson windtoo warm to remembera creeping,beginninggreento flash(past)strifeand iron oxide
Without YouThe water's dripping down nowAcross my mottled backIn circles and in corkscrewsInto an old rucksackOf burlap and of canvasTied up with bits of stringThat never seem to mentionTheir views on anythingDon't you knowI've got nowhere to goWithout youOh, without youIn a homeUp on a lonely streetThere we'll meetJust you and meIn summer or in winterI'm feign to unbelieveThat people are the causesOf everything we seeThe newsmen with their papersThe TVs with their screamsMean nothing to my egoThey're all just make believeCause you'reMy meaningYou're aSong beatingThrough aCold sunshineIn theDamp spotlightI'm aFree thinkerAnd aLight blinkerI don'tThink you knowExactly where I've beenI've seen the roaring hillsidesI've heard November rainI never read a mapBut I'll find my way againThrough the villages of peopleThat never seem to speakBack to the place beside youAnd I'll never, ever leaveCause you knowI've got nowhere to goWithout youOh, without you
The Spiders DanceIn the heart of Africa,In Chicago town,In a vacant building lotRustic, gold, and brownThere the spiders gatherComing by the pairTo dance the dance of IrelandWith Springtime in the airThey dance on streets, on building blocksThat children horde and saveThey dance on flowers, petals wideThey dance on pretty gravesThe graves of all the businessmenWho never saw their kidsThe graves of ragged protestorsThat never shut their lidsThey dance on through the looking glassWith Alice and the HareAnd rarely stop to noticeThe weight their dancing baresFor to them, it matters notIf you be rich or poorThey'll trample you with tiny feetInto the cold, hard floor
The Stars Don't SpeakJust another space operaJust your usualStarfightsRed GiantsAnd intergalactic intrigue.In the grand epoch of things, where do we standWhen even fame becomes lost in cosmic swirls?Let's forget the universeAnd surf on gamma raysSmashing chrondite to outer heavenWith fusion rods and earthshineWhile the Jibjabs humIn ancient dialectSome other story that has nothing to do with me or you
Excerpt 1: The FloodIt began with water; water that spread out and covered everything._________________________________________ _ _ _The city was buried, drowning under millions of gallons of the stuff. Looking down from the dresser I clung to like a scared animal, you could see the outlines of streets, houses, and cars arranged neatly in rows. It was a child's playset, and that child was God.The flood was a testament to all our tragedies. It came without warning from the sky, pouring down torrential buckets that quickly left families dead in their sleep and early-morning traffic at a standstill. The only reason I had survived was sheer dumb luck, an open window, and the empty wardrobe in the corner of my bedroom. Had it not been for little miracles, my name would have gone unheard and my number added to the body count.
Honkytonk LumberjackI'm just a honkytonk lumberjackHacking through lifeOn a 3-4 scaleErraticStaccatoChops
Evergreen tankahanging a wreath and stockingsdecorating the housemy father never sawhow grief would lingeryear after year
CCLXXXVIsaplingsbent with snow...getting old
Cheers?‘tis the seasondecree to be joyousharsh realityno reason for manyfor some, little joy
The MirrorLook in the mirrorHeart breaks as I start to weepMy bully stares back
see the lady - evolutionarily- a tanka -impact of beauty:on him - mute inhalationon her - advantageas it is in distaff Springso it shall be in his fallllp - dA - dec2014
HomeThe cold wind beats at my window as the snow swirls and whirls, dancing to its beat. I sit in my old overstuffed armchair; a hot cup cradled in my hand, held up to my face, warming my nose and fogging up my glasses. Over my knee a blanket lies, my toes trapping it so as not to lose it to the floor. In this lament, in my favourite spot I dare not move, surveying my kingdom in comfort.Overstuffed armchairHas taken me prisoner,My throne in my home.
Re: sound of raintiptap on tin roofsas the world cries a messagethat we fail to hear