Present Tense Priest

Sweet sound devil of our Thursday sacrilege
Lure me, lost in this crowd of turpentine misadventures
Away from the impending, bright-poison shackles of morning
Movement, pulsing, movement
Under the fade dream fantasy of your hologram-halo altar
Stainglass that once refracted light on our imperfections
Distorted now, dissuaded
Manipulated to breathe new light on us sinners
Still we stand, bounce, gyrate
To exalt newfound, everchanging
Impermanent deities


He Wants To Hang The Artists

This to hold trial for a man who claims to represent our poetic spirit
This to stand in loud and unrelenting witness for the sins of the man we once revered as Cat
And I to bear witness to the fact that the man we know as Yusuf has broken my heart

Hate, hate, hate
In the name of your supposed day-drift deity
Claiming murder or something like it for the authors of modern exhalation
I’m finished with the pious, the respectful, the reverent, masked, do or die prophets
Fuck your fear mongering, fuck your false prophet promise and fuck your intention to tear away the strings of my connection, my deep seeded full breath of society FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU
I am whole
FUCK YOU I am the ephemeral well-guided friend of the lonesome many
I am the angel incarnate of the scared and sacred
I am
Your demon dream nightmare
I am the dark concept of your burned out American Dream
I am your jubilant smile pushing up your daisy,
Hate will not, and cannot rule
and your twisted, warped
notion of God…


65 Still Waiting For Santa

No solace for the living
Bazooka bubblegum deities only dance with the dead
So why not say fuck all and kick rocks straight into the forgiving hands of the great dark mystery?
Maybe the ground is colder than what they promise
And tomorrow is the only chance we have to taste eternity
Which scares the shit out of us,
but my cardboard spaceship never hit the moon
And dammit if I believed


Grateful for Gods

My gods change with the rise of a new sun
Poets, artists, guitar string profits
Unconventional deities preaching peace love and art
Or anarchy
Anything that resonates at the moment,
Catches me adrift in time
And steps out to break the silence
Shattering my current illusion of what is, or will be
Few people tell truths these days
At least not the right ones
So I search for measures of my meaning
Written down,
In the pulse of this existence