Poseurs with Precision
When it is time to save the night,
You hide in your gatherings of sacred stones, In the buildings to talk to him.
but you have no battleplan.
Not willing to sacrifice yourself to poverty.
Not willing to sweep the dying humanity up, And protect them with the heart and breasts.
The cowardly talk,
And they can sound so fluid with some bravado.
You can fight the weak, and tell them to join the inferno. The waves of the sick are among you,
While you listen to Satan’s whispers from the television screen. And you leave the malnourished weak-boned, starving, and praying to the one thought you can’t complete yourself. You’re one of the poseurs with precision.
The Love and Pain
The mistakes lead to our wars
The failure of the fire
I can taste the naive
The pleasures of the mad wind rip through the tobacco
While dreaming of giants –
Stretched across the fields
Lips sweating from the sun Turn our bodies into quilts Stitching our skin to the dirt.
The billboards are blank with bullet-holes
The perfection of the sting – Is the poison that moves swiftly
When dodging the drum from one ear to the other
I can’t escape the rub of the hook Nothing like exotic skies.
However, ripped to the crooked
Lifting myself from the pain
The weight of the anchor –
Will not leave my drift afloat to a quivering drowning.
I keep believing the temptation is speaking with clarity
Imitate the storm
The mocking reciprocates The wet will rot, and then it burns Resisting the stress of this wind?
Gamy, dingy looking and left a deprived cactus Malnourished as dead-eyed owls.
Encourage a revolution to rise
Love and Pain
Will resurrect us to change
The Glass I Live Inside Of
I want you
To shoot me, to cut me
To leave me restless, silent, damp
In faint, poisons to my blood
Convict me from courage
I don’t fear the wars
I don’t fear the gangs
I don’t fear the pending doom
To pretension of my bravery
To be dissected left a twig
A broken stick in the glass I live inside of
There are drugs that attempt –
To tame the wildfires
To calm the anxiety, to wait
Patiently in the madness
They wither, the flocks gather
To close you in
Tease me lame, or ignite me
Into blinding words
The wicked, the rage
Clustered in the loss.
Cradled in my death.
I see it all the time.