you who delve into the depths of divinity
you who tangle in the ties of wealth
you who dream up currents of distortion
you who shape weapons from steel
you who dance into darkness
you who feed off the sun
you who run from disturbances
you who claim to have won
you who slip into slavery
you who sleep beneath stars
you who breathe to be boasting
you who rot behind bars
all you frail and diseased
all you frightened and displeased
all you likened to lampposts
all you bright in the streets
all you left to extinction
all you learned and sweet
all you casualties, calling
all your crimes and deceit
keep care and be sharing
no postures, decreed
and laugh into silence
and be silently freed
rife with attitude and caught up in world affairs, we shudder and shake. and stumbling through the vicissitudes and on to golden horizons, we attempt to speak of a richer deed, but it is truly unthinkable. and yet like revolving doors, we spin onto nights grinning for the sheer sake of it, finding our lives a dictation of convoluted values and the innocence of youth. all the while in a fit of earnest sensibilities. astute in the times, drifting and sinking through space calling out for a hand. diamonds like sand.
an evening dons the platitudes and rearranges blame to sort reiterated concepts of a casualty in vain, forcing a hand beyond no avid scope or crossing barriers hoping to land beneath the waters, floating with the current; waves distorting pictures showing elementary crimes. there is no halfway point between lies. there is no shadow over the eyes of the people shown each day and night that life is just a borrowed sight into maniacal refuse; a caption on a photo, fused onto buildings removed at twilight. is it all a bit tried? don’t the canyons divide? don’t the lakes reflect skies, to a camera’s delight? don’t the boulevards burst? aren’t the days all reversed? is this world one of instance or instinct or worse: a story brought forth.
a pleasant day is a pleasant day
regardless of history’s grip
there’s just so much of a pattern here
of going down with the ship
of being asleep in the boughs
of a tree grown tall
casting out or casting off
no truth behind a glass facade
all smoky and laced up
and immediately passed to the gods
who shiver to find what to love
flags at half staff and a senator’s son
but my my my what a beautiful world
i like driving in my car
i like pretending that it’s all but in a dream
‘cause that’s how it seems to me
and when i go, i’ll go clean
scattered toward infinity
without the burden of your history
stand up amidst shadows which stretch through the night onto old rusty train cars which can’t stand upright. there’s a hole in the common sense; a cold disregard of a fortune spent swiftly to build up a fence ‘round the yard.
my, my what perpetration of a scandal dark and twisted; of a canyon of discretion culled to speculate the dawn. to a rope tied and hung between banisters above you as you dance along the cracks beneath the carpets over floors. finalize determination, all diseased upon completion of a catastrophic tendency to tire of the world you built with hammers pounding nails; you built with iron, steel and failures measured against success to count upon to hold you in its arms.
my god, it’s only what you dream of. life is warm if you can team up with the visions wrought before you like a candle over wick. there is no path, there is no trick to it.
just grapple around in the dark.
a disastrous depiction of a dire air, fixing to fidget and forge forward. beyond a distance too deep to be measured, it breathes with the wind through the branches; trees buckling. animals, brash and bewildered. mountains, moved. moods shifting like the tides. the moon large on the horizon.
except in circumstances designed to be drudged up, dodging dreams hurled from passersby, you tangle. and through the web of arms and legs, flailing and failing to function, you stumble and in stumbling, you fall.