"crick" poems
KISSING MR. CHELIDON GOODBYE
Ho...ho. . .oh!
I don't know
if I should be
telling you this.
I was just sweet
as in 16 &
never been kissed
and my *******
hadn't yet arrived
though I prayed and prayed
to a God who did not
heed my girlish plea.
All the girls in my year
had already budded.
******* to the right of me!
Breast to the left of me!
Into the valley of despair
I rode my Raleigh
alas alas
breast-less!
I practiced kissing
by kissing
the you know
inside of
( the whatchamacallit? )
my elbow the
chelidon so called
by an old falling-apart
medical dictionary.
I clipped some hair
from our Yorkshire terrier
stuck it on the crick of
my right elbow
so that it became
my first moustache'd kiss.
And so, was born
my Mr. Chelidon.
Pathetic...yes...I know
but the year after
my bosoms arrived
with a suddenness
that took my breath
away.
I breasting the waves
like a ship's figurehead
as I dived into the sea
a Venus for boys to see.
I was my *******
and my ******* were me.
Somehow I could then not
stopped being kissed.
And once kissed
grew addicted to it.
The bliss of the kiss.
I was my own drug.
I gave Mr. Chelidon
the elbow.
Discovered the joy of boys
inventing various uses
for them
as they
discovered
me.
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 5:41 AM UTC
I'm not one of those people
Who can bury that itch,
So very down deep
That they can't even scratch.
Certainly, most days, I'm satisfied with Me,
Just can't seem to be satisfied with Just me.
I want four hands, not two,
And four feet, covered in warm woolen socks between sheets.
I want clamoring voice from a throat that's not mine.
I want two heads, two hearts,
Two toothbrushes.
Different length hair in the shower
(You clean it out)
Accidental-shrunken work shirts
Cussing fights while I finish the laundry
Surprise apologies later.
Nights of scheduling compromise
Days of scheduling compromise
How many sick days can we skip work with?
I don't need some long-distance,
Not-a-relationship
Just-friends-with-benefits
********
I cannot hug me
I cannot bury my face in my chest
And just breathe.
My arms don't reach far enough,
And I get a crick in my neck only to find that
My shirts just smell like cheap soap.
Not looking for marriage.
Ten years until kids.
Maybe a dog later on.
We'll walk it together, and you can bag the poo...
It could be I'm just too addicted to ***
Or maybe I wear too much lingerie.
My corsets and evening gowns show too much of my flesh?
I know too many good random subjects for conversation?
My **** looks too good.
Your **** looks too good?
Pick one and tell me,
So I can find that one thing
That keeps the timing from not lining up
Or lets me meet men that aren't married, or
Under 18, Under 21, Under-able to carry out a conversation with words longer than 2 syllables.
I probably won't even see it coming,
That day when I find that someone who satisfies Just Me.
But for now, can I please find
Someone to just satisfy me?
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 7:24 PM UTC
The root
Of ambition
Is ambivalent
There's no “one cause”
No one causes
A man
To make life decisions
In a day
It takes
Much more
For
A man to be successful
And real
With his inner-self
Accepting
The cards dealt
With the stamina
To play through
Exercising his will
With the feel
Lingering in every pore
Unsure
Of obstacles ahead
Headstrong
Through barricades
Bearing the bruises
Trampling
Over your own
Feet
Defeat
Seen in battle
But the war’s on
And the war zone
Isn’t limited
To a few
Years
Like ages 19-22
Whose to do
Worse
Who has more
Money
CARS
Clothes
And hoes
And whose vision
Is so small
To tack them
with success
All in all
And attack those
Who lack the
Wills
To move forward
And ignorantly
Attach it
With a phenomena
Of
Your unknowing
Root of ambition
Can spread
Like weeds
And weeds
Can **** ambition
Or spread
Like seeds
How many men
Dive
Head first under the influence
Or rise above
High
From the same drug
Barack Obama
Michael Phelps
William Shakespeare
Bill Clinton
Lebron James
Pablo Picasso
The Beatles
Jay-Z
Bob Marley
Conan O’Brien
Dr Francis Crick. (Nobel Prize Winner)
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Salvador Dali
Victor Hugo
Kareem Abdul-Jabar
Snoop Dogg
Dr. Dre
Stephen King
Just to name a few
Maybe
Just maybe
It has nothing to do
With success
Or you.
