It Might End Tomorrow

It Might End Tomorrow

It’s easy to be afraid, of yourself,
The weight you carry
Of all these years of people’s bullshit,
Literally that you’re wreaking off
Carrying all those old folks’ dreams,
Of greatness, honor, some more of that stuff
All the normal things like orange juice,
Ice-cream, cricket, and football
What’s good to win and better to lose,
How to call a good game
What to eat, where to run to with wearing what,
So many more things that make the code
The code that we call human,
Some weird code,
I’ve never seen the better of it

And now we’re bored, of the code,
But left with nothing else to cherish
But the stench of our own thousand years,
Of history, violence, peace, and fake romance
Why are we aching still?
We’d ache knowing if there was a way out
But there is no way out,
We’re eating our own vomit in this boredom prison
And dreaming of a heaven with strawberries,
Neat whiskey and crystal ice,
Flowers and virgin damsels,
Dancing to Mozart’s lighter tones
It isn’t happening,
In this life or the next,
And why are we still dreaming?

The problem with poetry,
Is that it feels like weight-lifting
Every line requires lifting the shit,
That’s named in past memories
And unloading it into the dumpyard,
Of your unconscious
And then for each effort,
You get a new line of poetry
That prances through,
Looking wild,
Like a newborn child
Sewed in eroticism,
And might, and, some of those other good things

I don’t know,
This hopeless tale of man and his medley
His long song of suffering and false laughter
I don’t know,
It all feels, very jelly-like to me
Like candy poisoned with orange and apple,
I don’t know
I guess when it all ends,
Most of it will be forgotten
And only rainbows will remind these blind leaves,
Of a strange creature called man
That lived some million years ago
Writing epics, poetry, short fiction,
Singing to jazz music and performing metal songs
Dancing to strange binary sounds,
And romanticizing about the whole being alive thing
I don’t know,
The leaves mighn’t remember
And yet we take our mortality,
With such distaste
Somehow it isn’t plausible,
Considering how far from immortal,
We truly are

Chocolate is good and whisky better,
But these days will be gone
Our farms and mighty structures,
Lost to the dust of stars,
Lurking suspiciously at the corners of the galaxy
Searching for some black hole,
To be lost into forever
The whole thing feels very queasy to me,
And somehow I’ve got this doomsday itch inside me
Like things are going to end tomorrow,
And our unsung songs lost to the distant rings,
Of time

I have for you no good tokens of positivity,
To share with your heart mighty songs of goodness,
To groove your heartbeat into goosebumps on the skin
Today, I’ve just got this doomsday feeling,
And hey, it might be intuition that’s right
Who knows? I don’t
It just might be

Everyday Musings

Everyday Musings

I’ve forgotten prose, structure, eloquence,
Forgotten the art of lies
To turn silly moments of romance,
To beauteous works flowered with bottomless vocabulary
I have forgotten how to walk the path,
Where tellers speak of great histories
Of knights, and magic, and love,
Of little moments where kisses lasted a million years
Of subtle melancholic drama with well-clad women,
On rainy nights,
At fancy restaurants
Making love the whole night after,
At a hotel you paid for with your life savings
I’ve forgotten the art,
Of telling tales that last eternity
Timeless stringing hearts from sorrow to pondering,
To wondering of the depth of the human mind
I’ve forgotten

These days most happenings are random,
Though the sun keeps to its two milestones a day
I see no order in things,
No pattern in the happenings in life
Things just go on, mostly disconnected
With my mind trying to connect the invisible dots,
Trying to sense out some reason from this daze
And the funny thing is, the disorder happens,
In sobriety, in pure soberness,
In daytime,
When all the world seems normal moving about,
With their chores and activities
Sober as a naked duck, at daytime,
That’s when I strip my mind and see the confusion,
That lurks hiding,
Beneath all the romantic dreams that spurned in childhood
Behind the curt and mannerly fellow who wears his clothes,
There it lies, that everlasting confusion
That’s more than a thousand years old

And the funny thing is,
Clarity comes,
In the drunkenness of the night
When the cells in my brain are twisting,
And turning and dancing,
With the spirit of rum
In the absence of thought in these moments,
Without subtlety and confusion
Making all things plain beneath the moonlight
Drunk as a staggering pig,
Smiling like sunshine after three days rain
That’s when most things get clear
But who wants clarity?
Who wants anything at all? For real.

