Massacre and Irony.
All eyes on the blood soaked floor down over on the broken highway 61 experience machine. Elvis with his glitter cape and throne making it known that he's well known. You're looking kinda shady there down on your knees, with a pencil and pad asking 'what does this mean?'
Mary with her broken nails milking her soul for all it's worth surrounded by cardboard cut outs of someone else. You're looking kinda shaken there all on your own, with a mirror and a blade crying 'I should've known'
The demurest of them all hanging shadows from the walls with battered hands standing in the rain asking "Where is Kane?". The voilent undertones of a forgotten circumstance lingering in the air echoing whispers of romance hypnotizing the army of window lickers who are giving eachother directions to the nearest exit. And somewhere in the midst of the mist of mystery an Irish girl sleeps alone dreaming of the hero she heard so much about that day. Besides an upturned gravestone belonging to some machiavellian type, a trail of torn out pages from a book leads to the nearest jazz cafe where echoes the cries of someone claiming "These are not lies!" In walks a man who says "call me I" and at this precise moment everyone vanishes, the lights fail and a voice not unlike your own recites the forgotten poem.
After they were famous
The empty chair where the naked man would sit, selling your past for a chance to eat has made some new friends by the abandoned fishing hole. Now that the chief has found his calling, making feathered hats for tourists, the president has decided all thats left to do is find some land to plant his seeds of wealth. The sun has gone on vacation and the stars are bored of their usual formation, making words you thought you had forgotten or dismissed as pretentiousnes
The scientists have given up profiting on fear, they've found shelter somewhere dark and decidedly nonlocal.
The two princes you loved to hate have formed a treacherous rivalry selling secret agents to each other for information on what the other has said of late. The sounds of teachers chalking the future's naivety, Have all but disapeared. Some distant voice explaining they realised their mistake.
Now the whole world wants to be left alone now that the truth has been exposed, creating towns for desolation has become the business of the kings of old.
And no one wants to know what side they are on.
The twelve bar blues can't save you now, as the words fall out of your head like an avalanche created by the cries of a cat on a hot tin roof taunted by the flicking tongue jazz king of hells mouth and the all seeing eye crying for you with tears collected by the orphans of the Saviour's club hotel waiting room guests. And waiting by the side is the chief of somewhere else, telling you time is up and to pay your bills or else take back your blasphemous words and tighten your lips with nails. I wish I could tell you what to do right now but they took away my keys and you're locked away somewhere invisible and buried somewhere undiggable. All the rotten lies you told through your eyes have now grown ears and know why you're here. It's been decided that it's all too unforgivable. It's you're fault your life isn't livable. So I bid you farewell and advise something charitable.
The indescribable something.
Captain Hitchcock with his tired fountain pen scribbles a young heart and fills it full of lead. Out of the corner comes the opium apprentice high and unsure because somewhere he lost the floor, asking for directions to the snake charmers door. Little bell ringing with such ferocity even the nun with her wax sealed promise can't make out what lies beyond the singular. Words she exclaims are the mark of the devil and any one uninterested should find the fire exit to the left. The streets there are lined with gold even the athiest has been sold. She spilt the ink! he cries and then the silence resides.
The animals were here she said to me and oh how provacative it must of been to see how close we came to being a part of this rough analogy created especialy for someone else to see and think about the times that mean more than the future.
Come sally lets walk down this road, you know the one with the winding staircase. Singing we love the sun we love the sun.
Talking for 'morrow's blues.
The penguin march was inspired by the falsetto voice of an uncanny child lost in the midst of a shower of maps and compasses. American wasteland supplier, the hated kind, has found a niche in exercising the rights of the vagabond camaraderie and has employed a jury of crooks to find out where the truth is kept and destroy any evidence of tears left by the broken homes of a nation of clowns and stock brokers. Socrates tells Romeo there's no point in hanging around not unless you have a pinstripe suit and lose that ugly frown. So all the non believers have found a better place, it's got a railway line and some other things to help search for that familiar face. Trumpets are sold by the dozen and white linen is back in fashion. Forecasts predict the rise in sale of pointy hoods.
Your mocking bird.
You struck gold found the dairy queen, told her you'll both grow old and she sucked up your lies but papa she's my ma.
Lady so calm and innocent, you knew what she meant. You know her turn to shy away and you took advantage and stole her innocence away but papa don't you know she's my ma.
The sun recites out of tradition the song of men, a song decided by the weak to guide mankind in a direction of community. Community who's spirit is shared, longs to be a part of something larger. Longs to be the end of the road. Why then has the sun killed my rose?
Last night, Last night she behaved like everything I had spent the day deciding to hate. She wanted my pity and all I could give her was a melon with a face carved into it. A smiley face. She spoke about loneliness and depression and I was left wondering what the last 4 months were. Had I imagined a relationship with a complete stranger? Had I? She undressed and lay in a familiar position which I took as an invitation of sorts. Was this my mistake? Had I been taking things for granted? It's hard to decide who's fault all this is but one thing became clear that night. Neither of us knew each other. After our award winning performance I lit a cigarette and began to ask her questions. Personal questions. She likes chocolate and designer perfume and dreams about flying kites under the sea. Is this what I had bought into? I thought to myself. Last night I walked home alone.
Talking giro day blues
The misty train enlightens, though the wallowing continues. Half a pound of etchings found beneath a pale of sinew, and carved from the frozen tears of her delight a unicorns horn balances on a tumble weed throne reciting her angst ridden poem. And nightingales are a distance to be thrown at with parking tickets and matchstick heads. friendly fire cost sally an arm and continues to bellow from the depths of chalk farm and the aunt camaraderie with pale stone eyes marches alongside the salted balconies of heaven's fortress claiming the sun as their son and the air as their heir. From below the lion's main a tic is well behaved and from the experience has much to gain. Extinguished from the side of a tired water well shadows are crazed and in this the angels fell. Upon hearing of her mistake, he makes a cameo appearance in a train taxi's rear view mirror but takes off his shoes to reveal his motives, at which point it becomes clear that you the reader has been mislead into a world proven to contain a silent injustice who's cause will freeze your past and unclench your future which has now been handed to the god's of uncertainty where it will remain for an uncertain period of time.
