Under the midnight light grab a fistful of my hair and kiss my lips which taste like opium
As we levitate a mere centimeters above ground, inside a circle of salt
Caress my neck with the silver dagger
Then slash my wrists for the sweet sacrifice
A virgin death for the perpetuity of our kind
Conjure the spirits of the dearly departed witches of black hole cemetery and harvest their powers
Recite spells from the book of my ancestors
Your words dripping with magic, erase me
That which was inscripted on stone with blood
kill me under the mistletoe
And feed me to the gods
After cocktails at Luigi's Bar, and then The Golden Bowl,
I proposed we play a gig of jazz-inspired rock and roll.
We all thought we'd make the fans cry out for encores every night.
But our schemes were dreams that faded in the morning's ruthless light.
My blue guitar should captivate the people every night.
But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled.
My dream faded out of sight.
Playing keyboards was Patricia. (Never 'Trisha', never 'Pat'.)
She'd a taste for gracious living in her small art deco flat.
She would practice chord progressions, sipping lapsang souchong tea.
Then she played away at weekends with her special friend, Marie.
She trained her dainty fingers to explore new grooves each night.
But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled.
Her dream faded out of sight.
We had Ritchie on electric bass, with tap-and-pull technique.
Such a clever devil — Ritchie almost taught the bass to speak.
Ralph the drummer's backbeat cymbal crashes measured out the bars.
We agreed the speed — then found we could not play like superstars.
Would the crowd be wowed by passion from my lovely blue guitar?
No, the dream crumbled, as the band stumbled.
Our dream faded overnight.
The Blue Guitar Quartet
was as close as we could get
to our vision for the music of today.
But we bumbled and we fumbled,
our aspirations humbled.
So we slowly put our instruments away.
"The Blue Guitar Quartet
is down, but not out yet.
With practice you will crack it," said Marie.
"Let Patricia be your singer;
she's a musical humdinger,
and as soulful as a solo girl can be".
"She can improvise a blues
based on any riff you choose.
Let's have handshakes and embraces —
this quartet is going places!
Here's to jazz-rock, and The Blue Guitar Quartet!"
In my head even though it's already full,
Of webs and dust,
Pull the light,
My glass is half empty,
Now and yet I still run after the,
Stars and push them as far back in my,
Head as they will go,
I try so hard to be,
As happy as you are,
But I'm afraid it's not,
Losing myself to the speculation
of the meaning of life
I began to ponder earth's delights
Wondering why and what's the purpose of it all
I came to some conclusions and will share them all
It seems to me that man's purpose be
creating, inventing, and destroying
Very reminiscent of the ways of the Lord
Out of nothing did the Lord make the night
The declaring let there be light
Creating the earth and the heavens, and seas
Inventing the morning, the noon, and the night
thereby destroying the nothingness
that gave birth to something called life
Of all His creations it was man whom
God bestowed the gift of
creating, inventing, and destroying
but the greatest of these and the most
unique was the gift of inventing
For the purpose of life is not to
create, nor to destroy,
but the fine art of invention and the compulsion
to tell tales of battles, of love, of hate, sorrow and joy
in a word - storytelling - which can be found on the walls of caves
in ancient texts; even etched in stone, is man's purpose
All creatures create as they
all do give birth
All creatures destroy as they
all do easily kill
But only man is compelled
to lay it all down
inventing the story of how it all began
Through pictures, then words
through music and art
if one purpose is found
it is to covey the tale
Unable to create, or give birth
loath to destroy or slay life
I choose to invent and tell my tale
as I am compelled to storytell
I write it all out
may rhyme or may not
But one way or another
its the story that counts
Sharing my tales as old as time
Through pictures, music, art and words
It has been man's occupation to
find and tell the tales
and invent their stories
since the dawn of time
thus through their tales
gives us the meaning of life
in fires of its breath
gardens with misty wings
be left upon the stars
which ashen mornings bring
a sight of heaven's rich
the golden rain of old
from corner of the eye
through sieve of drowning souls
as wet of earthen stories
she drinks away the hours
broken but gentle still
volleys the passing showers
and wistfulness of past
the summer's broken dream
as pressed love in pages
may haunt a roses' sleep
and lip a life's desire
destined to bleed the night
which husky secrets share
do spying ears of time
i lean upon the frame
of tender springs unseen
behope the oozing light
through rosy tinted screen
as leaves of life fall one by one
until a spring dawns upon
one of many more
He sits alone,
As she cries some more,
A distant heave, a heavy blow.
