one - dont look for dead places

“When January unfolds, it is cold, far too cold and lifeless.
The spring, with its new mornings of new life
and the summer, with its heat
are never close enough,
and the life is never new enough,
and the heat is never hot enough”,

I think, as I pick up the moldy log
for the fire.
It smells of varnish,
and cinnamon and cold.

With my free hand I pull my hat down over my ears,
for January is far too cold
and I can feel it,
stinging my ears and skin.

I can see the faint blue of the sky
in between the murky clouds.
Summer is never close enough,
with its sparser clouds, extra golden air, and more vibrant blue.
Autumn is too far away, with its clouds,
that cover the entire sky like a blanket.

But January,
January is far too cold and lifeless.

 

True inspiration and true poetry,

Is something that comes rare to anybody

Even poets of the highest order, or

 Prophets of divine intervention

 

A song can be about anything.

Art can be lots of things,

glued and nailed onto a wooden board.

 

Protest songs are dead and gone,

and confessions of love

are what people sing about

in rhythm and in song.

 

If a toilet can be art,

and “a rose is a rose is a rose”

is poetry,

a song about these things is golden.

 

The poets dream,
The prophets sleep,
The foolhardy all scream.
The lovers cry,
The chosen die,
It's such an awful scene.

 

If a prison is built on bricks of law, and

Brothels stones of lust,

then poems can be

about what I've seen, done, been or thought.

 

There's a lesson etched in stone,

until the end of time.

A lesson scratched in bone,

and written down in rhyme.

 

A lesson forged in battle,

of steel and wood and bones.

A lesson learnt in poets minds

and scrawled upon our august  golden bones.

 

“The Diamonds in the handled sword,

Holds more life then you and yours.

The rubies in the faceless crown

Are redder then your blood soaked gown.

The shining light beneath my skin

Holds the clues to all my sin.

The dust that’s in the unmarked grave

Is all that’s left of the last slave.

The crucifix upon the throne

Is crimson stained and battle prone.”

 

I gaze with wonder on this golden dream that I have created in the guise of a world,

and shrink with fear, lest I see the reality behind the dream.

The world is a play, and I, a happy actor in the main.

The word is a lie, and all that come shall likewise lie with me,

and dream and die with me,

and scream and sigh,

and never know the truth behind the lie in me,

and forever asking questions about the dream I brought with me,

the dream that dies with me,

that I could never live the life inside of me.

 

The stars are falling down like lead,

erupting from their starry lives

to regale us with their terror lies.

With golden salutations

of a fickle freak persuasion.

 

“Here what follows is a story of some mystry that has shown me,
Countless ways to dream a dream for deadly, dark, delightful dreams of yore.
There was a book that I had read, though written by the long since dead,
A man named by the town of York.

A man who was a priest of God had writ the book that I had got,
Wrote books of history, books of law, lucid, learned, secret books of law.
He had took a vow of silence, so'd not said a single word since,
He'd chose to be named after York.

He'd once loved a married woman, by her husband had no children,
Said "I could never love you more, though you never knock my chamber door".
Her husband was a man of age, who often sang upon the stage,
Who drank in all the bars of York.

They corresponded in love notes, though they had never hardly spoke.
One day her husband’s golden harlot whore, heard and took him to his door.
"But my true love, who is this cur?" The old man said "what's your name sir?
Who ladies call the Jack of York".

The young man said "That’s not my name, though it is fitting all the same,
To be called by this town of yours. I should like being named for  York.
Your wife and I, we are in love, you hardly know what she's made of,
That’s why I'm in this august town of York".

Their fight though bitter, swift and fierce, was verbally ambiguous,
 And they pledged to duel with pistols, that dawn in the dear old town of York.
The old man said "That little fuck! He is now tote'ly out of luck,
I'll have my vengeance Jack of York".

Morn was rising ever closer, Jack of York ran ever swifter,
To breathe goodbye to his young lay, buxom, breathless beauty called Quarles.
"Your husband and I are to duel, the dawn it cannot come too soon,
I fear to die, this town of York".

 Quarles had heard the awful news, that her two loves, they were to duel.
She hoped to stop them with a plan, a dreadful, frightful, conniving plan.
She fixed a pistol twixt her breasts, there she planned a bullet to rest,
To  save her sweet, dear Jack of York…”

 

But the golden state I'm in,

is perfect crippling,

because it's a state

that screams to me about the way

that people say that dreams are held within.

Golden state, purify and crucify

and mark with 666.

Lament, and repent,

the perfect golden state.

 

It's expiration time

Too bad they didn’t say,

“What a wonderful world.

No time to stand and play."

This is not the end,

Because after all is said and done,

The end is never coming

And the start has never begun.