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It seems so easy, before I notice
The sweeping lyrics, the piano playing
In an unlit House of blues
No matter how much I try not to think about it
I do; I guess she just tore through my heart
And left scars that were unnoticeable.
Love seems to be the whole of happiness,
The way it gently absorbs two lovers, sultry Shamwow.
Terrible metaphor, I’m aware
But what else is there? It’s not like there is a
Buried treasure to be found from my verses. So
Don’t take them seriously. If you were to take anything
From my person, it’s that you should always love
And never leave. The soulfulness is interrupted,
Lines of crushed luxury blown into the brain, the two Giants,
With large faces on their wrists, golden chains,
Junkyard car filled with expensive plastic models.
It seems unreal, how they move between each other, fish swimming
Around and across each other in aquamarine dreams, just as
She and I did once, floating across black harmonies.
The flag seems untenable, it floats alone,
Suspended by the borders and ancient framework.
The stars pop and fizzle in holographic tendency.
And then I remember
Not to start at the positive negative quadrant
But at the beginning, where all is golden;
Where I hear screams, howling, sirens.
The mob always rises first, sick
Of unavoidable things, like death and taxes.
But would their crying go noticed? Would you?
If you were a king among men, would you save
The dying? No matter how hard we pray, the ocean comes
And sweeps us all away.
There is only a jungle at first, the Holy Volatile
Has not yet exploded, sending fragments of holy men
Into the atmosphere.
Alright, I admit, I’ve lost touch with the King of the
World, ever turning away to look at some brighter day.
When I look for peace I only see blood, pieces of men dead
By sword, by fire, by lies told by priests and officials.
The Holy Volatile prays that the men don’t find him
The drugs locked back, the hat swag, engine drag.
The grass burns around the last church of the jungle.
Does heaven have a ghetto? A true dilemma.
Such as if He loves us, are we made holy.
Or if we’re made holy by us loving Him?
But what’s truth then? What’s law?
Nothing, speaks the Sophist and the Profane.
Truth is preference, and we are all dead by choice.
Desire lives and breaths through me,
The fire consumes me, yet I do not die,
Aliacta est, the Caesar one said, as he crossed
The Rubicon on his way to become immortal.
And he was slain by his friend, who was told
By sneaking evil that fault lay not in the stars but
In ourselves, because we are not the heroes that
Mythology would have us out to be, no Herculean
Blood in us but disfigured Vulcan, banging at the anvil
And cursing the ones that took his love away.
Yes Western, you look good, a
Coke lined zebra in a cowboy hat
The men who rolled the weed on the bathroom floor
Should have explained to me that
With this millennial religion that there is no sinning
Only love according to what the other wants to do.
And if she sleeps with others? So be it!
My culture dictates I should have no problem with it.
But then, O Western why should I believe you?
There was an apology; I gave one to her that night,
After fire from the East bled the sky with rainbow veins.
I said I was sorry, sorry that we could not stay together,
Kept together by passionate inertia.
And Love, love is not cursed by a single
Woman or man.
It is cursed by multiple feelings, deep inside you,
That say that the pain cannot be taught, that love can be bought.
But money is forever, and we are at best temporary.
Pain’s not cheap, but preaching is.
The hook grabs you, metallic
Engines rumble as fire begins to ignite in
The belly of the beast.
I hear a woman, shouting
She cries out that Holy Volatile and Westerner are
Becoming gods lit by stars.
I see the news today, sad
From the news that no more rockets will
Blast off into black heaven.
There is a belief now, unfortunately
That we cannot learn from the faraway stars.
Too late: my countdown’s engaged.
Lifting off from nature, lovely
Smoke able seeds bring me closer to first place
But earning gold can be deadly,
Especially if you hit the wall.
Nous allons danser une chanson, et une seule chanson
Les tons de velours, la couleur de la Bourgogne.
I remember what it was like there, the city of Love
Those beautiful lights, suspended from ancient ramparts.
It was hard for darkness to find me then, like it does now.
And I can feel it, coming for me.
This is a place, it seems, where art meets commercial,
where insanity and reason intertwine; the wine of scholars
mixing with the noble blood of dead monarchs. There seems to be
a spot here, between the filth of slums, prisoners taken from the terminals
and drowned in their squalor, and the fashion shows with plastic models
with new fashion draped loosely over their paper mache bones.
I hate this hypocrisy, this lying, this bullshit.
"Courir cinq miles par jour; cesser d'être une mauviette, levez-vous pour vous-même" Sûr, puis vous arrêter d'être une réplique exacte
du père que vous vous méprisez?