Sep 30, 2010
Sep 30, 2010 at 1:11 AM UTC
No we're not learning about inventors.
No we're not learning about scientists.
If we were, that would be great,
But we're not,
Instead we're learning about lying thieves,
And overrated ones at that.
We should be learning about real inventors,
That didn't steal ideas from others,
And were lucky enough not to have ideas stolen from them,
Like George Westinghouse.
We should be learning about real inventors,
And real scientists,
That sadly went unrecognized,
Because their ideas were stolen,
By so called inventors,
That were in reality total jerks,
Like Nikola Tesla,
And Rosalind Franklin.
However, instead of learning about true inventors like them,
We're learning about the likes of Thomas Edison,
Guglielmo Marconi,
James Watson,
And Francis Crick.
Here's a "fun fact" about Thomas Edison,
He promised Nikola Tesla 50 grand,
In exchange for fixing his machines.
However, when Nikola Tesla was finished,
Several months later,
He not only didn't pay Tesla,
He mocked him for asking,
He said that he was joking,
And according to some, he was offered a raise of 10 dollars
According to others, he asked for a raise, and was denied it,
Either way, Tesla quit.
Here's a "fun fact" about Guglielmo Marconi,
He didn't invent the radio,
Nikola Tesla did.
However, Marconi pulled an Edison,
And stole Tesla's invention from him.
Luckily, although sadly too late,
Tesla was rewarded the patent.
Here's a "fun fact" about James Watson and Francis Crick,
They took credit for Franklin's discovery.
Why do we have to sit in social studies,
Listening to Youtube videos,
And reading books,
And doing plays,
That people created for school kids,
About so called inventors.
When instead,
We could be reading books,
Listening to Youtube videos,
And doing plays,
That we created ourselves,
About real inventors.
I want to get a real education.
I want to learn about the truth,
Instead of lies.
So please teachers,
Principals,
Superintendents,
Common Core Professionals,
State Test Professionals,
Please let us learn about the truth,
Please don't make us learn about lies.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 4:46 PM UTC
i am every unfinished poem that sits in piles of crumpled paper by your waste bin and every crowded thought in the cranial space above your neck. i am every word that begs to be free from the tip of your tongue but remains just out of your memory's reach. i am comprised of the colors of sunrise but am more the mood of a sunset. i am the familiar fingerprints on your favorite coffee mug. i am a wicker rocking chair on somebody's grandmother's porch. i am bite marks on your pencil and the crick in your neck. i am the vacant blurry buzz of an old television set. i am all of the places i have never been. i am lovers' names carved into summertime tree bark, promising "forever" - only to fall short of that promise by the time the leaves change. i am here. i am not where i belong.
you are the gravity that keeps my feet on earth. you are the atmosphere i breathe. you are the rain that feeds my soul & makes flowers grow. you are my revival and my revolution and the courage i kept hidden inside of closed fists for so long i formed crescent moons in my palms. you are an unstoppable fire that is burning me alive in the best way. you are the only rooftop i have ever visited that i haven't felt the urge to jump off of. you are the gentle hum and rumble of the washing machine i used to nap beside when i was a little girl. you are the creaky wooden swing in my backyard where i sat for countless hours and smoked and cried and pondered. you are all my favorite odds & ends bound together by my wildest dreams. you are sometimes so beyond my understanding, that i wonder when i'm going to wake up; and if i ever did find out that you were just a dream, i would bang on heaven's gates and plead with god to let me sleep. you are there. i am here, you are there.
one of us needs to move.
- m.f.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
before the sun rose
my father would come in
and I
half-awake with
gummy dried tears
let him
hold my hands so that
he'd rub every crick and knot
that came on a very small set
of shoulders that carried the world.
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 12:51 AM UTC
Diggin' in the dirt
have a little fun
drink a little beer
have another one
Sun is really hot
and I just want to play
gotta go outside
gotta get away
Go swimming at the crick'
Maybe catch a fish
cook it on the bank
we don't need a dish
Get a little tan
get a little burn
Doesn't really matter
cuz I'll bet we'll never learn
Grab onto the rope
and come on for the ride
It's way too nice out here
for you to stay inside!
