Graffiti tags stretch over his mind like plastic surgery gone wrong, like Tunguska flattening a million trees in 1908, a minor asteroid blip bad hair day for planet earth, just ask the dinosaurs, 66 million reasons to bow out into bony dirt for the human race as we pose like dirty harry, cooler than any upstart species ought to think itself to be. Lock & load like itís the 80s and go out in a hail of lead, a heroís final heartbeats painted across the cluttered cityscape while the invincibility of youth bleeds out in the black & white swansong of a fading vintage photograph.
I'm watching the sun go down and turn in to the night sky Watching it go from orange to yellow to tanish to dark brown and finally into dark blue i can't help but wonder who paints the night sky I also wonder who puts all the starts in the sky so bright and wonderful or Are they different stories being told by one one that have gone on before us or Are they just up there to remind us that even though we all go through a dark spot In life there will alway be a light that shines for us to show us the way home. I don't know its a puzzling question that...
In dark, I dream of running solo and seeking the unwed virgins as the sounds of the wind screams, bellowing below, six steps down in the quarry of bones, running solo passing the baton, hurdling to Hell, and Lucifer's throne, as he crowns me a vampire with raven-blue wings, as I write of my friend Poe, feeling the mystique of your lips caffeine, † mixed with the devil's profane semen, and the Luna shadows of our lusting divine, of Adam's wife, wearing a smile.
How sweet the church bells toll as dusk fades to glories sunset over the bones of poets past and macabre of their last supper with lost souls dripping visceral gore from the teats of Mother Earth and earthworms of the catheters
Born upon thy very soul, be still, let me stay close to this scene show what beauty shall be, amid such morning to come where light and dreams intertwine, through ever flowing moments like prints of dew on the ground, here, from hour to hour slipped as if from heaven, descending through paths so walked with gentleness of softening sighs, as shadows gather playfully about until the hands of forever gather them, and place them together into yesterday.