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,
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,

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,

Just one look,
It will be over