Cherie Nolan © All Rights Reserved 2016
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 2:36 PM UTC
OHIO MY HOME
Ohio my childhood home
a simpler life
an innocent time
a place where corn fields go on for miles and miles
the fields wave and sway beckoning you
to make secret forts in their midst
the original corn maze
in there we eat cow corn
never thinking to ask
was it fresh or clean?
it was organic at its best
playing in the water down at the “crick”
no such worries of a chemical spill
no one got sick
no parents around
nobody drowned
tornadoes come by
what a scary thrill
mother nature at her worst
toppling trees each way
providing us a strange place to play
in between the branches
we made our mansions
safe maybe not...
but we played anyway
far from the city lights
we spend our nights
watching natural sights
fireflies glowing looking for love
the tree frogs are singing out for a mate
mother raccoons bring their young from the nest
skunks delight us with their odorous best
in an eerie alien fog
ufo’s hovering over the
tall trees in the front yard
all under the moons sight
as i close my eyes i can see
Ohio my memory home
Mar 19, 2018
Mar 19, 2018 at 4:26 PM UTC
Meteoric Buick
Slick *****
Frantic frenetic
Majestic kick
Chick shtick
Shashlik
Nicotinic stick
Lick flick
Hermeneutic heretic
Magnetic rhetoric
Hick logic
Strategic
Plastic music
Tick click
Bucolic Bardic
Peptic druidic
Rustic emetic
Sceptic
Polymeric quirk
Sick trick
Turmeric trimeric
Septic *****
Wick crick
Derrick
Mar 4, 2010
Mar 4, 2010 at 12:27 AM UTC
I only know to cope in a couple of ways
- slam up some walls
pretend it doesn't hurt
move on
innocence is a mockery on my face
my lips twist into grotesque resemblance
of long-gone smiles
It is difficult to remember
to relax
to be normal
'normal'
you come back in flurried recollections
blurs
and
heartaches
a pain starting from the middle
of my forehead
to the crick in my neck
right to my wrists
softly rotating trying to relax
i smile
this is normal
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 12:23 AM UTC
A little girl with eyes of blue
You were your mother's prayer
You are your mother's daughter
With ringlets in your hair
But...
Turn the competition up
Turn the volume up to ten
You're a little tomboy
Your dads daughter then...
You can pick a squirrel from a tree
When you wrestle you won't yield
When you go and play at football
You're the best boy on the field
You can tear apart an engine
You act just like your dad
I've got to say my daughter
Is the son I never had
You dress up for your mother
Wear a dress to go to school
You have manners like no other
And you know the golden rule
But, when the day is over
The dress is off and jeans on quick
Then you grab your rod and tackle box
And take off fishing at the crick
You can pick a squirrel from a tree
When you wrestle you won't yield
When you go and play at football
You're the best boy on the field
You can tear apart an engine
You act just like your dad
I've got to say my daughter
Is the son I never had
You are your mothers princess
You are your daddy's son
But you are our loving daughter
When it counts, and day is done
You make both of us happy
You make both of us proud
You blush when I yell loudly
That's my daughter....really loud
You can pick a squirrel from a tree
When you wrestle you won't yield
When you go and play at football
You're the best boy on the field
You can tear apart an engine
You act just like your dad
I've got to say my daughter
Is the son I never had
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 11:24 PM UTC
There's an ick in my crick,
that makes me feel sick,
my insides are taring in two!
I seek some relief,
complete disbelief,
this sickness contracted from you!
I put on my scarf,
am ready to ****
my temperature rises above.
I'm ready to hurl,
my diamonds and pearls,
lost all of their their lustrous love.
It lays at my feet,
spread out on the street,
I told you that I wasn't faking.
My mind and my heart,
all splattered apart,
my soul lays there now for the taking!
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 9:55 AM UTC
Ordinary people
carry action figures
on their dashboard
and stop in still traffic
on their way to work
to stare at the circus billboard
wishing they could be
the incredible flying man
who soars above the Ferris wheel
and disappears beyond the horizon.
The human cannonball lives
with his mother
in a musty basement
filled with old baseball cards,
beer can memorabilia,
an ash stained billiards table,
Chicago Bulls jerseys,
and pictures of Goldie Hawn
and Evil Knievel.
