The future holds no present past and I'm licking at my own wounds wondering how fast the tongue in my mouth can get and last because the hour is high and the minutes are ticking and the roads are crumbling as the oil is leaking on the fire that my mother, oh my mother said she was the one with the gun and she never had any fun and I wear my pain on shoulder that are dimly clothed, and lit, because the soul inside of me is unable to fit in a world of degredation and money and corruption and liars and rat finks because the gypsies that were slain on the seventh day have their memories lifted and taken away much like my love for a girl taht said she could no longer and sharing is no longer caring because it carries a secret price, a secret weight for the hour, yes this hour, is fleeting away on ships of brass and gold and high beasts that roar with the high velocity of ten thousand dieing moors with Buddhas breaking bread with the bet of the sand men where the motorcycles shift from second to third as if the whole entire world around them is dying, lo and behold screamed the one about to hang from the hallows, these are trying times with trying people and as I type away fast their may be a meteor above our head flying down at last, and the breaking dawn, with all its glory and shimmer, makes me feel the faint whisper of a beggar evaporating into walls that they will not be seen, they will be forgotten, much like the minds that they think they will beat and treat and deal solely with the machines, the man mad megaliths that take away our souls and make them their own, for the power chord, with all of its discord is a thing of the future, a dream that became reality, a third coming of a Jesus that wasn't there but needed not to be seen, only heard, only to be remembered and held safely by the God given rosaries but there is still more to tell from the mind of a man lost in the sands of hallow sand for the rhyming coupelets that I never learned, only read and heard take me fast away from this burning land where saints hang from trees and supposed angels go for a smoke break, exhausting themselves much like a once elegant book upon the shelves, and where I see old men others see young men and where I see dead beauties others see budding cities with fog plumes of broken jokes ringing madly across a horizon that is neither white nor black, and the sheets which are dirtied carry secrets that no son or daughter will every truly hear, for the hour is getting late and the dates I made with a mate will be broken for my own crumbling dreams, with men in their cities and women in their cities all sitting pretty and looking busy, and the ambition that all of us feel and few ever step out and reel make me see faces that are filled with sorry, a sympathy that is hard to swallow for it is the size of a grapefruit like basket ball, a man that is always too tall, a foreigner beaten to death for the way he carries his rake, a blister on a face that was once glorified in the papers burns itself to death as a martyr for an unknown race, a race to the gates that swing wildly in the wintery sun and burns like a flare shooting from the sun, but the hour is getting late oh lord, the hour is getting late, and the only reason I call your name is because I must feel something larger then these four walls, filled with white paint, and I must see a grander arena to keep my mind off the luring and diabolical and ego obsessed snakes that slither through tall grass, pen in hand, recorder in mind, thinking thinking thinking that this will be the one that will set them free, this will be my beautious, magnificent, transcendent, apalling, jaw dropping, *******, fattening, eye opening, soul reviving, trench diving, appealing, commercially upheaving master piece
