Uneventful Blues

    
  The South (many times)

I can tell you right now
  I know
    I'm gonna hurt you
But you won't have it
  You throw your hands up
 so much for virtue
You were sayin' some things about me
  that day when you ran out of town
       Yellin' at me and callin' me names like b*****d

            Well, I don't care what you call me
          I already know I'm a b*****d.

  You know, I told you to take that train on up to Chicago
get out of this smoldering Sarasota weather
  Between the gators and swamp rats
 I found this sound
I love so much
 but it keeps you up at night
Go where ever you're most comfortable
         Go now baby

              Oh, what ever you call me...
          Don't matter what you say to me
                  I think it's sweet
       I'm still you're b*****d.


  

   What A F****n' Waste

Went out to play in town. Lost my
          
                         mind
 It's in the highway.
 It just plopped right out. It didn't have very good color to it.
Brought home some shotty shoes.       Lit 'em up and burned 'em.
You must understand, without my mind I couldn't tell if they fit.


 
  
   Homage To A Dead Man's Blues

Who's behind me grabbin' at my collar?
Who's behind me pullin' down my collar?
Who's behind me tuggin' on my collar?
    He wore a cloak when he came to me.

  I went down to the river
  found my name up next to his
  And like a father, within minutes
  put my place right next to bliss,

Who's behind me grabbin' at my collar?
Who's behind me pullin' down my collar?
Who's behind me tuggin' on my collar?
    Read a book as he sat by me.

  They say the Devil is a madman
  inside a sane man who's bound to him
  To reach the angels in the badlands
  you gotta drag your hands through every sin,

Who's behind me grabbin' at my collar?
Who's behind me pullin' down my collar?
Ect...
    Threw a sermon that changed my mind.

  For me, my woman is the mainland
  'til her soul sends me out to sea
  Without the light of my baby
  it's the darkness who's befriended me,

Who's behind me grabbin' at my collar?
Ect...
    Made me realize I was scrapin' by.

  Only a fool keeps a boozin'
  to chase their secrets out of house and home
  I down my drinks to keep those fools in
  now I'm a fool in the dark alone,

Ect...
    Wrote a song, then he came to see me.

  Now that my woman, she has left me
  and the river as dry as bone
  Maybe he who may forgive me
  is the one behind me who wants my clothes,

Who's behind me grabbin' at my collar?
Who's behind me pullin' down my collar?
Who's behind me tuggin' on my collar?
    Oh, Mr. James do your thing before you go.
    Mr. James, I would love to see a show...


  
  
   JACK
     
      Come on with me outside. Don´t make me wait in here all
     night. Baby, once you get here, you won´t wanna turn
    back. I may not be so lucky. I know I´ll probably
   have to pray for the very first time because you
  will surely be armed and dangerous. I know it´s
 worth it.




   In The After-life, We'll All Be N*****s

They say when you get to the pearly gates
You vent your prejudice, forget about hate
but who's to say we're not bled and misused?
When the time, it comes, I'll be force-fed to you

                and i may bleed out before you do

In sight is error; our restless ways
We get a glimpse into the end of days
and when you walk five eons in old shoes
grab on to religion, grab one of use

             now there's only one for you
                    
                            I'm gonna make me yours

The moment you surrender yourself in vain
is the moment you surrender you're sleep to me
and in the gardens of the highlands, search in the trees
        That's where I'll be
Then, from there, we'll be swinging in a very nice breeze

          yeah, we'll be hangin' from those trees

                            But I'm gonna make the rest pay to
                          watch us




   Spanish Picasso

   Every mouth is open in a black, gray and whitish world of corners both sharp and curved. These mouths seem open on command with little thought of doing so and perhaps some resistance. Anguished, they keep their eyes open to view yet another open jaw and another pair of open windows. Protecting the same experience, truth and outcome of some unknown situation and circumstance. Though they know what's on it's way. They fling their feet, they fling their hands and fingers and limbs. I think they're trying to escape.




   Lunatic's Sense

   People stare at all kinds of things without meaning or purpose. I enjoy it thoroughly. Time to get lost. Stare because you can. Maybe at a button or a planet through a lens. Whatever flips your whippy. Any sight which breaks a boundary has a texture worth the taking. How curious it is to stare at nothing at all. When the object is clearly there but it might as well not be there in the least. In a lunatic's sense, you are looking past this...it's soothing isn't it? Tell me it soothes you inside and out. But do not look at me.




   Dave

   As open as the closest thing to breaking glass on
piles of styrofoam.
   It's in its crackle
      The textures of time and a mixture of smoke and subtle light.
      The tip of a lung falls out of laughing stitches and
        frayed and borrowed clothing.
As David says, our apartment is too cold, it's not the closest
 thing -- and this is what he knows
  He swears
 But he lies about it first
         And drinks his moloko when I buy it.
        And only all our drinking causes unstable thirst.
      Writing out our fior.
    Careless carrion and chemicals wash the rest of the road-kill
     to the far side of said road.
       This is why we wade when we walk.
         I am that f****r and this f****r will one day
           motion me his way
         moving in and out of epidemic neighborhoods and ally-ways.
       By this, he and I will follow our heals
     right out that door
                        leaving on the trail of our greatest
            inspirations.
Cons.
            Our lovable staircase will try to
          kick our feet out from under us and
       we will find ourselves breaking more than
    glass on piles of styrofoam.   
  



   Getting Babies Drunk
           So the author is in motion
           Crawling out of his son's crib with
              tea bags on his mind
           In Harvard, they would call him
              a fool of a boy, but
              bathing himself in
              boiling tea would help
              with the missing.
           A little sugar and too much
              cream
           Just as the boy would've liked
              it.
           Down went a kettle with a
              clank! and its echoes through
              the house came back to
              discuss his loss with him.
           Though no longer furious,
           He was a fraction
           A minimum                            /  /
           He put himself to bed               /  /
           What a romantic...                 /  /
He dropped his eyes and relaxed his neck      //
   then politely finished his bottle         //                
           The gut-rot always wins.          .
           Emptied his weight back into his crib
      and left the spasms to spread          .
              his wallows                   .
              out amongst
              his walls                       .
                    The gut-rot always wins..;.
                                   
 

 

Reviews

[DavidRyanM]

Dig it all, man. I remember you asking me if I thought this would look good on paper, seeing as how they're songs, and I think they do. Maybe even more so. It's always a sign of genius when you can write something that sounds amazing, but also looks good on the page. Well done, buddy. Oh, by the way, this is my new profile.