Belligerent, as a man’s thirst for the ecstatic might reach,
Curling and swerving through the highways of rich sensual delight
As dissolved in selfish abstraction he deviates from natural cause,
Seeking women with eyes that milk the finest of his memories
The fault lies in wanting things that were never there,
Giving one’s vision dreams that never dared to live
The trouble has been harbored much in the endless search,
For an altitude at which most things under the sun, are perfect

I have wanted good things and chased worse for many moments,
Delighting in cloudy minutes of elevated self-uplifting
Scrounging at the clever discoveries of older groovier men,
Putting their sacred renderings of goodness into my own elevation
I have made myself an edifice of crafted lies and smiling masks,
A skeleton of all things that have delighted in the history of hearty things
Look at me, much too less now for you to see, lost in a menagerie,
The menagerie of existence that floats unfounded, in the halls of death

As we walk like shadows through the several nights of the long rain,
Groping for every little tickle that holds to glory our feeling selves
Hopeless, and meaningless, I can never find a sentence end
That will justify the torment of entrapment to this raging fire
The delight lasts as long as the eyes see, things they cannot understand
And once they discover, the name of the dawn, the song of dusk,
The light that brings life leaves sooner by the way in which it came

Everyone is cursed to feel the sky and be lost with no words to tell,
Even an ounce of the glory that one beheld, an ounce of that wonder
Is it our endless agony to know that some things can be named, yet not all?
Our endless agony to know of the infinite, and left with no other words to tell
For the eyes of man see things that words hardly tell,
His skin feeling things that no poetry, no sensational song no dance can tell
We see, and we know, and yet we leave without words to keep our sanity

Perhaps I’ve come to see that the name of the dawn cannot be told,
That the names of most things are ramblings that carry hopelessness through time

We come to see that the names we carry are the sounds of our memories,
Echoing through a delusional vortex of undressed time, naked in the moonlight
And the sounds of our memories hardly come to tell the tales,
That we sew and spin through the many days of this moving moment
This only moment that always is, this now

All names are but the sounds of memories,
And memories tell us of nothing but time
And time tells us nothing, but of things that are gone
Leaving us to mourn helplessly,
Remembering how most things could’ve been,
And of how we always fell short,
Of the better sweetnesses of life

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