The human cannonball has
high blood pressure,
frequent anxiety,
a wheat allergy,
a jaw that pops
when opened too wide,
a crick in his neck,
a bruised shoulder
from falling
into the net
over and over.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 1:31 AM UTC
Tears flow down her face.
Agony from recent past, she clings to like a drowning body floating at sea.
Useless debris.
There's a taste of duality in all things.
A sorrow reality can bring.
Though this is a mere moment in time it seems like it is everything. How does one gauge pain if it is something we hope not to be remembering?
She lets herself became jaded, a heart slowly turning to stone. Heading down a path she lets herself believe she knows.
She lets herself believe she knows all there is to know.
If she takes a wrong turn there could be more suffering, or more joy then she would have otherwise know.
Who really knows which way to go?
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 6:22 AM UTC
Clickety click, Clickety clack,
The train it rolls along the track.
The kids all get restless the parents all natter,
But at least they aren’t crying, so that doesn’t matter.
Clickety clack, Clickety click,
A child hollers out “mum I feel sick!”
“What did I tell you about eating those sweets?”
“Don’t make a mess all over these seats!”
Clickety click, Clickety clack,
The guard sitting bored, in his cab at the back.
We thunder through towns and all of its people,
Passing by churches, and that old pointed steeple.
Clickety clack, Clickety click,
A drinks cart on the train? Ah just the trick,
A nice cup of coffee and a cold can of beer,
“How much? You’re kidding!” I won’t get much change here!
Clickety click, Clickety clunk,
Oops, sounds like that rail's missing a chunk.
We cross over bridges, spanning their rivers,
I must close that window, it’s giving me shivers.
Clickety click, Clickety clack,
I’m getting hungry; I could use a good snack.
Back comes the hostess with her goods laden trolley,
No chance I’m parting with even more lolly.
Clickety clack, Clickety click,
So many destinations, which one should I pick?
Should I stay local, or should I go far?
It’s certainly more peaceful than driving a car.
Clickety click, Clickety clack,
It feels like we’re speeding along a fair whack.
The seconds to minutes, the minutes to hours,
From towns and their houses, to fields and their flowers.
Clickety clack, Clickety click,
Wherever I’m going, I’m getting there quick.
Bright eyed young faces, an adventure, exciting,
The doddery old folk, complain when alighting
Clickety click, Clickety clack,
We pass many crossings and a ***** old shack.
How many golf courses and quaint country pubs?
And weekend gardeners out pruning their shrubs.
Clickety clack, Clickety click,
These seats so uncomfy, now my neck's got a crick!
Now finally I've reached my long journey’s end,
And I'm glad that I've shared it with you my dear friend.
© Cinco Espiritus Creation
2012
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 7:00 PM UTC
I wanted to write about
The first
Time I saw a spotlight
And knew what it meant
It was in a theater
And
Smoke machines blew
The light into existence a light
I had never seen before the spotlights
They circled cut paths I couldn’t
Follow
Define
Shining through the smoke
Light made color made smoke made real
It wasn’t the light I saw it was the smoke spotlit but it was
Only the light I knew
Saw
Could see
Until I thought of driving
Home
Late one night in the front seat and falling asleep
As our headlights cut through the fog
And knowing if I could just
Crawl through the window and
Sit on the hood of the
Car and reach out my foot and stand
on the fog-beam I would
Be carried somewhere more comfortable than the
One crick-necked nook
I had found that would
Let me fall asleep dreaming of
Crawling through windows. I wanted
To write about that first time,
When I watched the spotlights draw symbols
A cuneiform language only the smoke could read and how the
Smoke danced and I realized
The only way to shine is to be
So
Small
That you cannot cast a shadow,
That everything casts a shadow that
To shine you must block something else from shining
Because we are not suns
We are not
We are small and
Lonely
moons.
But what if we were so small we didn’t have to be?
We could be dust and smoke and
The light could dance through us
Together
And we would dance through it
And bring it to life
Write in a language only
We can read as we swim through ourselves
Ourselves the light we’re swimming through
Light is only light until it hits the dust
The dust makes the beam
Be small with me and build beams of light in a small theater
Hall where the dust has
Collected where
We have collected
Ourselves.
