Love is a subject
glorified by apparitions
by lengthly ghosts passer-bye’s
good-bye hosts. Love was not
Cohen’s victory march, rather
On the slow rise
your words are as
knives or butterflies.
Still sleeping in a
daydream, a walk-about
Trail of replicas to my
If I dared write
what’s in my heart,
what’s on my mind,
what drives me on,
I’d attract ants,
and bring bees
to the smell...
I see you, not as words —
not a single quote
or chapter — but as
an unfolding story.
And I love reading the story
that you are —...
I see the fools with bells on their feet,
Flashing lights on their pants and hands,
With a mind like a stone and soul of a spade,
Dead as the souls they sell for their bands.
Getting grinded on in a club,
They think they’re God’s gift to us,
But on patterns of thoughts in their minds,
They’re in need of a metaphysical truss.
They’re vermin to Mind and Soul,
Veritable worms in Spirit’s shit,
Send them off to their own island,
Because I can’t take any more of it.
Let them dance their way into a shallow grave,
Their sands of effort barely covering their heels,
Let the shallow be exposed to the elements,
And have their bones crushed under time’s wheel.