Slick Sin Rock and Roll Nights

Unconventional,
Age tattered rock gene seraphim
Dancing, shaking your kung fu boogie to the depths of our preconceived rock and roll warrior soul
Let’s dance, lets fucking dance to what we want to be
To what we can be, should be,
And drag the whole song out to its logical conclusion…
7 stones skipped from anarchy’s pillow
With bad beer and demon breath exaltations
No one’s special in the time thrown prove yourself
Until they are, and we taste it
And it means everything
Jesus, chrstopher, skull fuck saint its important

Tangled Strings

Arthritic hands maneuvering the marionette man in his pillbox hat
As he stands
Mumbling the old hymns of a long fought generation
Tired, reconciled to fate
Bleeding from the wounds of a dirge formed dagger whispering it’s own melody beneath his quietly forming crimson scarf
Songs, hymns, history forming in the rotting tube of his scratch pipe esophagus
Apostolic Beatles corrupter
Dancing ragged enchantment across the melody poisonings of his mid-week exhalations
Stock legged stumbling, our past-exalted pilgrim
Twisting his ballad with Frank
For the decades dashed children of our newborn todays
And maybe,
It was his tears in the dark,
Not mine
That wept for who we were supposed to be

Musings From Midnight

The misguided musings of my mind find their shape
Draped behind the cloak of night
Taking control of the shadows and forcing their unseen agenda
The images that lingered on the dark side of my brain dance into its depths seizing power and picturing their own silent films, flashed across the insides of my eyes
The ceiling sighs and tries to hide my face from the burning embrace of a newborn sun, another day begun
But my window whistles the morning bird’s music and I curse the hour of its beauty. For such songs should be sung when the moon climbs its rungs to midnight. Just before it’s too late to appreciate the looming allusion of tomorrow.