That is what I wanted to write
About but as I watched the
Beams moving
And learned the smoke of a
Dusty theater-room
And how it dances
Even after the light leaves it,
It must, even though
I
Cannot see
It, because it is
Always ready always
Dancing when the light arrives
The dust is a beam of light
Waiting
To be built, a boat
Waiting
To breathe an ocean into
Existence and float
Through it and
Be rocked
By it and
Be
It, is
What I wanted to write about but
As I watched the beams
Moving one
Met my eye
And
The smoke vanished
And
The beam vanished
And
There was nothing
But the light
Staring at me
Ripping my shadow
Out of me and
Hurling it behind me only
For a second
An angry and
Vengeful second who are you to
Tell me that I need the dust?
You are not a sun
You are barely a moon you are
So small
So
small
And still you cast a shadow you
Take from me
Use me
Know yourself
Build your world
By me with me through me
And you sit
In this dusty theater hall
So small
And want to write
That it is dust that makes the beam?
No smoke machine could
Blow the light into
Existence what would you call
Smoke if there was no light to
Pass through it to
Light it breathe it into
Existence now
Sit
Lonely and selfish
moon
And watch the show.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 1:37 PM UTC
The cricket was only doing what crickets do
Walking slowly up the walk looking for more crickets
Looking north and south, east and west
He or she appeared to alone
Where were more crickets
Where was the orchestra of fellow crickets
What happened
The wonderment stopped when this cricket let out “crick-it, crick-it”
The orchestra followed suit and sounded out in cricket harmony
Cricket harmony so welcomed by this once lonely cricket
Off it hopped to join in the symphonic noises created by the once hidden fellow crickets
Crick-it, Chirp, Crick-it, Chirp, Crick-it......
Brian Hill - 2019 # 239
Sep 23, 2019
Sep 23, 2019 at 9:12 AM UTC
there's that crick in my neck I used to fish in and, that inch-full can of ginger-ale I left in the cup holder,
in the center console
of the car,
these last few nights.
let's swim in that.
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 6:42 PM UTC
Creek
I call it a crick
when I was ten- no eleven
Maybe ten and a half
My dad worked as a mechanic....like I do now
I remeber he came home one day and kicked off his ***** workboots by the front door
His hands were always dirtier than a son-of-a-bitch
He always had grease and dirt under his nails when he got home
and would run them under hot water and glo-jo like I do now
Them hands were COVERED in scars
*....mine aren't that scarred yet
and I'm hoping they never will be
I got out of this town once and made it half way around the God **** planet
But I came back when aunt mary-lou died
the only thing I remember from that funeral
....the girl across from me was wearing a red thong
her name was Megan (I had a dog with that name once)
She was aunt mary-lou's friends **** *** stepdaughter
She had that look like
"I am way too good for this trailer park ********
And I smiled and thought
"I know you are"
*
Well my dad came home
To find out that I had broken the bb gun he got when he was fourteen
And instead of yellin' at me
or beatin' me
he told me to go get him a beer
and he let me have a sip
I thought he was gonna tear me up and down like a red headed step-child
Or put his cigarette out on my palm
But he didn't
He just sat there
and still to this day I wonder why I didn't get the usual
Truth is:
when I came back from getting his beer on that fateful day
I thought I might have seen my dad wiping a tear from his cheek
Jan 12, 2012
Jan 12, 2012 at 1:02 AM UTC
Hectored by the pit-a-patter
of frozen pellets, you might hear
these dented eaves wheeze and sneeze
lubricious comparisons, but
it's a thickly frosted fiction
that their bulbous white noses
look anything like eggshells.
In springtime's crick-cracking they will
however birth a frog with not
so princely disposition:
Hacksaw in hand, he'll eye
your roommate and that footlocker
where she keeps invaluables
of an oddly personal nature.
His plan is to hip-hoppity leave
you red-faced, trying to calm
this panicked friend with un-fairy
tales of a burglar amphibian
who muttered of moral decay,
mis-fabled crowns, and the strangeness
of saved fingernail clippings.
Feb 18, 2010
Feb 18, 2010 at 8:03 AM UTC
Spider web crick-cracks on eggshell skin
Raggedy Ann rag doll made of porcelain
Second-hand bruises, scratches, scuffs, and knicks
In the healing shields of my hands, quick enough to fix
Super glue and elbow grease I knew would save the day
So full of good intentions, I carried her away
The best laid plans of mice and men, all buggered by my feet
The jingly song of transience played out on cold concrete
A mindless second's trip-up, the crystal princess killed
Her splintered features looked up, haunt my memory still
Lips forever frozen, screaming "Please, no more!"
