pretend like it’s the first time

.

sister mister fister sits on a bannister

her hand is but blister holding a canister:

an old transistor full of stinky bister;

she’s the faster foster fister sister

nearly polyhistor, expert at tongue twister,

explosive disaster, pastel plaster blaster,

now that’s a fast wrister for just a shipmaster;

can’t believe she missed her, can believe she kissed her.

broken, repaired, remade in gold

soldered in war, cast to the fore;

as you well know fortune favors the bold,

never apologize for being born to be more –

seize what is yours by the power of your hand,

let them writhe and choke and struggle and implore;

if the writing on the wall is all they understand:

when is a jar not a jar? when they must adore.

there is a distinct cellular sheen

to this photograph

an everyday, quiet, unremarkable scene;

a bland paragraphe.

and yet i cannot help but try to glean

through the riff raff

all of the things that could have been

on your behalf.


don’t say the word, don’t say the name

it brings not luck, nor fear, nor shame

simply it has been given out to the wind

scattered in the rainbow of the clouds

for the Lady giveth and taketh the prouds

equally the saints and those who have sinned

do say the name, do say the word,

remember the voice of the blue bird.

the dirt inder your nails

killing is a cycle

killing is a cycle

.

for all around there is a song that still hums

a wistful tune in melancholy tones,

no one quite knows the hand which strums,

who shed the tears? who broke the bones?

there was a singer beneath the statue

they say not quite so long ago

who once again dreamt of us few

and would have loved to see you go.

it was in bed, it was in blue,

each other’s sheet, each other’s new,

the rose is red, the violet’s blue,

powder is sweet, wish she was you.

she can feel her fingers in her hair,

she can breathe her perfume in the air,

yet she cannot help keep an eye on the gear

that seems to keep turning year after year.

were there a god inside of us all

what then is he waiting for?

what then is he yearning for?

surely simply for the hammer to fall.

is there still a soul behind this heart?

when all the roads have been taken

when all the paths have been trodden

must they only lead us apart?


eye for eye and tooth for tooth, and turn the other cheek

the dirt inder your nails

pretend like it’s the first time

the dirt under your nails

.

through machines and mechanics

through the industry of my own hand

i have devised djinns and tonics

to gently wash away the sand;

concocted in gold, incense and myrrh,

a most sacred ablution

to provide for all to admire

reborn in such glorious evolution.

and though the cold metal can bite

i still tend to the olden hearth

turning darkness into light,

crackling wisdom come as it may

when it is death that i may birth

i weave the threads with sure fingers,

there is nothing that i can say

when only your silence lingers…

none may know that which i pray

for my voice is all they hear

and it is lost into the grey,

the blood rushing to my ear;

face full of soot, hands always gloved

desperately trying not to shatter

i have lived, i have laughed, and i have loved

never enough but does it matter?


a priest, a doctor, and an orphan walk into a bar…

killing is a cycle

pretend like it’s the first time