Lud ?

Gravitational pull and wanderlust pull the droplets from the leaves onto the stone in millennia of the crash the rock will eventually wander through the stone
reshaping the road for others to come
It tick tocks on the brain stem as a constant
even the scarecrow wants to run from the standstill to anywhere anyplace for just one moment of not feeling like a scarecrow
a bag of personal gloaming to drag along the road to god knows where but we have to move to new spaces away from plaster faces finding the cracked moments
in between twilight of harm and flame
new burning cities dark with ash
that is where I will always be

She never said not to go until the trip was booked and paid for. Not once of sadness or murk til the truck started humming in an unforgettable cloudy sky. It’s a humourous story in the soul’s archive with no real punch line except where I am right now and going to

Give me your tired, your poor,Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these,the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:
I lift my lamp beside the golden door hiding the criminal legality of letting of you rot .Because I got mine and soon what you have will be divided across the line of vultures
the gleaming of red,white.and blues that flies for the chosen few and blind fleecing the blind
This golden lamp shines bright but not for you dying at the hands of the church,the steeple…open the doors and see the corporations that are people
Lady Liberty is the yeti of NY harbour ,everyone swears they have seen it but liberty is no where to be found
Go hunt through the concrete wilderness and see what you find because too many are still looking
Better luck catching a Harry and all the Hendersons panhandling in union square just so they don’t have to eat their pet

Childrens Hour

The red headed banshees and smiling ties hide under the bed right next to us
Hiding from what we’ve become in this long run against grains and tides under our covers from the evil that men do
It permeates from the walls of the bedrooms and steel zoos we’ve lived in since childhood
It lurks waiting from their creeping time to help along the monsters we have been made by outside hands and secrets never told
Being it everywhere it just waits for the blankets to be pulled away
This is the world of the demons we didn’t create
And the fight is daily to preserve who we want to be

The wrong foam

Boiling it all down waiting for the frothy truth to rise above the heated bubbles showing the bests honest sincerity
Instead the heated turds polish themselves in the days boil
Shit does not always roll down the cliche downhill
Evil defecation floats as strong as the creams best submerged in the fabrics of best intention
Turning even the best people into full shining examples of the polished shithead roaming society as grand examples of how the full of shit get further than the foam of the top
We are all full of fantastic shit
And some shittier than the rest
Shine on you crazy shitheadd

The words I have, the stories that need telling
Weekends in the abyss picking of kitchy baubles to prove the trips are real fighting back tears under the storm clouds and crows
I lug around me most days since I found out the hopeless, the outcasts, and the downtrodden
Everyone relates to the songs
Poetry written from a gutter
They get loved for the relation to tune
When we get right to it
They can only relate in abstract senses begging to live that life
Just when faced with it
It’s a refusal to acknowledge or even see
These are true stories
From the invisible

Her shadowy delicate hair curls around her made up face of a porcelian doll
belonging to no one
i am lucky the warm and fuzzy moment is all mine,time is hers to give
time is hers to take where ever she pleases
in sickness and awful health she will stroll by with another giving them her warmest pleasure
no dancing tonight lad just deep dark struggle recalled from before she was even thought
we will just blame her for the big hole in the chest because that’s what we do until we win her time again
she comes back like clockwork