Lucid, abusive
Tongue in cheek divine
Stupid, elusive
Lost soul of mine

A snap of orchestral fingers to summon the suave illustrator
Mohawk punks and minions to smash the limp masturbator

Loveless, acquiesce
Arpeggio flutter ripples
Convalesce, Fancy dress
******* with perky *******

One or two drinks, make it three then five
Keeping the blood warm and love alive

Visceral, peripheral
Dark raven hair
Liberal, scriptural
I couldn’t even care.

I adored her all, her everything, her gleaming demeanor
The subtle wink of her eyes, the glow; even greener

Exotica, ex machina
Street amazon of desert glass sand
No drama, rural karma
Flesh sweating like the heat of Sudan

Dead singers like Cole and Morrison sing of paper moons and Crystal Ships
The mixed CD segues to U2, Pulp, and then a full disk of The Flaming Lips.

"Nightingale", minor scale
The saxophonist played under the street lamp outside
Folktale female
“Another drink?” she abides, two glasses and wine supplied

On her balcony we watched and listened, to the call of urban passion
The wordless music we adored, a testament to our mutual attraction.

so, here i sit, having read that semicolons are a ******* tool - im only a partial *******; so, its admissable. in a bar drunk, sass'd, white *****'d, hot as ever-living hell, hoping for a saxophonist. white ******* off bike lock keys in the bathroom as the door is attempted to be opened; "Sorry, we were *******." splurted, what an excuse; white ***** on a bike lock key - protection from theft, i guess. almost out of tobacco, yet i feel i can sustain, excuse me, remain. "i cant believe you did that, ***** crystal." (not what you think (totally what i think)) ambient psychedelia and a saxophonist (shes been mentioned) wailing, wail, whaling; expunge that Conscious ocean as if you were a Japo. yeah, racial slurs racial slurs. im told its 11.55 post on the 7th, but i am quite aware thats a lie. (most knowledge is (vindication symplified and unerred) unaware of what is being typed anymore) ..

Her Cupid arrows has sunk,
Into my xylophone spine,
She has me singing notes,
Every single time,
Her ice cream clouds,
Gets me high,
And her marshmallow smile,
We are two of a kind,
She has me here,
Singing blues,
And there is no other place,
I'd rather be,
Than to be next to you,
The kitchentop you sit on,
The coffee you sip,
The bug spray when you camp,
The float when you swim,
I wonder what your doing,
As I write this mush,
And when you read this looking back,
I hope you are still my smush,

He is the old cat

the one purring
half notes in undertones
from the shadows of the stage

he beckons with unearthly sounds

scaling in exclamation,
He casts his spell with blue notes
which conjure up his lover’s shape

she is a thin alto

he cannot help but look
as she slinks with effortless bravado
her figure the opus of lust

a binding contract with his demons

she whispers to him and
and he glows with stage light
like an ember inside the oven

dazed by fevers of unholy matrimony

Braced,
For the rough, graceful sandpaper offered
by the saxophonist while he woos you with
outright randomness arpeggiated.
The titanic soul of the double-bass
quivers my body,
it lives in the catacombs of my ribs.
And,
I'm jazzed.
Pure chaos,
with a complete understanding of order
but a gleeful disregard.
"I could do that."
Then do it.
And, exhale.

Working over Birk’s Works and other tunes my saxophonist admires—
Cheesecake, Blackbird—for the theoretical, applied mathematics
inside an abstract, audial harmonization of the Big Bang and The Fall.

The derivative reveals the ***** of the tangent along the curve of
       spacetime.
Follow that rope back and forth from the known to the unknown, your
      mountain to their shore,
an umbilical cord between cities and stories, history and hope, divinity
       and mortality

                        *                        *    ­                    *

I never had anything wise or gentle to say to my parents.
About bladder function. They got the same treatment as every other
       soldier.
Which systems shut down first and how. The mail keeps coming even
      after you’ve stopped barking.

And what is man made of? Man. Tough it out, laugh about it. Take it out
on your spouse and sons. Democracy corrects itself
through constant criticism, neurotic carping, daily life as low intensity
      warfare. That’s how we show we care.

                        *                        *        ­                *

Will my letter to the editor be in the funny pages?
Will I even be able to read it?
Did I send it to the wrong address? I’ve seen my death face and it’s not
      pretty.

Maybe I can watch your varsity games from a viewfinder in the afterlife.
If I don’t finish The Iliad, maybe there’s a library there.
Maybe. Maybe is a long, long time.

                        *                        *        ­                *

Homer tries several ways to explain the slaughter:
by describing how a spear pierces a warrior’s jawbone or armor,
how Achilles’ and Agamemnon’s hissy fits contribute to the pain of being
      a soldier

and how the gods, esp. Zeus, are passionate, confused, obtuse.
A callow youth even as a man. He was afraid and therefore could not
      comfort or help.
Perhaps he has a question he’d like to ask but isn’t sure what it is or how
      to ask it.

                        *                        *          ­              *

The hero loses urinary control.
The virtuoso loses interest in her bow.
The expert neglects to do the research.

How do cancer cells and bacteria cooperate to ****
the host (you)? The way yr mum & pop
******* up. It’s unavoidable and it’s not your fault.

time thought of long words and
the sun’s life as it burns,
never minding the hip or the un–
as the cat awaiting shores
looses his body to
the darkness of the year,
lame-eyed ******* wrote thirteen
in repetition. lingering on Vonnegut.
unnamed, land-lover ran between
the death of the night and day,
creating waste. riding on, rinding on.
hoarse questions grew as
tea scalded palate and man tapped
his heart in waste of thought.
drawn by claims of a saxophonist,
******* wolfish with stolen cigarette,
spouting roundabout racial slurs
called the Ocean’s syllables.

