Jan Sargeant lives in West Yorkshire, England with her husband, Coco cat and Banksy, the dog. Having retired from university lecturing in 2017, because of Parkinson’s Disease, she has since gained recognition for both her painting and her writing.
Two of her poems were nominated for Poem of the Year in Spillwords (2022 and 2023). She was awarded Writer of the Month by the same literary journal in October 2022. She has had work commissioned for the journal, ‘Mslexia’ and had two books published in 2023; one an anthology of poetry and another a comedy novella.
She is particularly fond of Cohen and often uses the metaphor of dance to represent life and energy.
Funeral blues I’m looking at cold ashes wondering how cremation feels wondering if you gasp as flames scorch your toes, wondering if you smile as they lick your face grimace at the music they chose
I’m looking into an empty grate wondering how it feels to not feel anything, anywhere, anymore do you feel alone do you feel pain could someone hear you moan would you want them to
so there’s the committal, bang on the lid, knock on the wood, you think you’d dare, or feel the heat, think fuck it, lie back,too tired to care
Origami days
I’m hanging on here, wired up, strung out, paper fold shapes origami tastes, squeezed at the corners, pushed into place, jerking as hanged men splashing their feet, knowing there’s a reason - but not trying to compete;
finger pressed creases in a land of misshapes fog plaited memories, refuse to hang straight wired out, strung up, we wait out our fate
Origami paper shapes folded through days, creased up, strung out as a way through the haze
theatre of the absurd
memories ripple through the faint applause of antiseptic antipathy towards a life played for others with a script you didn’t write on a dimly lit stage in a theatre you didn’t choose turning over page after page
a magician and a hat you want to be impressed but you know it’s a lie you want to be convinced but you hear the sigh of a life sawn in two
so you shuffle the cards turn them over one by one sing vesti la giubba hope for the best but when the show’s done, it’s time to join the rest strip off the costume, cream off the pretence hang the face in the wardrobe and accept there’s no sense
Are you looking at me?
Don’t shove me in the corner, don’t push me there don’t leave me looking from here to where the blood pulses through young veins, where your laughter courses down walls as fresh ideas dance between glasses of chatter while I just want to go home
don’t put me in the field with the used-to- be the disabled, the pitiable, the unentitled, the pitiful, the hopeless and the miserable
I’m not ready for the exclusion that comes with your conclusion that disability brings an illusion of familial distribution neither of us asked for or ever wanted to be I want to be in that other corner, see, I want you to slow down, to listen to me to be patient when I stumble to see the person I used to be
don’t treat me with the kindness held for those you pity do you see me, do you hear me, don’t file me with the dying, I hate what I know you see
Clive Gresswell was a 65-year-old poet and innovative writer from Britain who also writes song lyrics. He has been widely published and has authored six poetry books. Fevers of the Mind will remember Clive with a couple of his poems he had recently submitted for the Poetry Outlaws Series.
Song to Karl
My song is not democratic It is Anne Frank trembling in the attic It is the life-force spent In a bedowin tent at the hands of fanatics.
It is centuries old bloody & cold Bartering shekels in the land of gold As capitalism is bought and sold And the embers die out from the light so bold.
Now in the twilight as darkness recedes The lamb & the lion a human disease As shelter and warmth take precedence Over the soul survivors and what the flesh needs.
Counting out money and weighing the deeds Time holds these memories then fades away Fast to the future another display of innocence lost At such a heavy cost.
My song is not democratic It is the survivor here in the attic Where life & limb is destiny’s king Living moment to moment Till the next chance to sing.
(ends)
Redemption Song:
thank u for this gift of mine truth to power & to rhyme holding fast this simple task sacred duty power thine.
& when i float in outer space consider please not my disgrace the worst of me weighed in place pride & envy saving face.
am i free for now to sing to wonder at the beauty scene to have & hold my inner being dancing wolves & loving scenes.
my mind it spins with myriad things from hallowed turf to noxious dreams i yearn such love to hold & share it can't be flesh needs everywhere.
so take heed & have a care this wishing well this starring role from hearts & curses new and old my empathy is bought & sold in the markets where souls are gold.
consider me a true friend whose limits reached roll on again the savage beast & in retreat bravery scheduled in defeat another weary dead-end street.
i think we've been here once before dividing proceeds from the war drinking from the poison chalice always ignorance never malice.
and so i sing on, placing bets shining rings & amulets lashing life spells in a trance as we make those people dance.
& maybe there will be some peace in future times free from disease & all the foibles of the flesh when we meet beyond our deaths.
take the struggle take the pain nothing ventured nothing gained nothing listed or explained once again you're half deranged.
the earth is wide the sky is blue but i question who are you beneath life's pomp & ceremony beyond duty & beyond your memory.
take the struggle take the pain nothing ventured nothing gained nothing listed or explained once again you're half insane.
counting pleasures one by one you've got the part but not the sum what you reap from what you've done private battles fought & won.
