The world has a heart and it beats underfoot heavy in shadow for those who’s trot have ceased in dawn and twilight still amorous in legacy.
How such regard remains, writhe in plumes that secure our flattened agents, persisting calmly into constructed meadows
that capsules us in clotted joy even through the battles lost it is where the dancing encircles this port, that transports all to renown.
The Heavies
Mawkishness aside, you must confess that we were something polar. Most sacrificial and full of stars, cal- ling all acclimated edges
home, to folly by the fire side, in which we all grow peckish, the gloss of something warm in our fau- ces the pike of days drawn canted,
rolled in slivers, a flailing gesture on the brass, painting requests to know what comes between our daggers during the tea cup’s call to outfit
the stretches from thy badgered ringing, crept in favor above a jaunt. eruption, oh come sweet eruption to all the heavies trapped below.
Elizabeth
I am a finite, fighting light that fostered an ancient construct as my guardian, so true and far
more brave than any condemned will- ing hands, fit for praise, grown bent in flippant stride.
Elizabeth, you call me to your bed you whisper, sharing something dear. Your love, a danger, derelict.
Structures, ghostly, scarcely erect time, a luxury, grown fleet in gust I remain, in prayer at the foundation its coming down, all coming down.
The Kitty, in black and white.
Parents (Amanda Valez)
Let us at least TRY to not be delusional here. NONE of us are SELF RELIANT, SELF SUFFICIENT or INDEPENDENT. We are CHILDREN, our employers are our PARENTS, who dole out a weekly, sometimes biweekly, ALLOWANCE called our PAYCHECK so that we can, for the most part, buy shiny new things yet pretend like we are experiencing any form of hardship. AMERICANS, if you have a roof over your head, and and food to shove in your face then you’re doing ALRIGHT by the standards of places like UGANDA and BANGLADESH. If you have either of the following: an HD television, an XBOX, smart phone, IPAD, and disposable INCOME to purchase similar frivolities then please REFRAIN from BITCHING to me about how HARD life is.
Music (Ian)
Music truly is my conscience, my moral compass. I am indifferent in the company of most silences. The absence of percussion and melodies casts all rudimentary life fixtures in a shade of near death pallor, a predicament that can only be remedied by the right song, at the right moment, in the right transit.
Headphones are my halo, without them, the entire world would fall witness to a set of conspicuous horns, affixed on my head since I was wee.
Something as simple as a properly plotted out playlist can decide whether I delve in my pocket for that pound note to give to the homeless jerry on the corner, or whether I give me wayward mum and da another crack at ruining my life.
Genres are my colors, compositions: my memories, each are relegated to a myriad of moods, everyone susceptible to the transitory nature of life. How I can travel from the lush landscapes of electronica, to the shamefully hip swinging sensibilities of rockabilly, only to catch my breath amongst the croon of an Ian Curtis on my way to the land of screaming bloody murder, where I will catch a fairy out to the middle of nowhere for an evening of Mr. Hancock. There will come a time during that gala where I will find myself wandering off into the quiet in order to hear myself hum along genteel Irish lullaby that was written, recorded and re-recorded many times over, decades before my arrival on this big blue pearl of mystery.
Well, no one can quite annoy us like our friends can. That’s intimacy for you.
“
—
The Boys
Danger in the Mission
In-side this man bu-bbles a revolution that when set free will acquit all unclasped deeds
from the sprawling vigil with a docket to kindle the weary, genuflected at the heel of the meek.
Notch the host there is one ab-sent clawed its way to daylight in might.
Gossip crept along the mi-ssion, “this man is not what he seems.”
