Fallen out of ***
      Drunk on lost luck
Needle takes another ***
       You're in my veins, you ****

lying face down
sailing on green clouds
of absinthe

paddling my spoon
on blurry murky pools
tides bite back
frosty ice cool.

juggling streets
while skipping stones
bounce with heat in my chest,
my vest drips
puddles of sweat.

cat eyes
paint the sky
on this ceiling
inside,
angry smoke
burns my black lung chimney
coughing broken smiles.

wormwood planted seeds
float on cubes
of sugar and ice,
mice dance stepping
through the forest of my hair
zigzag foxtrots.

**** blazed
bongo bombers
blast bubbles of beats
from emerald egg drums,
along dizzying tunneled paths
snoozing in bathtubs.

Ziggy strums his guitar
on faraway Mars
colliding orbiting cars
and shooting stars.

falling from treetops
with my green fairy,
sing me to sleep
in absinthe alley
while pins and needles ***** my legs
peg the dead wormwood
tucked into bed.

Autumn leaves sing in khaki demise
wasting no time in the crimson-stained snow,
lying in smoke-berry and fading rickshaw sleepiness,
with violin and violent Hallelujah's -
Winter cries
along with the bird on my windowsill
on cold steely silent nights
in wingless speckled September.

Flowers all laid to rest
in rasping acoustic nylon songs
bemoaning the lateness of the rising sun
and eagerness of the moon
in lurking jack-in-the-box premature explosions.

Inherited deep-rooted seeds of genius
in David's boldness,
and Solomon's songs and wisdom -
which you planted in hearts
across Montreal
and New York
and Jerusalem
and in the bone-chilling, home-hitting
single bedroom flat on the basement of table mountain,
in Cape Town.

The pillars came crashing down
and wakening to a blaze
of bone-marrow blasts
that shot from hell through blood prison cells
into pine caskets of eternal maple,
where kings don't sit on broken thrones -
your word's are an eternal victory march
plastered on the guiding mast of these
glass shattered times -
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah.

The flowers will begin to bud in spring
with promises flowing out of bird beak sing songs,
rising to new heights, forever,
until the end -
for new origins on hotel kitchen chairs
right through;
to the blossoming land of resurrection
vibrating on unheard harp strings,
louder,
and louder we will sing again -
Hallelujah!

blazing the tall grass of the past
acting the big bad wolf
huffing, puffing cigarettes
and blowing up Peruvian powder.
dancing on stages and tables
while growling my agony
in moans and groans
to joy division tones.
howling into the night
to back beats and guitar solos
shrieking with a might
heads could explode.
black ink burning my pages
with a darkness which could shake
brooding Boston-born Poe
in his Baltimore burial bed.

i contain multitudes.

hiding behind wind swept
wild weeping willow hair,
hanging in my face
shying from prying stares.
locking myself behind
dingy dungeon bedroom doors
chained to a writing desk
fighting writers block wars.
playing second fiddle
keyboardist on a typewriter
to Charlie Parker records
fingers dancing to jazz chords.
putting cigarettes out
on my forearms
caging myself indoors for lab rat
benzodiazepine tolerance tests.

i contain multitudes.

wearing flower crowns
and thorn tiaras
on my head which hung
some days
while prancing with peacock pomp
other days. i contain multitudes.
swinging back and forth
as the wind blows
my moods in blue hues
to purple patches and back again,
orbiting around the bend
of my loose ***** head.

i contain multitudes.

Eight thousand puzzle-piece
butterflies
fill the memory carded banks
of discarded blank
cyberspace Alzheimers.

An empty room with silhouetted views,
creating illusion imitating
hallucinations
of a promise to reinstall the words lost
to safety proof
false parachutes.

Without canvas-sized,
indestructible evidence
or ink-based remembrance -
only erasable by flames,
flood or
unsigned credentials
fallen hand in glove
into
overenthusiastic forgetfulness.

there remains to be seen
a virus immune to tonic,
vaccine,
or innocent naive dreams
capable of murdering,
erasing,
and deleting every letter
conceived by keyboard finger-*******.

Here sits a love sick ******
with his head in the clouds
which would rain purple-hazed
words on the handful around;
those who remain concrete laced
flat on the ground in silence
while the sky promises rain -
yet only delivers clouds thundering sounds
of yesterday's romantic morose cries.

The dreams and visions of publicized ambition
dead
to files of hard-drive suicide -
by pornographic escapism,
prism-shaped with temporary reflection
of a soul due to expire.
Teadless and tired
in need of eternal service with supervision
by technology and savvy technicians -
mechanics of the afterlife,
while sighs of a Leonard Cohen existence
drown out the cries
of a bad cup of immortality.

Red-eyed mornings with deleted history
control-shift-n
and go go incognito
of a different kind.
free of decision or any conscious mind -
without a driver at the wheel
deciding the turns,
for any burning yearning sensation to stay,
go, hop-off and arrive.

The destination won't be seen alive.
Even as stains of lead will remain after death
with every orchestrated fable and tale
told by its grey-eyed author immortal,
while multidimensional gurus of ancient fires have stories and songs
done wrong by sins
of broken-telephone
though burning in hearts, souls,
and every orifice available to spark -
still end up with the scent of unholy ****.

The blank void of all memory is all that remains
throughout every special momentous occasion with hard-copy refection
or recollection of that holy time and spiritual place -
I await judgement and punishment
or divine rejection,
for falling in love and forgetting to save.

Preface

I was on the balcony of a dingy bar one evening and overheard a girl say the words 'downstairs people'. It may be that she was simply referring to the people on the street below us, or that she had birthed a divinely diverse contronym.
I staggered over to her table, like one of the biblical Magi who pre-drank on camelback all the way to Nazareth, and commended her creation. I asked if I may use the mystifying term. She agreed and I typed and saved the word(s) into my digital Notebook.
Thanks

DOWNSTAIRS PEOPLE

"Those poor Hebrew downstairs people on the river bank -
the flood came and washed away
their entire livelihood in a single day"
said Pharaoh, being fed grapes
while a second slave fanned a palm leaf to his face.

"I pity the downstairs people who will never see the top of the sky
as I do flying high in the heavens with
my wings forged of feathers" said
the courageous, ambitious mighty Icarus
as he touch the sun before he sunk.

"Commoners and peasants those downstairs people
with inferior blood and cesspool gene pools
akin to slaves of yesterday's glory days"
said the sibling king and queen in their fancy dress,
jewels and their crowns and all of the golden rest.

"Those slutty downstairs people with their
gardens and their swimming pools;
I wish I could splash all over them too"
said the third floor pervert in hot-and-bothered envy
watching the ******* clad figures splashing in ecstasy.

"We hate being downstairs people,
sardines in cubicles without air-conditioning
or views of the Manhattan skyline"
said the paper-pushers on Tuesday morning,
eleven September two thousand and one.