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Red Grass, Black Pasture
I will find you:
Below black pastures of the seas in roiled, dead debris of dreams.
I will find you:
above the bleached and breaking skies where angels masturbate and cry.
I will find you:
Behind the trite atrocities and little pestilential blights
that verge to obfuscate the pleas I use to verify your life.
Through the ashes. Through the flames. Through the playgrounds of the plagues.
With blackened tongue. and poker face. With yellow song. And sleazy grace.
Through stained conscience. Deceiving guilt.
With feigned science and massive will, will I find you.
I will find you:
Inside the pissant little jobs where my brief time is whored and robbed.
I will find you.
Inside the nighttime tv screen when all truth morphs into a scheme.
I will find you.
With my shiny hard control that serves to navigate that hole,
that serves to navigate that cunt that tells the hunters where to troll.
Through the mission of the missile, through the stagnant, skeletal sperm.
Through the bottom of the bottle, through the wisdom of the worm.
Through the dessicated heart, to its convoluted core,
through the pulsing inner ordure, glowing, seething at the source
of the viscera and turmoil, of the turbulence and gall,
from the vessel's deepest regions, from the fundament I call;
from the fragile architecture of our tragic machinations
for the luminous director of our gory copulations.
A humiliating mantra, yes, but I cannot disguise
the viral quagmire of my hatred and fecal tunnels of my lies:
I will find you.
I will find you:
For the holiest of chores is, was, and always will be war.
I will find you:
Upon the entrailed battle field, where your name was first revealed.
I will find you:
Beneath the bloody, spongy trees, beneath their gnarled, arthritic roots,
among the earwigs and the maggots and the moaning mandrake shoots.
Through honey hives and larval apples where the networks come undone,
to the smiles of knives and scalpels, steel urethras of the guns.
From expulsion from the garden--go forth and multiply the carnage:
A bloody exodus is trodden through red grass into the furnace.
Through holocausts and genocides; mass murders, rampant suicides;
extermination, immolation, constant executions, fusillades.
Through bombings, burnings, butchery;
through lootings, lynchings, shooting sprees,
through wholesale slaughter, massacres: the agony. The apathy.
The screaming mouths of mothers name the infants that they lost
but when I name you will I know you when you're my neighbor on the cross:
Will I find you? Will I find you? Will I find you? Will I find you?
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Ride You Down
There's a scar on the hide of the starry sky.
And where that fabric's rent, I see where you were sent.
Beyond the loom of the axis, your shadow blooms and eclipses.
Then all conspires to expose your unravelling road.
I'm gonna ride you down.
I'm gonna ride you down.
You burned your bridal gown.
You joined the idle crowd.
A murdered bird ignites above.
Phosphorescent words of meat and love
reveal the source of your bloodbeat sound.
On the palest horse:
I'm gonna ride you down.
Gonna ride you down.
You don the murk of the sea, motion for clemency.
And in those hematite waves your bosom heaves and caves.
That word you said to me: Destiny.
Well I just never believed it would apply to me.
I'm gonna ride you down.
Trample your soiled shroud.
Because you broke your vow.
Because the angel said, "Now."
Your severed word drops to the ground.
The haruspex holds two crowns.
Your vessels course, your bloodbeat pounds
On the palest horse:
I'm gonna ride you down.
Gonna ride you down.
Gonna ride you down.
Gonna ride you down.
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Musclecar On A Dead End Road
The great grey sky, flat and wide, shivers above the heat.
And silver rain lays like razor blades into the wounded miles of wheat.
And the road resists with the rubbery kiss of meat.
A solitary tower, beaconed and boned, strobes red as the liquid wind blows,
like blood in a river, and I turn to the driver, say,
"This is a dead end road."
And the driver nods he knows.
But the muscle car never slows.
Sit down and soak in the rain and the woe.
Stoke your fire in the mire of the dead end road.
Take a drink, steal a light in the stultifying night.
Think of anything that could disguise your life.
But don't dream of the girl with the golden hair,
'cause that dream is old, and there's nothing there for you.
A great black lie blacked the ride and the devil stole your seat.
And all about outside were circumscribed signs of your imminent defeat.
But the driver never speaks.
Still you traverse that hide like a cursed pariah,
but who's the one who uttered the oath?
You got your diatribe and your assorted messiahs,
but what if you're deprived of both?
And your homely little hoax.
And your homely little hoax.
Sit down and soak in the rain and the woe.
Stoke your fire in the mire of the dead end road.
Take a drink, steal a light in the nullifying night.
Think of anything that could negate your life..
But don't dream of the girl with the golden hair.
'Cause that dream is old, and there's nothing there for you.
Something rises by the side of the road
beneath the sky's judging sty where your view explodes
to reveal the peeled head of a buzzard in your bed
and it smiles at all your wiles with a lover's dread
and it's preaching to you with its clacking maw
that your provision of a service as a fodder for the fraud
is like a tiny abyss, not what it appears,
but all your artifice fits, so if you can hear, hear me, hear me:
You are nothing, like you should be.
Sit down and soak in the rain and the woe.
Stoke your fire in the mire of the dead end road.
Take a drink, steal a light in the stultifying night.
Think of anything that could disguise your life.
Sit down and soak and piss and moan.
Stoke your fire in the mire of the dead end road.
Take a drink, steal a light in the sadistic night.
Think of anything that could have saved your life.
But don't dream of the girl with the golden hair,
'cause that dream was sold so long ago by you.
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Malimony
Woman, you do me wrong when you cry for me.
Instead you should set my head aflame, and cast me out to sea.
You should leave my glistening viscera heaped beneath a bony tree.
But woman, oh woman, don't cry for me.
Woman you do me wrong when you pray for me.
You'll prick the ears of some slumbering, vengeful deity.
Don't mark me with your globoid eyes, or mar me with your pity.
And woman, oh woman, don't pray for me.
Save yourself.
The opposite of God.
The bona fide facade.
The script is writ in blood.
Woman, you nurse a cancer, if you care for me.
Tomorrow's tumors answer all concerned queries.
Your sweet and milky kindness just appeases my disease.
Oh woman, I swear, don't care for me.
Woman you have suffered through the centuries.
Now I'm proffered as the author of your delivery.
Simply cleave my legs in twain and thieve the brain of your offender.
But don't forget: You will regret what you remember.
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Devil On My Shoulder
There's a devil on my shoulder and an angel on my mind.
God, I want to hold her, feel her heavenly design.
There's a worm inside a bottle, and a fisherman at sea.
The worm has turned to tell me that he's got a hook for me.
There's a devil on my shoulder and an angel at my side.
Can I undress your vessel, view your cultural divide?
There's a ship inside a bottle, and a serpent in the sea.
You slip your slip just like a model and you fake a smile for me.
You slip your slip just like a model and you fake a smile for me.
I am washed upon your shallows with my flicking devil's tongue.
Singing songs about the gallows where all devils are well hung.
And in the deep red tide that heaves and swells and pulls me all asunder,
I think I hear Pavlov's hypnotic knells: They nominate my hunger.
There's a devil on my shoulder and an angel going blind.
I'm in her milky, sultry cosmos, but her body's undefined.
There's a devil on my shoulder, and I'm running out of patience:
Can I use my hands to mold her to my specifications?
Can I use my hands to mold her to my specifications?
There's an angel in my headlights and a devil at the wheel.
And now I've merged my birth/death destinies into a singular appeal:
If I could worship at your chalice, I'd resuscitate my soul.
And then she leads me to her palace saying, "Hell ain't half full."
And then she leads me to her palace saying, "Hell ain't half full."
There's a birthmark on my shoulder, and a red coal in my brain.
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One Holy Thing
Before you name me to yourself, ascribe to me the plot
prefigured in my blood, in my extinguished star, long shot.
Decipher first the themes of my coagulated dreams,
and show me one holy thing.
One holy thing.
And my broken throat may open and sing, "Hosannah!"
Deathward. Tethered to your hand by fine, precarious thread.
A fine, nefarious plan: The method means the end.
Before you name me to yourself, before I'm nailed by the king,
just show me one lone ceremony that ain't as vacant as a ring.
And show me one holy thing.
One holy thing.
And my broken throat might open and sing, "Hosannah!"
"Hosannah, Hosannah, Hosannah, Hosannah!"
But a saint is just a name.
And I ain't seen nothing, yet.
And I worship, and I blame.
And I love you like a threat.
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Open Contempt
I got a strong weakness working inside.
It turns in small increments toward my demise.
And every contingency that I can contrive
is quelled by conspiracy born in the sky.
But God will not speak with me when he shows me what he thinks:
You got a mark on you boy, as sure as the sun sinks.
You got a mark on you boy, as sure as the sun sinks down.
In front of the mirror I confront my killer.
A red paranoia reddens my leer.
So I drink to my future. I drink to my bloody jinx.
Life is impossible. Death is a cruel joke.
Who is responsible? Who started this dual hoax?
Nothing means anything. And that's less than what you think.
Cause you got a mark on you boy, as sure as the sun sinks.