In the heat she waits.
The sun dried alphabet spelling his soul in the language of elephants who's tusk's have been sold. The dreaded outcries of a failed last resort shaping the future of a billion winged ants. Or something of the sort. The flowers she asked for had been given to time for uncertain distance they traveled without a clue until love rained on something we say is true. The crawling owl who's wisdom has eluded him sells feathers to a tramp for a chance to be told. And all the while she waits asking when the time is "now".
"As if these were lies" shes said. As if the whole world was wrong despite knowing what it is she think she knows. As if these words she muttered would change something, an unconceivable future tossed away at a whim. As if by some chance she had not used these words in that particular order but instead used some other words in an another order in an entirely new context. As if that would ever happen. No, she meant what she said. She just had no idea what she meant when she said it. Now the universe must pay, the once anticipated moment beyond the moment has vanished. All that was known is now unknown. Born into an incomprehensib
Then suddenly, like most things, only this time different. A visualization of all that is wrong with himself amounts to a thundering wave of carnivorous fish leaping and bounding at an unimaginable pace sucking up the trail of blood left by the dying corpse of his whole belief system. And in that moment a new man was born.
"Well?" a familiar female voice squawks.
"Do you think about the future?" She says in a monotonous tone as though repeating herself.
As if fixing an imaginable discomfort, he straightens himself from the formerly slouched depressive he entered the room as and confesses "No, No I never think about the future"
The female responds quickly "Why not?"
This time the discomfort is real, he's managed to put himself in the most unbearable sitting position possible and won't admit it.
He says "Well I guess, more than anything, it's just filled with a distinct doom, you know?"
Bubble gum Blues.
The grave digger's last words haunting the girl who's diamonds haven't been found yet. The talking box telling you how it is. The Christ of tomorrow still answering calls from yesterday. A thousand twisted tongues asking who made them this way. The land owner thinking about his daughter's future. The broken philosopher washing his soul, asking where the bleach is kept...
Rosemary has been dying to meet Christ and Jack in the box wont miss her calls, meanwhile Jerry Hattrick has lost his way, can't remember where he left his to do list for the day. Father salt has asked to see his son's face and a police officer who goes by the name of Jesus is also up in arms over a stolen suit case. Rosemary shoots Jack and claims his box, Jesus stops using an English accent. Jerry found his to do list 5 minutes too late and has confessed his sins to father salt who cares less than he did 5 minutes ago.
It's too late for some but for all those of you who are still reading this... Home is the other way.
Lucky don't throw this 'way.
Lucky don't know anyway.
Well I walked and I found something
Lost on the ground. I asked around
But you made no sound.
I kinda wish you had but dreams
Are fading and I need what I have.
I'll remind myself in time. Just let me
Have it this time.
Work in progress.
The curtains are closed, dark outside I suppose. Across the room is a group of suits, sitting under a neon sign that says "Alibis." A local kid is telling the time to a blind man, who always suspects lies. In comes a man with an axe, asking if we heard something fall, tonights entertainment, two girls from Brazil, stop to tell him they expect a tip, he tells them it was in the forest up North and finds somewhere comfortable to sit. Over by the bar two unemployed clowns argue about the weather, one of them leaves but shortly returns asking for his umbrella, his friend with tears orders two more drinks and finishes them fast. The mayor shouts out that his daughter's for sale, but no one looks surprised not least he who suspects lies, grabs his cane and tells the mayor he knows, gets up and leaves, leaving a trail of gold as he goes. Seconds later the radio sounds loud, the kings voice repeating himself, asking...
"how do you concentrate on the future when your past is forgotten?"
I don't remember much after that, I might of had a heart attack...
What it is to be loved by you.
Hanging around the district well, you've spent your last coin asking for my soul. Well I ain't nothing to give anymore. Stop your banging on my door, go 'way from this here fool. Find another and take his all.
Hope (As it looked)
He got patch work laces and a speech for an eye. Trodden on direction and a love for the sky. He a sucker from Downfalls, he played by her rules and now time knows him so well.
Painted almost from the jobless ghost but given for free by the lemon tree host, shot dead and all that, taken back to a place so long ago when the girls wore curls and the boys were boys. You grew old without her, you let go to go down another road.
She's been playing aces for too long, doesn't know what's right and wrong. Reflection sick of the sight of her. She a sucker from Downfalls she used all the wrong tools and now time knows her so well.
Shot down from another world and left to count fools gold. Regret never tasted so strong now that her past is wrong and the children will never belong. Feeling ill, down trodden and forgotten, welcome to life's wheel. How does it feel?
Little Bell can't find her mantra, quit smoking and became a dancer, she got a meeting up on north street but her compass is upside down and she can't find her feet.
She looks in the mirror and reminds herself of the better days when the shoe shine boys would have something cute to say and the gentlemen would offer a drink and pay.
Tearing away the pages of a self help book she found at LA X, nothing but a waist of time, she's so complex.
Little Bell where are you now? Little Bell, Sweet Little Bell.
Her garish subtlety will fall on you. She can only see behind your sincerity. Her awkward smile will leave a dent inside that only she can cure. Pretty spider lady, tangled in your silk. Another time, another place and these trials you will milk. Worthless king looking for rebellion. All's here is fair and all's there is queer. She listens gracefully to the silence whilst multitudes of violins and violence are somewhere yonder else. She is evil.