The man Who can Climbs high stairs.
Who clear away the bodies, tie the flags low, remember who exchange your smile for piles of shit-brown guile
Olivia deHaviland, the gates of death sucking the skeleton's thumb wet feet adorn the dead screen
This band of amateurs coming after me to carry me home on sweat-soaked shoulders, shirts cotton, buttoned down
mercy is laughable, the sword kneels a kill unbridled nature swells where poison provides a fray within my body, eclipses against me with pride instilled, yet in this dance abandon I never move father away;
So many pieces of the puzzle, there is no need to hide but they were lost, caught in nets on Pier 39 Like an unfaithful son on the day of his bride the colours of this city run and they rhyme Pollock might say its a bit of a daub until each piece he numbered
Every other night, I look at your picture, And reach for my phone to dial your number. But if I really called, would it be a bother? Is it only me, or do you also still suffer?
I’m sitting in my cafe Wanting some inspire Staring at me coffee Waiting brain to fire
Worry’s the advance Interest that you pay
I seem to spend my life In giving up on things
I’ve just read today’s paper It’s full of doom and gloom Murders, killing, destruction, death
Asked mummy if this artificial Meat was free-range grown?
What do you think is the difference between (Your minds you will need to unblock) A jeweler, and also a jailer? Think hard my dear lovely little flock
I drink my cappuccino Write poems in a caff And as Americans might say My lines can give a laugh
Like the Sun that shines, radiating bright light, a guru disseminates thoughts lofty and wise. Using his power, directness, and mystical might, pulls you out of every single and dangerous vice. Get closer to your guru, feel the spiritual rise, an elevation that could get you to the worlds beyond;
Clever Spooks wanted to be head of the ghosts; So he went to his friends and started to boast: He talked of the angels and the spirits of the moon, Of how he met them and got the colour as a boon!
Death in the ocean only comes once upon the prose tree in my mind, there is a darkness in the lithe stillness of autumn oaks now gone, as olive flowers; a fantasy heartless