Always getting somewhere, where? Nowhere.
There’s nowhere to go
Nothing to say
Nothing to learn
Come and sing my doomsday song
And make love to my treacherous tongue
I’ll tell you no lies, give you no gods
I’ll give you just one glass of rum,
A cigarette, some other stuff to smoke,
If you’d like
And we’ll chatter on like kings of the galaxy,
Pretending to know how atoms spin,
What makes them spin and why
Pretending to know all sorts of other things,
Lying like superstars
Suspended like hollow skeletons,
On this funny green globe
In the middle of space

We’ll pretend, until we go to sleep
And wake up,
And repeat,
The whole funny thing,
That we call,
Everyday life

The Story of Creation

The Story of Creation

Sometimes too often stuck with papers,
Some moments when two things are interesting
It’s too often that this daytime job,
Gets to become a string of dull choices

Do I want magic or money?
Food of leaves or golden beef,
Sometimes too often,
I’m wandering astray,
Into a maze in which color is non-existent,
Into a maze with no dance and music,
With no enchantment
And I’m lost,
With no inspiration to tickle my neck,
No fire to burn my emotions

Most people, are stuck

Life is this great LSD story,
At the beginning of which,
God had himself a champion dosage
And wandered off into this endless dream,
Of which we are all so sincerely part of
Becoming fragments and fractals of this ancient dream,
That spurted forth like paint on an invisible canvas

It’s true, life is God’s great LSD tale,
A psychedelic dilemma,
Forged into molecular abstraction,
An atomic explosion,
In the non-existent mind,
Of an eternal being
This great psychedelic story,
In which somehow,
Death became a feared antagonist

Somehow, this whole color show,
Turned out to be,
A social drama around death

Where are the champions of the light,
Who lovingly tripped this Earth up to ecstasy?

God’s tale, his color tale, his foolish tale,
His endless tale, his bloody tale his wretched tale,
A psychedelic tale, after all
And it’s still being told,
By that formless champion tripper,
Who’s decided to get sober for a while,
To get drunk with the characters,
Of his own delusional painting,
Of this life story
Who is God you might ask!
Tell me who’s asking the question,
And I’ll tell you,
About God

And after that,
We’ll take a walk through the garden of the void
As two gods clothed in light,
And start for ourselves another great dream,
Like children at dawn
Sewing cosmic works with Lego toys
We’ll create this other whole new world,
This other orderless color spur
And keep on dancing,
Till shit happens again
And change it again,
And again,
Again

Midday Minstrelsy

So many things left to do,
In this little span of time
Every man tuned by society’s accordion,
To hope for a charismatic climax
Everyday with tears and little doses of laughter,
Little children grow to a heroic demise

I’ve got no advice for you,
No words to churn your spirit
To give you hope of some afterlife,
To tell you that you’re lovely as you are
Such things men do to instill the heroic,
That useless feeling of greatness
For which idiots have battled and died
For which fools throughout time,
Have worshipped strange-looking deities,
And given classes for money

I cannot tell you off your death sweet friend,
When it might come,
When it might tickle and torment you,
Taunting and haunting these better days,
Through which you chastise and murder,
Your body
Through which you ache and bake,
Cookies and cake
Through which you drink your dreams away,
Searching for that thing, that hero thing

When you’re dead, you’re dead, see
There’ll be no pure spirit left to see,
The deeds that were done and the dreams pursued
Cause when you’re dead, you’re dead, see

Why do we want to live forever?
When we find it hard to live one moment
When we need to be taught,
How to appreciate color and waterfalls
How to listen to music and judge the best painter
We need to be taught the things we were born to do,
How strange? Such folly, such deceit,
In this amusement park of thieves and charmers