It seems that behind the rationality of de Père there lies
Something else, something violent. I believe in the idea
That no matter how cultured we think we are there will
Some terrible evil lurking inside us.
It is in the Father, just as much as it is in the Son
Jesus in Paris, that’s it.
Jesus in Paris.
America, you kill character
You poison rivers and you annihilate
Thought with lies and hate and greed.
But even in these dark times, with rioting and looting
Death and despair, people killed and houses burned
For no good reason but for the hell of it
There is hope, somewhere out there on the far shores
There is hope.
It seems that money is no object here, in the sunny
World where Westerner and Holy Volatile live
The pool is cool and calm, and everything is refreshing here
Women wrapped in gold Mylar hand me drinks.
I sit and stare at the racks, piles of money
That could break or make a man if you
Stretched it out across the sea.
I smell prior to the beat the smell of
Burning afros and warm gun barrels
I’ve thought about being rich, riding in
Luxurious boats chugging Budweiser. I have
Thought about selling drugs, little bags with
Green, have a shop to feed people Audrey.
Too long I’ve thought of being adored and admired,
Talked about as a shadowy enigma, a man
That only drove cars with tinted windows that got
What he wanted from people. And when I drove through my town
I could be reminded of all my success. When I walk through my town now,
I only see my failure; my boring life laughing in my ears
Everyone wants both success and money
And no problems.
But who has it?
And why want power
If no one else wants it?
Birds fly high
No one knows how to feel.
I see two men
Holy Volatile? Westerner?
I don’t know.
The buildings seem dark, hints of green
Ancient tenement buildings, products
Of disease, destruction, death.
It seems that I have an ego
And so does my father and
His father before him
I promise now
I’ll tell my son not to be prideful
Not to be an ass
The two Giants connect
With something that isn’t there
Personable tones float
In a trancelike state. The promises
Of the father are remembered
By the son.
The sun comes on the river
I don’t know how to feel.
“Hi. It’s Ross”
“Nice to talk to you, baby”
The time’s slipping from me,
I’m not used to the club scene.
The bright blues the trance music
Hammering at my soul. I see her,
Beautiful hair, in a suit with expensive clothes
I look over at the blue woman next to me, my eyes
Looking at her large blue breasts, her copper wire hair,
Her bright green eyes staring at me. She’s wearing a shirt;
JACKSON 5, in green letters, and a miniskirt.
I lean over and tell her that I have to leave. I want to see
That woman, this vivacious killer, this deadly stunner.
The blue girl blew out her bubble gum, the colors dancing on
The pink sphere playfully.
“Pourquoi avez-vous aller? Ne pouvez-vous rester?
I’ve really wanted to shag you tonight.”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I have to see her”
“Do you want to break up?”
“I don’t see what else we can really do.”
The truth is, I’m not the greatest art person.
I only know a few works of the professionals; I’m a fan
Of Dali and Durer, both the insane and the realistic.
I know of Picasso, his jolted forms and straight-laced
Hideous beauty. I’ve seen some Pollack, precise blood drops
Staining the paper soul of purity. The people here dress all
In black, like they’re mourning the loss of talent or of
The money they spent to come in here.
Westerner, in his cowboy hat and red suit, speaks
Of constant progress, of endless ingenuity in the constant
Search of perfection. Meanwhile, Holy Volatile
Dressed in silks shouts at the people, demanding to see
Colored girls in the exhibition, ones that look like his
Lover, who looks so dazzling she shines
Without paint or pastel, or her paramour’s luxury
The other women look drab and lifeless,
Pieces of fabric hanging off their husband’s arms
“But we can still be friends right?”
“Of course we can. Of course we can”
Man, this life, between normal and f***ed up, is getting
To be too much. I called her on a payphone that
Was covered in glitter. I met her in a place called Electric Convent
The dancers looked like Biblical women; a oily Magdalene danced from the
Pole, a sexy East European took off her seven veils.
She smiled when she saw me. “Vous voulez vous faire eleve,
Love?” She tossed the pipe over to me.
I wish I hadn’t smoked the green plant, the electric
Moans of Depeche Mode erasing my mind’s eye.
Except for her, her with her green eyes, her dark hair
Her small hands, the one I held long ago
When all was dark and fire was lit around us.
I loved her, like I love her now.
But she is not mine to own, as is any beautiful woman
Anybody’s to purchase. Yet it seems strange that among these pieces
Of art, there are some willing to sell themselves.