Junk flows cold
in the chatting room
frozen as my words collide.
Propped up boy
with his puppet strings
tangled like a spider web bride.
Wrapped up in a rocking chair
tattered cloth
messy hair
out of it
My god I was out of it
Twenty 'til dawn
and it feels like I'm
blazing down the Autobahn
Pollen rides the sunbeams
broken glass
in black screened
windowpane
Like insect injections
the sun's not warming
but infecting me
Feel it's dirty light streams
pouring through the pain
like needle into vein
Waking up cold
in the garden
the grass feels like
razor blades
Blood thick pulse
in the wind blown
smelling like Merthiolate
Red stain Joe
looking horror show
acting very outer space
with an acid tear
mumbling something
about disappearing
back into the hermit years
Love lies lackluster
dangling clustered
under mystery wings
Allusive, executed
and then buried
draped in black
then wrapped in sliver string
I'm sitting thirty feet down
from the psychic
and the circling
buzzard crown
they follow me around
Grey wool skies
with its black button eyes
staring down.
A true hidden treasure of a song writer. This gent has been capturing songs in demo form on old tape recorders since the 80s. . . and he's still capturing his magic sounds in his secret basement. Damien Youth
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