In kaleidoscopic pieces scattered on the floor
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 7:15 PM UTC
Crick crack, crick crack
the Grey pebble starts to fall
it starts to fall into the darkness
the magnetizing darkness of loss, hatred, selfishness, and confusion
when the pebble hits the ground nobody knows
It doesn't make a sound
because nobody dares to hear
but it does in fact makes a sound
but whose is around to travel with the pebble
to hear it's crying sound of desire
a desire to be known
to be sought after
to be discover....
A tear drop on the pebble
it drip from my eyes
as I look into the Grey skies
I close my eyes and took a deep breath
I felt hands pushing me. Different sizes and ethnicities,
voices of different tones, language and dialects
all telling me the same thing
To Jump...
I DID, I ****** DID ALRIGHT?
and I did...
It wasn't graceful, it only survive for 3 seconds
by then I already hit the ground
my body is an unrecognizable trash with splatter compressed blood
But the pebble didn't get mark
At least the pebble was heard
**** I committed suicide”
All because they have forgotten to attach the rope....
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC
I stand in line,
I can conform,
It is a must.
That's okay because I can conform but not forget myself.
I can play their game,
but I can still be me.
I can still be unique!
I can still have my opinion even in uniform.
My will to conform dose not become who I am,
But it shows in my character.
I am able to look different ways without getting a crick in my neck.
Others choices about their lives don't infuriate me.
Others lives are their own,
Not mine,
Not yours,
So why dose that make your opinion or others law.
It doesn't,
but if it was you wouldn't be you,
I wouldn't be me.
We would be all the same.
I can conform but the way other doesn't hurt me,
It's apart of them so why should I make that apart of me or me apart of them.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 8:37 AM UTC
Best of all, there are lives in every skin. They know the words to your favourite language and the aching corporeality of smoke wisps as overused poetic analogy-- sativa with grapefruit, the particulars speak in toungezzz and sometimes I smoke **** and I'm so hungry, but I'm not hungry.. 6 o'clock and Dionysius means what the heaven needs **** done, it's awful-- no misfit twists and yab blam undeclared winter this year we call Fort Summerforever, BLANK, BLAM, expressive bottom-line, you don't look around anymore and check the bookshelves of your lives for those lucid Lucy detailers, trailers a warmer word for tracers, do the replacement parts fit all of the models and every time I went back to Trippy's it was the same guy, $70, oh the whole **** with the slide and all flattened preference to how in-this we are, how imagine how mystical, hanging those mushrooms on the wall, that weird pipe, cover ashes I dunno. In here it was I / thou and the digital paper-- I climb behind the eye and continent for a moment and hear see do 'it was a huge *** bag just filled with all this weed' bazooka balloon. crick the neck to create a feeling, oh but you'll listen to be come and be
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 2:28 AM UTC
Storm into that room so you will be seen, and
hold up high, sun salute
that body, that vessel you got!
Take every vertebrae, mmm pull it taught
Pull it.
Pull it as twine itself
wrapped around my words-
each bone
creaking like footfalls on old wooden stairs.
And look directly at your soul-
Do not squirm in the shame
of your nakedness -
beautiful lustful abundantly naked-
Instead
Crest, oh lord,
White swirling madness of intentions.
and take these old bones, baby-
take this body
Take these old bones of mine and pull them up,
Stretch, find the strength! and pull-
Take those limped shoulders and throw them back to the gods!
Oh your rusted soul, fill it with water from the Darma ***** Crick.
And it might
burn-
sting and sour.
Make you cough, choke and sputter.
But oh
Renewed, Renewed!
And you start out with the feet, kicking rocks on the road, mmmm.
And end with the head bowed back with a psalm bouncing on
red berry lips, mmm
Oh, yes! Hands out to glory, oh feet moving, dancing
hot pavement below like Hades.
Step and another, another.
Until your out of frame...
Oh glory is the road.
Cleaned and cleansed as you go,
Hear me? Cleansed as you go, down Sinner Lane.
Cleansed and cleansing is the road
of the
revival parade.
sahn 8/25/14
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 12:43 AM UTC