Spend your days in sweet harlotry,
Drink that last bit of aging wine
Or go to church and light a candle,
Take that pretty shiny thing out for a ride
Would it matter what you blew and what you screwed?
I don’t see change to be much of a fanciful thing
You are what you are,
Whether you screw that one eyed harlot in the subway,
Or you pay your last penny to that unclothed kid,
In that dark street
You are what you are

Don’t do the things that make you irk,
Let what makes you irk, do you
I’ll tell you what magic is,
It’s one word for a sermon,
A little bit of food
Eyes that see nothing but light,
And your breath for a wand

Go, go now and throw your magic,
Cast your spell upon those folks who sit and whine,
Off their daytime jobs,
Go and cast your magic,
On those sober souls

Soul Sewage

Soul Sewage

You can’t help but wonder,
If a writer writes because words are his drugs
If you look harder,
Deep into the chasms of individual intention
We look to excrete the things,
That bind us
The very knowledge that we hold dear,
Is what binds us

Most concoctions of lingual wonder,
Are blasphemies in time
Decorated with candor and innocent chirping,
To instigate the wondrous
In seeking hearts,
To captivate the broken,
The mad in the heat of life’s sun,
To show the way to stars,
With a sense of gullible decency
To elate and intoxicate the curious,
And to impress the bored

The world cannot exist without inspiration,
At least the way we know it
Every man seeking fervently,
For the heroic
For magic in these years of endless bore,
For a sense of the excellent,
When every movement,
On this dull canvas of activity,
Seems gray, distorted,
And somewhat senseless
As we are tossed above and below,
From summer to winter,
Unknowing of ourselves,
Of the true things that we are,
Not simply packages boned into skin and flesh,
Not simply that,
But with a hope of being,
Something,
More heroic, or at least, lasting

We cannot help but wonder,
Over that evening whiskey
If this entire hoax of living,
Was made by us or something else
But wondering is that very thing,
That creates this torment,
We’ve so lovingly named,
Suffering,
Pain,
Misery

It’s over if you look at it once,
At the whole sham of things
Without whisky and rhyme,
If we see it once,
It will be over

The delights of sweetly-clad women,
And candy and wine,
The many tastes of ice-cream,
And the stench of war and poverty
The many romances of art and revolution,
The chastities of morality and culture
If we see it once,
It all ends

But it ends to begin what?
There is no question like that,
You cannot ask such things
It’s over

Rabbits eating carrot at midday,
Know this truth,
And still love and eat,
And run around,
Like yesterday never was,
And tomorrow will never be

Whiskey teaches you nothing,
That the pale winds,
Of this virgin summer,
Cannot

Just one look,
It will be over

Bra Strap Wonder Skin

Bra Strap Wonder Skin

You can lie for courteousness,
That you never look
But I know where the flame begins,
In that private space inside you,
In which you can never help but look,
At that pretty bra strap of hers,
Peeking at you,
Begging you to be tugged,
To come and explore

Forget all those sweet manners,
That hold you from your aches
That never give you enough vision,
To appreciate your animal self
Look at that wonder skin,
Decorated in clothing so tender
With those two black straps,
Peeking from within,
Asking you to come tug at them

You can’t hold back,
Because you know,
You’ll dream of those hidden gifts
Through nights when you’re lonely,
Wishing to lie at some woman’s bosom
With wine,
And chicken by your side
Watching bad television,
And speaking absolute nonsense

Those bra straps bring back nostalgia,
Of love lost,
Of things said at soft bosoms
With that pretty young lover,
Who promised you the world
Those bra straps,
They make you feverish

What is it that the breasts of a women,
Tinker with in the insides of men
It’s more than just touching,
More than just holders,
To embrace while making love
They symbolize tender care,
A hospitable pillow for tears
And those bra straps,
They conceal man’s hope for peace
A false hope

Bra strap and wonder skin beneath,
You must touch,
The things that make you tingle,
Life’s not a moral struggle,
It’s a little tale of wonderful things