He had a voice like death on a bender.
Our vision growing unexpectedly blurred
As he scribbled landscapes
On the window, and sang poetry he created by
Twisting prayer around blasphemy
Around lust around yearning
With notes whose colors bled
One into the other
Into the other -
Beseeching, begging, demanding
The scars of our doubts
The armor of our pain.
And when, one day, he shattered the sun
Raining shards of gold flames like shrapnel
Down on the innocent and guilty alike,
We sat in our shiny new darkness
Singing hallelujah, hallelujah
Over and over again
Rocking back and forth
Clutching an old album cover
Like it was the relic of a saint.
Hard frost and treacherous footing.
Nobody wanting to admit
that the new year
tastes an awful lot
like the old year.
None of our heroes
have been supernaturally resurrected.
There's the same
rank toxicity to our fears.
The jaunty carnival of murder and maiming
Death remains as senseless.
The corridors of power
are still slippery with slug trails and viscera,
and all the janitors have been
It's cold, and
the bus is late again.
Still we persist in believing that
today will be different to yesterday,
that all those wrongs will be righted,
that the proper order - as we each individually, as
thin-skinned gods of our own personal
nuclear universes, perceive it -
will be perennially restored,
the buses will all
run on time,
and no one good
will ever die again.
But the truth is, this year
tastes an awful lot like
the old year.
I could be wrong, I guess.
Maybe everything will
Leonard Cohen, gone the night before we recited Flanders Field,
And our memory was still fresh with poetic inspiration,
The artistic suppression of dread.
Famous Blue Raincoat,
The feelings of despair and isolation abound.
I felt the cold New York traffic that I was separate from all the bustle
And all the life.
Chelsea Hotel with its twists in compassion,
It's all too human and vulnerable to admit your schisms,
The plight of life when it slips away from us,
Into the city and falls off the roof.
Hallelujah resonates most,
The sound of pure emotion
The feeling of triumph with your chest bare to the Earth.
Let the raw expression engulf you, spread the ashes.
Just found you have passed
Tears in my eyes as I write.
Len ,Lou and bob too
Your sounds raised me
You thou Len I would joke about
"not more slit your wrist music "
Forgive me Len I was a kid
Your melloncolly lyrics so fluid and honest
You are the godfather of my lyrical raising .
Fair well my friend
Everything I own, I carry with me:
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
It has done me good because of the color of the wheat
But love is not a victory march
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry