I joust myself into jovial life
Jocose tatterdemalion and stygian salaciousness
Umbrage abrogating merit like swamping locusts
The mammoth chip on shouldered kids starving for life
I'm waiting on purgatory, and I'll wait for you with knives out
Cemetry of the artist stubbed beards and pubescence in the Phoenician Lands
He said she should have left the house
Tomahawks can still cut the vineyard, make my loquacity into beer-tap poetry
Flowery, murmur, kumbaya, kalimba de la soul and all thoughts aside
You're hoping music brings the song to my speechless heart
Your dance sounds light the motionless night, only the tapping of starry footsteps
Hob-nobs, more and more, knobs of heaven's doors open to every hippie with angel hair
Crossing the wires of substrates
Sonatas and partitas can be lugubrious, yet, elegantly examined
Nocturnes, from the centuries

Of ten old centurions
Came down to the Colosseum
Gladiator enthralled the chariots of fire
I was with ten ants, burning under the microscope
Tenants of this Roman Empire

Fighting for your rights
Fighting for the people who cannot fight
For the weak, requires peace and understanding
Shiny, homeless people lost the soul to the drugs and marijuana smoke under streetlamps stretching to infinity
This earth is an orchard of flowers
Slightly plump in the middle, it's mother nature
Not zaftig, it has latitudes and longitudes
Lavish life, garish fiefdom, stretches across the bent imagination of perverse minds
Looking for a kiosk in the peak of red skies that do not know blood and aggravation
New Year's Day, the cyka cry Mother Russia and SOS
Shooting flares into the sky
To reach so low, and to reach so high
Shouting slogans, written by the poets
Passion, prejudice, sensibility, comradery these are metiers of poets
Secrets strewed across the bloodless sky
Wishful thinking tantamount to head in the clouds
The clouds have different shapes and size, the fire of the greater existence lends us words in thoughts