"I said, there is home."
to nobody.
different names never changed
a **** thing.
we could see no people
to/who/that learn how idle
doesn't mean "still".
they've made a god of progress;
progress is toothpaste in a sink.

who couldve sown those ideas
together had they not been
all blinking buzzing neon sign
in the window of the page?

probably quite alot of folks
had they not been so busy
wiping dried blue Colgate off
of porcelain.

simple, remember?

so it goes.
always.
dosey doe down long hallways,
around puddles of ****,
singing songs long faded
to ambient noise.
please, mumble a myth for the void to posion.
the void in your avoidance.
the void in the poignancy.
the void on the points of stolen steak knives stuck in the hearts of the strigoi
shuffling outside our windows
day and night.

drip gold from the mouths of memorial statues,
we need that.
badly.

DNA and genetics strummed,
Note by Note,
with memories of how you
Danced them, the chosen ones,
through childhood,
on their own
stages
of grief and joy.
In a cinematic style,
for the soundtrack was intended to heighten the
emotion,
but ended up framing it as well as any photograph.

They are now stuck on the stage
of so-called postmodernism,
despite the dreams being the same as yesteryears.
A free festival of colours:
Psychedelic, Acidic, Neon and
Corporate non-prolific,
NEVERLAND, TAKE US!
they beg.

The courts' reading of this DNA,
will grind chords to cash.
Are you the parent that hits their child
For dancing the steps they themselves had laid out?

I' AM INNOCENT
The thief proclaims.
For notes belong to no one,
or the birds would be plucked feather by feather
and the whales carved in an Eastern market.
A child will copy it's parent.
As do the pub stage hopefuls reach for your hands.