& so it's time to move along count your blessings & make your choice raise your game & raise your voice to the clouds up in the sky where the chorused angels fly.
take the struggle take the pain the lord is on his cross again still nothing listed or explained nothing ventured, nothing gained.
thank you for this gift of mine the power to sing along in rhyme to reach out to my fellow man in the best way that i can.
on the road i've often faltered my fate & faith have been altered wind & rain blown me around but always near me was this sound.
take this struggle take this pain the lord is on his cross again still time is misted & there's fog in my brain where humanity is cursed & half insane.
keep my eyes on the future not the past building up something that at last will last that will stand straight in line & test the time that ticks out among those ties that bind.
on the road i've often faltered my fate & faith often altered wind & rain howling around but always with me was this sound.
it echoes now into the night another turning point in site & in spite of all the spite my thoughts are turning to delight.
on the road i've often faltered faith & passion often altered wind & rain & darkness around but always at my feet this sound.
& when i float in outer space bring me to this inner place where all that's said is no disgrace the resting seed, the final place.
Bio: Lawrence Moore writes from a loft study overlooking the coastal city of Portsmouth where he lives with his husband Matt and nine mostly well behaved cats. His poems have appeared in, among others, Sarasvati, Fevers of the Mind, Feral Poetry and The Madrigal. He has a new poetry collection, The Breadcrumb Trail, published by Jane's Studio Press in April 2024. Twitter / X: @LawrenceMooreUK
The Axeman
Gather your loved ones and press them well to stem the trickling of their cares; the axeman has not returned.
Tell all untameables they venture out in packs within the boundaries of earshot and evelight.
Make a toast to his wife, who must brave the scurries and screeches alone tonight, her gaze to a latchless door.
Collect our unsavoury tributes and deliver them over the brinks of abandoned paths; commence the wait.
If silence endures come autumn's prayer, the rest of us will remember that the axeman has not returned.
Because We Must
On days when grasping just a glimpse retreating from periphery, you turned around to open air; not every time was make-believe. We have a home I think you'd like, a softening which might be earned. Our feral kin may wander through, but as it stands, you cannot learn.
All wilderness retrained and sold, unwilling subjects ground to dust. You have your ways as we have ours, we disappear because we must, yet seek no thunder from the gods and take no vengeance as we might. We live the way we've always lived, untouchable, beyond your sight.
Above My Watchful Glare
Come staggering on torpid limbs, I wish to grasp another's name. Ignore the furrows, crawl inside the recess of my creaking frame.
These overtures are whisperings I play to you from far below. One ear against one mossy floor, then drowsiness begins to show.
Your nemesis, my nobody, will not be found, they would not dare as now, involuntarily, you sink above my watchful glare.
I ask no favour when you wake and all I take, three locks of hair.
Four Fists Uncurl
We surface, bruised and battered, but alive. Protectively, you scout the world outside, contrive to sound convincing when you say 'Perhaps, for now, The Demon's gone away.'
Attempting to accept, confused and scared, I clamber from this refuge, mutely stare. Slow seeping through, the passing of the squall, we squeeze together, let the teardrops fall.
A boldness in the woods appears to grow when crocus lifts its nose above the snow; an underbrush alive with smaller feet that long to run, for now remain discreet.
As if to catch my soul, your eyes are cast, entreating me 'This has to be the last.' I feel the words inside me calcify. Four fists uncurl, you lead us back to life.
I Knew
I had a dream (a real one for a change), I'd wandered off and paced the London streets with many things uncertain on my mind, distrust for every citizen complete. Though wantonly dispirited and lost, the solace of the railway station came. Inside, a payphone, rummaged without coins, asked 'Please reverse the charges?' Gave your name. You answered, all confusion in your tone, like every fundamental ran askew and only one event would put them right; on hearing it was me, all fear subdued, talked nonsense that could only have been joy. Immersed in my unconsciousness, I knew.
David L O’Nan is a Midwest poet, editor and founder of Fevers of the Mind (www.feversofthemind.com) he has been nominated for Best of the Net numerous times. He’s had several books and revised books. He has edited and curated Fevers of the Mind Anthologies including Fevers of the Mind Poetry, Art & Music Digest, Bare Bones Writing, On the Highways with Many Miles…to Go! (inspired by Kerouac, Miles Davis, Townes Van Zandt), Waltzin’ Through Rusty Cages (inspired by Elliott Smith & Chris Cornell), The Whiskey Mule Diner (inspired by Tom Waits), Hard Rain Poetry (inspired by Bob Dylan), 3 Leonard Cohen anthologies (soon)(Before I Turn Into Gold & Avalanches in Poetry), The Poetica Sisterhood of Sylvia & Anne (inspired By Sylvia Plath & Anne Sexton), Truth, Lies, Blasphemy & Disorder (inspired by Joy Division, New Order & Depeche Mode), The Chelsea Underground (inspired by Andy Warhol & the Factory, The Starman Oddity (inspired by David Bowie) He has been published in Poetry Life & Times, The IceFloe Press, Headline Poetry & Press, Spillwords, Cajun Mutt, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Ghost City Press, Grains of Sand, Punk Noir Magazine, Rhythm n Bones, The Poetry Question, The Wombwell Rainbow and more. He will be reading this Summer in Louisville’s Insomniacathon. He has also edited the debut novel from New York City Poet Lennon Stravato “The Inner Dialect” and the poetry/prose collection “Werifesteria” from co-editor HilLesha O’Nan
These revised poems are included in Issue 11 of Fevers of the Mind Poetry, Art & Music: The Lone Road
He’s always spinning, spinning in dim lights. Eyes following the floor. The circling of the karmic wheel teeters A window shaking, the peering out. Foreshadows laughter. Winking eyes and love we’re after
Doubt licks through The mind is juice and fragments. Comical ears hear nothing but sadness …and winter months are cold and bent
The wind will blow under the clutching arms of snow And still the comfort is broken into bits of matter.