Well in socio,
I was asked what is my identity?
I thought,
sure I know plenty,
but actually,
what the hell do I know,
am I build up of what people think around me?

Well this is what I think,
you don't have to agree,
I don't really know who I am to you.

To me I'm a unique bloke,
physically short and strong due to painful labour and exercise,
mentally I'm ****** up due to obsessions,
visions and life experiances,
I don't hate much,
danger,
drugs,
wankers,
and body modifications,
so you're alright with me if you keep yourself clean.

I'm a contemporary saxophonist,
with a bit of old school classical,
my ****** dyslexia is my downfall.

I'm a moral monster,
just remember that,
I still have some faith,
so cut me some slack,
I just want you to be gorgeous and safe,
whoever you are,
I may have a large mouth,
but it's a wise one,
my real name is Jack.

Please do not ring
For your eyes sting
As I see the many failures
The shadows in your eyes
For I seek to hide
From the many mirrors
Of this world
Please pass me by
Dismiss me
For your presence hurts
My very wishes
Splitting my heart in two
And the blessing of others
Chisel my brow
Aged by my own hope

I star gaze into
The world of relating
Never has a breath of love
Felt so far away
But there is a beauty
In the midnight black
As I gazeee
The love between stars
Dances and plays
But as day turns to night
I switch of the light
Feeling the gravity
Of this earth
My heart seeks
An unconscious sleep
Where my head rests
In the soil of my mind

For I am a solitary saxophonist
Who echos his song across
The still silent lake at night
Stirring the leaves of the willow trees
Who stretch over the moon lite lake
Slowly I tread
Into the dark lake at night
The murky waters of my mind
Descending the waters of fright
Where devils and demons
Lurk out of sight
Where I seek to meet
The dwellers of the deep
To hear their hidden screams
Releasing the sounds
Of the forbidden wounds
That haunt the twilight night

As the world seeks to draw
Me into their petty quarrels
Their childish fights
As they play
Pitta patta , pitta patta
Bakers man
So that they may find their hands
I bath in the warmth of God
Protected by the many showers
Of many disappointments
That are sprinkled on many a love
As I seek a deeper silence
Where the world flees from
I seek to find a solace
As I bring much company
To the many painful parts
Searching to cushion them
With a gentle love
Harvested from the oceanic realms
One we all may find
If we simply care to look

Taking breath to feel
The great aloneness
Can be a nervous task
But our many demons and angels
Will all be found
Standing close so very close
Hand in hand cheek to cheek
One the doctor ,one patient
So finding the treasures of our deep
Will bring you a great new sweep
As we wipe my feet clean
Before I enter another soul

There's a saxophonist that insists on keeping me awake
Blaring, drowning in the noise
Taking in spit and saliva from the reed
And going at it again
With fervorous gusts of screeches and yells

There's a horse that insists on keeping me awake
Neigh, he says, to the summer heat
And say he does, proclaim he does
Loudly, proudly, ever more
The morning light rises above him

There's cicadas insisting on keeping me awake
Buzz, chirp, skree, zumm
That is what they say, and what a fruitful talk
I'm sure it must be riveting since they want me to hear it
If only I spoke their tongue

There's a brain that insists on keeping me awake
Loud yells of bygone memories
Honest mistakes of the last decade
Fears of tomorrow, fears of today
What's the saxophone, horse and cicadas matter if I couldn't sleep anyway?

why do you follow me in the light?
and leave me again the dark?

i like to play a game with my shadow.
i call it hide and seek.

sometimes in the night, when the stars come out to play
you come out too.
and when i need you the most, you're nowhere near to be seen.
this goes on everyday, our continuous routine.

see, what if i lost you?
would i lose a bit of gravity?
or would i stop existing?
some say that you only come in good times, some say that you're the reason
i am dreaming.

i think you have another life as a jazz man, a saxophonist because when
you are not around, i hear every type of sound. i hear crazy jazz music,
and piano melody lines and maybe thats your life.

why do you follow me in the light?
and leave me again in the dark?

i am just a young fellow who likes to question his shadow.

Ma's other half,
Our chief of staff,
The house custodian,
His grandkids' guardian,
Always the humorist,
Seasoned saxophonist,
Spiritually rooted,
Retired but lauded,
Champion of good reason,
Father for all seasons.

i have never heard of morals give me more autumn chill me
shiver my shins sleep in my flesh keep warm with bled blanket that only just fits we sit herded on sofas bigger than psychiatry though it holds us barely
our minds a millennium freestyle
i feel revivable, immortal, extorted
went under in a fortnight
now i feel reborn like Zephyrus
i stride westwards never slowly i am storming on
what were strong teeth and pearl mask
this venus retrograde i am unmasking you
my mouth is a telephone spit line and i will call you tomorrow

my memory is split twice and i will never forget how
we sank deeper into my mattress
lowered into the foam
two froth corpses one bite out of my each of my feet
bottled up scabs to heal something else maybe later i am saving on everything now just in case ploughed down my
plan b capitalism saxophonist co-producer nudess star

reverse of i am ways revisited
sent some string quartets to my past self some poems some antlers and me in a black-and-white dream again reliving the uncontrollable
taste the soap lips eyes inwards finger gun pointed
focussed on myself
my essence is wild picking
flowers off of your back a stroll
a toll on my muscles

i crawl
lift my left leg slightly
bend my fronton backwards

i drink more air craft
restricted
gulping
death metal

i want you to
go inside my room
outlive yourself then go
outside amid plains and forget all of the limb peaks and die then rebirth yourself in the morning climb yourself mount yourself
causal cliff
and in front of me
you are hanging by a thread

He has pagan babies
My children unbaptized too

His saxophonist a black man
His drummer is a Jew

Which means the band is rockin'
What else could they do?

I told her of my love
Though odd, I told her true