Could I die just one last time
inside your arms
Before our narrow minds & empty eyes
have tasted the kiss of a thousand blind cries

We try to escape the momentum of the past
but our light can only go so fast before
time catches back up again
We are fading as the dusk fills what we
had once then

I watch her shed the tears I so
desperately tried to hold back

You're going away now
for a lifetime or two
but before you go
so that I know we'll get thru -

Could you die just one last time
inside my arms
& taste
    my silent,
             blind cries?

Here is the inimitable Jeff Buckley's poem, "My New Year's Eve Prayer," which he performed live at Sin-é in Manhattan, NYC, in 1996.


"You, my love, are allowed to forget
about the Christmas you just spent stressed out in your parents' house.

You, my love, are allowed to shed the weight
of all the years before,
like bad disco clothes.
Save them for a night of dancing ****** with your lover.

You, my love, are allowed to let yourself drown
every night in bottomless wild and naked symbolic dreams.

You, my love, in sleep can unlock your youth
and your most terrifying magic;
and dreaming is for the courageous.

You, my love, are allowed to grab my guitar
and sing me idiot love songs
if you've lost your ability to speak.
Keep it down to two minutes.

You, my love, are allowed to rot and to die
and to live again,
more alive and incandescent than before.

You, my love, are allowed to beat the **** out of your television,
choke it's thoughts and corrupt its mind.
****! ****! ****! **** the *******
before the song of zombiefied pain
and panic and malaise
and it's narrow right-winged vision
and it's cheap commercial gang ****
becomes the white noise of the world.

Turn about is fair play.

You, my love, are allowed to forgive and love your television.

You, my love, are allowed to speak in kisses
to those around you
and those up in heaven.

You, my love, are allowed to show your babies
how to dance full bodied,
starry eyed, audacious, supernatural and glorified.

You, my love, are allowed to **** in every single endeavor.

You, my love, are allowed to be soaked like a lovers' blanket
in the New York summertime
with the wonder of your own special gift.

You, my love, are allowed to receive praise.

You, my love, are allowed to have time.

You, my love, are allowed to understand.

You, my love, are allowed to love.

Woman, disobey,
when little men believe;

You, my love, are Rebellion."

You lead a life which happens to be fallacious
You live inside your head and happen to never travel far from it
In fact, you praise the open road
and travel, still you sit relapsing on
obscure memories that only ever bring you to the borders of insanity

No one could have dreamed this up but yourself
The world continues to rival and thrive
and wallow and rise from malign characters and sensibilities

Or that so you think

All you ever happen to do is not much but
Drive your self dry in misprinted thoughts and distract yourself from the evidential truth

Post-parched, you continue to further down a path which is only going to crackdown upon your world of disinfected affairs
Soon, will the sooted streets that chafed your unworn boots collude
And all that was ever known, even if it was but the faintest of an understanding as to how this time in space truly functions, Will soon perish in sanctuary

Soon will contemporaries all alike
Recede with tides anew
Soon will it onset the primitivism
Locked behind plywood doors
Soon will you know unfortunate
Tribulations beyond recovery
Soon will you be segregated from
Yourself, indeed

Indefinite suspension will bestow
a harrowing animation that will find
Itself repeating until you finally cross the
aforementioned border without any luck
Of returning home to the sheer bliss that
Was only good to you in youth
Fair enough in the last years adolescence
But unforgiving come the dawn of manhood
And soon on

Aimless as we are
Drifting thru the somber sights
Drifting thru street lights

Directing us to the never clear

Late nights alongside a fearful
Fantasy

I drive her home as her favorite melody
repeats in our heads
It's as if we've loved perpetually
And resented somewhere in between
However, the case is we will never know how much really lies there for the other
Regardless of ulterior endeavors
& Alternative societies that will
keep us mirrored
Whether it is one-way, anyhow.

I remember being on the red thin line
Becoming & epitomizing Destitute
Blessed it too that I found myself wanting
to break from the clenches that bound any exemption, and sought after a new means of
Achieving ultimate ecstasy in a world purged of natural euphoria and anything besides the contemptuous judgment that is almost granted and given at the onset of life in a place that taxes one from the unembellished pleasures a life should often always experience

All of us
We all just
SCREAM

Please help the last dying
man
Caress me gentle maiden
Stab me loving Brute
& destroy me
Ninth Crusade

Between all of these deeds
I’ve seem to be just a tad shy
on the pleas  provided by
We, the people

I just want the freedom I get
from preaching my internal
monologue
to be shared
amongst the gods and devils
on my left & right shoulders
The shrinks and pill-poppers
on my back & streets
Even to the minimum-waged
coke-heads over at the convenience stores

When a clear-conscious is crafted
and often misinterpreted
The mischievous misfitted maniacs
begin to adhere to the thoughtless
criticism and go forth to self and peer
destruction!
The man of non-discretional
flaccid progression stands high and mighty
before a crowd of unrestrained deplorable
rightists that never seem to get it right
Yet
We let it happen
We think it is a sitcom!

All of us
we just
scream at how funny it is

Yet none of us will be smiling
come the day of the last man’s death
The gentle maiden’s true intention
The limbs of Caesar and The Crusades
as they all prevail

All of us
will just
scream

Power
Exuberance
The misfortune
of having it all

I’ve become one like them
Growing accustomed to the norm
Finding peace of mind in
the minimal
Pretend people
practicing prayers
they don't believe in
truth be told

They ran, for they feared
having something real
They wanted to have security
in falsification
Those little laughs in between
re-lived stories of the time
when nothing really happened

Nothing ever really happens for them

Rather than love and happiness,
Money and clinical-depression
Censorship in their realities
They had nothing having it all

In the end
we are all but one
Carrying the deeds of
another man's profits
While street prophets
carry out the deeds of
our days that will
never be shed
onto the normality of
the dead