standing on edge, little white dots of perspiration. like a visible spiderweb after a rainfall. the hair on his arms stand up. a definite articulated action.
one not made by him.
standing up like little soldiers aflicted with mob mentality. sensing the mood that swallows the weak of will. or do the weak swallow it?
is this the reason he doesnt move? strength?
the little mutinous strands of hair on his arms. his legs. even the folicles on his neck. betray themselves when a cool gentle breeze blows through the wet sweat of action and tickles him.
and then the song changes.

I'm afraid of how you touch me,
I'm afraid of how you heal my heart with hello,
and break it with a goodbye
how every sensitive sublte change in tone
is a holy mystic novel
that i can digest and explicate in seconds

there is an anger in me that rebel yell reggae cant quite simmer
and the dimmer the lights
the rise of anxious skin splitting need
like whispers getting louder
as sip by sip the action twitches and twitches and twitches
knowing that to run
is to fulfill

I once was a noble beast
with a preference for flesh

I once was a golden god
with a thirst for blood

and Athena nor her virgen priestesess
could effect my temperance

Posidens flood could not match my rage

So why was it not zeus's thunderbolt that struck me down

How did i avoid medusa's eyes

or even the sword of man

I would not have sold my soul for wings
i was too weary of the sun

and such soft scared hands i would have assumed

not the wild experienced dance of the siren

to hypnotize and weaken, but not for the ****
just a wild dance for all

and for all but mine

was he surprised by a vollunteer
couldnt he see the tears?
couldnt he hear the beat break heart leak?
couldnt he sense the wet dog lonesome defeat?
an all or nothing mutual attempt at violence
didnt he feel the tender shaking hands on his face
was he surprised by the smile as the man fell back?

I am a hero hipster ******
drunk on this ****** ****** feed
that i sell to little kids.

This rightous symbol tattood on my feet
is a leftist emblem parlor trick
boasting stellar excapades
written in communist blood.

as much rebel rousing ******* as i can speak,
The heart is a heart
and my overwhelming excuse for a miocardial infarction
is a poor representation of unrequited love

The beats that skip notes
when i see your drum set
are not full of enough bass to top your playlist

and its the melody...

That solo saxaphone moment
that carries you through this day
that attracts my ear
and buys my sheeeeeer will power

but keep my offerings as a testiment to your everyday miracles
because while my hat sits empty
yours collects change
and i hope one day someone of worth
notices your tune.