GRAVITY
What has no eyes, must build,
Must destroy, creatures of habit
Build their worlds
Around your bones, leave you shiver
Like a whisper of wind
Through the slats of the aging house.
What is loved, is always loved truly;
All the way down to the poison,
Or else it is the phantom of love,
The beguiling spirit
Who haunts the head
But never dares to enter the heart.
What you do not know of this
Is how the ties bind you, against
Personal gravity, over the chasm,
You are waiting to fall
From all the strings you have tied
Between one million glances.
What does it matter, how the world is built
If a single flicker leaves it to crumple
Beneath the flame?
Build me of fire, or water untamed,
I will gladly suffer death before
Being absolved into the empty cups of false glances.
The kiss without the taste, is an empty gesture,
So steal this momentary breath, or
Shy away the face; for the heart knows
Only one element: Grace,
And is slave to only its own gravity,
Outside the coming and going
Of shadows and glances,
Build not a world of this, I'll build my own,
Discovered, uncovered, perhaps;
In the search for deeper meaning,
But I do not apologize for refusing
To be merely another dreamer dreaming
In the world of illusions
Waiting for the sun to break through
The clouds, and break the lucid spell
Into the sudden awakening,
The feeling is the mist of illusion
Seen through the veil of false affection
The emptiness of that love,
That dereliction, even in poverty,
This rich glass is raised to my lips,
The taste of the wine
Within the kiss, the sound of the pulse in
Your ears - the evidence.
THE STATIC LULLABY
Perhaps it's the broken static lullaby that does it,
Tries to steal the heat from the rising sun,
In the convolution of meaning
Where the wrong nerves are rubbed
Between preachers who speak to the mind
Filling the emptiness with the limited definition of love,
The tug and pull between everything
That is meant to result in balance.
Perhaps it's the tongues of ghosts
Still waggling out their dusty songs,
Filling the present with past eye's views,
Outdated definitions of what is right or wrong,
Meaning as skin pulled over empty bones
So they can rattle the pain again,
The clinging to the rotting corpse
That becomes a definition.
The black and white views and visions
That walk down the greying street,
That never give an ounce of permission,
To the coming sun, or the heat.
Perhaps it's those seeds, rotted, but growing,
That spell our deepest, darkest defeat,
Refusing the miracle of the moment
That leave the dead to speak.
WALKING THE GHOST
WALKING THE GHOST
Let them re-arrange me however they can
They won't get any closer to touching the feeling
And you know, it's bad, when you I love most,
Being with you here: Is like walking the ghost,
Is like walking the ghost.
The same old traffic of broken up sighs,
As the thoughts dance through your mind,
I know you pay the rent on your views,
Suture up some semblance of truth
But it seems an insult to the host,
Being with you here: Is like walking the ghost.
You're so pretty in your state of undress,
With some blood still caught on your breast,
They paint your views, and you play the show
These are things I don't want to know,
You still caught in your afterglow,
While you walk, walk out the ghost.
While you walk out the ghost.
I shouldn't remain, hey, it's time to leave
While I still have a little heart on my sleeve,
As you dress yourself up in the notes,
And play the music of
Walking the ghost.
Just walking the ghost.
AIN'T TRYING TO BE PRETTY
AIN'T TRYING TO BE PRETTY
I ain't trying to be pretty,
It ain't the way that I confess,
My scars speak the blood of history
It's just the way I dress.
Don't build up my empty sanctuary,
No image painted to impress,
Naked is the truth of beauty,
At least, that's the way I see it best.
No murder in my heart for the darker days,
Though you might not see the light.
I keep it tucked deep in my sleeve
Against the teeth of night,
And whoever might have eyes to see
Could see it clear as day,
But time teaches better than to leave such things
On a bolder plate of display
Like a head on a plate, hours take the neck
And lay it before each king and queen,
If you say: "I'm on fire" to the world,
They'll add the gasoline,
I ain't trying to be pretty,
It ain't the way that I confess,
My scars speak the blood of history,
It's just the way I dress.
THOUGH IT'S STILL A GAME
THOUGH IT'S STILL A GAME
Though it's still a game,
I've left the board;
Though you are still knotted in your desire,
I've learned to cut the c(h)ord.
Is this music of absences
Worth the price of admission,
For something outside the empty sparks,
The depth of a deeper friction?
The music moves like a puppet on strings,
Waiting for its chance to prat the fall;
The butt of a joke where not a laugh is heard
The echoes of silence creeping along the walls.
The romance of ideas and all their invitations,
Stand, erect as a prison wall,
Against a deeper penetration;
Never answering the truer call.
It would be easier to move from piece to piece,
To stick to the confines of the rigid board;
Without a deeper feeling felt,
Without speaking a deeper word.
But I would rather leave the game,
Break the bondage of the board;
You may have your desire to remain,
I will still cut the c(h)ord.
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