You got a mark on you boy, as sure as the sun sinks down.
Now sun, you descend to darken all my view.
Won't you make amends by burning holes into
the eyes of all who believe that there's a prize for being naive about
the sky's design to murder and malign?
Whenever they lay me down, don't ask where I went.
Just make sure you mark my stone, "Open Contempt."
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Blindly
Wonder what obscured our vision.
Cloaked our eyes in bloody gauze.
Who ordained our execution?
Maligned our blind allegiance to the cause?
Years of tried and faithful service
to the source of light and time
culminate in no real purpose
when our mortal coils unwind.
Blindly. Blindly.
See how we fall.
Blindly. Blindly.
Lined along the wall.
Through the churning ochre oceans.
Through the sick vermillion skies.
I've decided I will find you.
I will have you as my bride.
From an empty, spectral vessel,
hear me calling out your name.
Did the black wind steal your answer?
Will I search this earth in vain?
Blindly. Blindly.
Only time will tell.
Blindly. Blindly.
See you in Hell.
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Hey John
Hey John, my ear's inclined,
filled with the cryptic script you prophesied.
Hey John, did you divine
that I would have a doubt for every single sign?
Hey John, bless the wine.
Hey John, it's a helluva climb
from the root of all evil to the fruit of the vine
when they buried the treasure in a shallow mind,
and every tiny pleasure is a form of suicide.
But at the bottom of the barrel lies the reason for the gun,
cause the season of peril starts the day that the sun
at the top of the morning shows no warning not to turn
to the bottom of the bottle for the wisdom of the worm.
Hey John, pass the wine.
[Hey John you say I'll be left behind,
said my impotent rage had left me blind,
but maybe my cage just made me redefine
what I need to read between the lines.]
Later on John, later on brother,
I'd rather sit in my cell and smother.
So pocket your apocalyptic holocaust:
there's no divinity in a double cross.
And at the bottom of the barrel lies the reason for the gun,
cause the season of peril starts the day that the sun
at the top of the morning shows no warning not to turn
to the bottom of the bottle for the wisdom of the worm.
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My Eye
My troubles deafened heaven as I snaked the path to you,
and above was a sundog, barking.
I'd uncovered the conspiracy that'd pulled all luck away from me into the sky
where my spirit darkened.
And in a sudden, strident hiss I turned my gaze up to the lifts
and said, "My eye! My eye!"
And in a black, blasphemous holler I cursed persistent squalor,
said, "My eye! My eye!"
I lost all tact and subtlety the very night you left me;
even my violence is aimless and empty.
And I'd kill a man just because I can;
just to gather his kin from across the land
and watch their woeful shadows stretch across the country.
But in that somber, stagnant queue my thoughts still turn to you,
I cry, "My eye! My eye!"
It's like I look forward to the day when you're dancing on my grave,
singing, "My eye! My eye!"
This morning I awakened in a toxic, caustic stupor
from a boiling night of bourbon, beer and malice.
My dream was urine-soaked, dead silent,
with a fat red demon pointing at me with one long finger
like some vile and violent phallus.
Well, let it point to what I'm seeing in the empty space beside me
in my eye. My eye!
And in my ears' incessant ringing I hear mockingbirds mocking,
singing at me "My eye! My eye!"
So I'm trudging through the suburbs, unwelcome and unclean,
but the moon it serves to light my way to that little room you're hidden in,
your little voluntary prison that makes the entire world my jail.
As insects worship and are sacrificed on the violent, violet altar
I cry "My eye! My eye!"
And when I realize I've been caught just like those tiny, burning moths
I scream, "My eye! My eye!"
And in a sudden, strident hiss I turned my gaze up to the lifts
and said, "My eye! My eye!"
And in a black, blasphemous holler I cursed persistent squalor,
said, "My eye! My eye!"
It's like I look forward to the day when you're dancing on my grave,
singing, "My eye! My eye!"
??
singing, "My eye! My eye!"
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Open Road
There's a vagrant star crying old light onto the open road.
There's a shadow there: a stain of an error of long ago.
And the open road it runs two directions: up or down.
And your open grave is the shape of that shadow on the ground.
Can you hear me calling you, baby child?
From my open cell, awaiting trial?
Would you hold my hand a little while?
Beneath the closing sky?
There's an open road that runs from the cradle to the mouth of God.
And you navigate, convoluted, by your tragic flaw.
Over vague terrain you try in vain to learn to ascend.
Then the open road arrives abruptly at a cold, dead end.
Can you hear me calling you, baby child?
From my open cell awaiting trial?
Would you hold my hand a little while?
Beneath the closing sky?
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