Too young to know,
Too soon to grow,
With feet too far from floor,
He knows they were not old,
But not new
Just like his shoes,
They were meant to carry him,
To places unseen,
Run with him,
Through lands of green.
But what were meant to light up, flash red
Remain so dull, so dead.
Whispers from a forgotten dream seem to swirl as the morning mist disturbed by a fleeting doe causes hurricane images across the panorama
Sun flecked water droplets fracture light sending prisms spinning around drab and worn flower printed wall paper
Dust, motionless hovers just in the line of sight creating a wash to blur and mental images take control of the projector while the audience pauses and holds it breath
Back alley sex
First grade recital
First rectal exam (licensed and private)
Her soft lips
Moaning fills the theater as her face once again becomes the only picture: in the sun, on the beach, eating a sandwich, cutting her toenails
It works every time he thought to himself as he refocused on the dawn breaking around him
Rays shining though fog induce mild hallucinations as inner demons look for ethereal access
And he thinks to himself, “She always quieted the voices.”
I'll read words reminiscent of expressions,
You'll feel tears flowing down the page,
The deepest pain, hidden inside
Will work on out along with joy and light.
You'll be surprised for the worst, then for the best,
And you'll feel a relieving sense of rest
When you read the hurt and the fear
And they're burned on paper, not in a heartbeat.
Just try-- tears for ink,
Letting loose instead of denying,
A little truth, you don't even have to be with me.
Love and faith alone won't save you--
Sometimes in life, just try to
כשאקרא את המילים הן יזכירו מבטים,
תרגיש את הדמעות שזולגות על הדפים
הכאב הנסתר ,העמוק שבפנים
יתבטא יחד עם האור, שמחת החיים.
תופתע לרעה ואז לטובה
ולפתע תרגיש תחושת הקלה
כשתקרא את תחושות הכאב והפחד
כשעל נייר ולא לב שרופות הן בלהט.
;דיו במקום דמעות-- רק תנסה,
הכחשה תיהפך להרפיה,
קצת אמת, אפילו כשאני ואתה לא ביחד.
אהבה ואמונה לא יושיעו לבד--
לפעמים בחיים צריך קצת
My dad. When he's mad, he is an armor clad Vlad ready to punish any vandals
When he is happy, he is the brightest candle on the mantle, I mean a flame you cannot handle
He taught me to burn bridges if they're paper thin because you don't have time to be falling in
I've yet to drown in the ink...well this pen does have me sinking now and again
My father. When I'm with my friends he is a bother, when I'm alone he is the moon
The complete opposite of his son but provides the illumination for the straight and narrow, I'll be home soon
You were never home soon enough so we waited by the door ready to attack
Now I look back with the desire to drop my knapsack and retrieve what I lack
There is no place like home and my surroundings look less like Kansas everyday
With wicked witches on my tail and the trail getting cold it seems I've lost my way
Some times I want to stay and lay on the couch watching Warriors
More of a worrier than a warrior, it was your job to fight off the night
Slightly more than a squire it's my turn to pick up the sword. I realize now that the task isn't light
But by divine right I'll write every wrong in a song worth singing if it means that the fat lady will sing along
Because the hard times are over and I can promise the sun will be back before long
I know the wick has been though thick and thin, virtue and sin. Your heart gets broken now and then
But I've been waiting for a chance to show you that I'm ready to fight. You just tell me when
love like just know time feel way pain world heart think eyes day oh night away things words say need left thoughts mind life sun want good inside body lost new true damn light make head beautiful stop free hands right small hard loves today little fuck morning thought sweet moment times bed tell dreams long white truth thing song really skin slowly start deep woods silence lies look better lay sleep realize fall sky memories far gone green breath held room dark doesn't hold dream run thank end past dead open begin knew tears yeah hear cause air blood earth self beauty real days finally care big cool north 10w turn walk lips kiss dawn remember sound making hair fingers felt door water woman black outside large she's let's tiny window face bit speak play slow god teeth smell wish heard rain tired silver great bring wants low there's won't soul got tongue live arms red house close girl years letting note music universe man soon clean trees wood thinks post stolen you've gray clouds home ones hot soft wet hate desire warm trying mom comes longer sea thinking darkness hand shore leaves broken glow fool second knows rock read cold stare feels took father sing bag release crazy stone mouth wake forever dust watch came wanted stand help use place needs brings suppose believe laugh shit seen having ways leave weight perfect stars drive miss higher high ocean feeling memory makes present view page bear wash loss snow hell aware constant magic