I'm bound to the round sound of the guitar
and I'm deep underground sleeping down with the drowned
now the lights of the town seem extraordinarily far
wound around my crown, sleep drips down from the stars

but I think it's the dope, smoke dances in my lungs
or the drink that gropes both my liver and my tongue
one long blink - begin to float roam the unknown with the young

and opening my eyes I'm awake from the sleep
the dopamine has died my aches on me creep
its time to climb but the slopes are steep
put on my tie and climb in the jeep
put my mind to the pile of files that are heaped
run with these self proclaimed wolves who are sheep
just thinking of home, the release of the deep

Treating my feet to the beat I leap from my seat
despite the sleet, take my heat to the streets
the concrete is freeing
from:
the deceit which we deal in
the obsolete (which I'm fleeing)
the people we're mistreating
which we repeat and repeat and
it's all self defeating
when the elite just replete
despite our attempts to delete
or just maybe deplete...

so I retreat to the sweet beat of the blues
as the pavement meets and greets my shoes
down the lanes and avenues
just hoping for something nice on the news

whirling til I wheeze; I scream flowers
they grow from my eyes in great forests
both block the sights and sounds of god
and I look for him elsewhere

drinking til I drop; I bellow oceans
sinking, weighted, the sea drinks me
but God wasn't in death
and I looked for him elsewhere

laughing til I cry; I yell joy
swinging, weightless, in a park
the playground yells joy back to me
and god spoke in the creaks of the rusty chains
because he had been looking for me

People, places and things
have become things we collect
things replace people
and it has the wrong effect
things, places, things
has the wrong ring
- its clearly incorrect -
people aren't objects despite our dialect
nor merely nouns now to be subject
at least I object
we're both Proper and imperfect
both Collective and dissected
both Abstracted and connected
More than nouns we are the now
thats what I think anyhow

look at all the Leonard Cohens writing poems
filling their prose with death morose
this isn't a poem for your pleasure
x simply marks there IS a treasure

Staring across the bar, it was love at first sight
- eyes so wide- I think I gave her a fright
She thought it was a *** look
thought she could read me like a textbook
wary of my advance
refusing me a chance
avoiding my glance
I put down my glass
and,
in a stance
weakened by my lovestruck trance,
simply asked for a dance

Does the true artist run out of paint before pain?