In the Summer When All the Cars are Dying
A Sheba in a corvette
with a sip of Caramel Macchiato
The sun whips your face to a fever, your
fast car is like a slit wrist.
A deflowering in smothering heat.
All of the chants,
the invisible halos
the smashing engines to the Redwoods
glass piercing the seagulls,
she tumbles out,
with arcadian neon
ghost prints pushing at my spine.
The mysteries, the rusting cars
much like a rusting mind. And
we live for the flashy wheels,
in a painted death
the letter has been sent to the bordello
to commemorate the falling of feathers.
Bottles upon bottles
collecting in cars, on roofs
with love for poisons flowing
she dreams of her old Atlanta home.
With bloody feet,
running away from home
it was nights eating gas station nachos by the river
crying women heard all around like,
the echoes forming a wall of sound
muffled by Georgian Peach Trees.
Her father was a Fulton County jailer
with bologna sandwich and stolen addictions. He
knew of all the murders
and he let it eat at his brain.
At nights he hit his bipolar extremities.
Ripping the handles off the bathroom door
Lost his only son, to the needle hidings in the suicide wars
In a craftsman's bungalow,
a stolen revolver,
on a broken heart. So,
we have to get back to Atlanta.
She wants to eradicate the regurgitations,
and remember the simplicity,
of childhood swings
and live in the swaying skylines.
Phillip Eagles is in the Madhouse
What do you say,
when you have the plague?
Life is moving faster than a kick to the face.
Shining and belted to the bed
sunlight burned his cheeks
all of those who preyed on his golden locks,
are now just falling every night on the streets,
and in the parks.
Poor old Phillip Eagles,
on his muddy night, it marked his fate
and they say "Phillip did it",
While all the pit bulls growled in the moonlight.
In the scene of Pandemonium,
sleeping anger awoke out of the pillars,
the city wanted blood,
for all of the unfinished choruses.
For the songs,
they've never heard.
Watching the beach fall apart,
seceding waves bash against the locked-in walls
Starfish, crabs walking through the macabre seas and sands
on the cross, they start hammering in the nails,
Sprinkle the oils on to burn the witch.
On a humdrum manic sacred Sunday
Phillip met the electricity of the demons
That hunted on his energies,
on his golden brain.
1970's Rock Stars with artwork from Rockshow Gimmicks
My brother, I and two sisters
lived in the heart of Mountain boys,
whom praised the Lord and Merle Haggard.
My brother and I were a little more on the rebellious side
Idolizing the 1970's rock stars.
I'd listen to Zeppelin, Bowie, Neil Young & Thin Lizzy.
while my sisters tried to mimic Dolly Parton songs into their hairbrushes.
Momma didn't really care to hear about music in Grays Arch
She'd rather drink and sew with Aunt Dottie and my cousin Tonya.
Dad, while he loved his Outlaw Country,
He reserved most of his days drinking Bourbon and drag racing.
Random bar cussing tirades, and gambling over baseball games.
I'd often turn on the A.M. Radio in hopes of hearing Glam rock anthems.
Hiding in the valleys, in the woods to practice losing my southern
accent to that of David Bowie,
or can you imagine?
Imagine John Denver trying to sing Instant Karma like Lennon.
I'm sure I was a joke, if anyone would have heard the squeals of imitations.
But, in my head, and in the times that my brother would join me
(when he wasn't fighting the school bullies in the park) we would
become "the Who", and our audiences,
were a family of squirrels scurrying up dying Oak Trees.