What is this filth we’re bathing in?
Lint, heat, wet claustrophobic skin!
Smiles that look over the ocean’s shore. Where another smile emits from nothing before Then we rumble, crumbled into aisles of dust. Those who try to save, Their need for lust.
Praying hands unite in burning churches. They hope, they grieve, they live for the spin. …all the while predicting the evolution of God.
Then there are the moments, In which love was spit out of you; The adoring one Who has been shot with the thoughts of the heart.
The heart, left bruised, beaten, No longer caressing the bleeding, As coarse as sackcloth.
Those eyes lift a little Another light bulb fades Exit signs flicker! You remember those rented sighs. Whispers crying “don’t pay for lust”
Midnight’s bonfire became this morning’s generic toil, dribbled flame. And you’re exhausted, no patience. The cycle has to be ending. You’re a tired feather for the unconscious. And that once bright hammer over your skull, Is now fading.
A true carbon copy of the mundane, ill sunlight
Once you step outside, cheers can now erupt, pause
You can be the hero today
But you still have one sock left missing Until the next person walks in And discovers your ghost.
Reciprocate a Lost Hello
Blooming up as the sun tortures a mind. Your hello, An echo deafening in dust, A traveling spittle of rain, And subsiding into a crevice of mistakes.
Wishing you were the juxtaposition Between beauty, And the sorrow of a burning flower.
Raindrops mimic the sprinkles of sound Against the tin of a lost hello!!!
Crowded inside voices, are my normal calm in their chaos. When they are the power. power was built by energy, sight, And the holding of truth. Deep in a heart, the gut of the gods. Life is crisp, like a milk around the glow.
Death is moistened by a crooked blown mind. A parting with those memories from years meant for impressions.
All lost hellos were reciprocated into the thunder, the deluge, unknown. We stammer in the wind, as the mind dreams up an eternal shade. I sit there in the grip and trip in the circles around my feet.
Nor can a dance be, Nor can a bruise heal, Nor can a hello be returned, Once it has been broken, by What was heard, initially.
Today we are sold into the friendship of quaking nerves. They tangle the lines of my supposed soul, melting and frightened. They, like all seeds, grow once they are breathed into existence. Then the stems sewn into the heavens as historical As lost hellos.
Caskets and Libraries
How does my garden grow this Spring, so far? After another blind girl’s Winter Solstice. This wedding feels like a line of caskets. We are cold, freezing to new phobias. Brittle bridge wedding gowns. Walking away, shaky. The park looks senile and lined with mobsters.
And these libraries, we read all the sonnets, grandpa’s haikus, Breathe in the wealth of romantic era poetry. The room just smells like toes. In old socks that can’t fit on these old spirits. They just creep their heads from behind the books of leather, exotic and moldy.
I can’t stand the everlasting after everlasting. Unite and then depart. This one is on the beach. Walking giddy in the sand and the glass. With my Brixton Hooligan falling into the sand. You were taken before me.
That seems like a penalizing breath to take. The sand is fucking translucent and burns in the boredom.
I’m trying to hold onto my new dysfunctional gravity. While I swim indigested in the stomach of the Earth. Because that is what I’ve been told to do. I’d much rather see if I could fly. To see if I can reimagine all the colours we once owned, And kiss every line of your face. Physically, my mouth has to be the blade and disform us as we both fall.
The Skeleton of the Hawthorn
Hungry highways began to eat the stars. Driving fastly past the Hawthorn trees. We made a wish off the bones. Of the dainty skeletons as it bit the breeze. Watching the mass of blades, Parade in the dark of the night. As it were to close in for a kiss of death. I push away from the fire’s warm breath. Shaking branches off and letting love become savage.
As the shuffle of the road, rips the heavens from the ground. Whip-in a little wind and then the creation of the ladder. Climb up, laborers. And bend down the sky and impel your eyes to the ground. To take a teasing peek at the blinding God.
Funeral Jacket
My body began to break in the wreck to the funeral parlor. I guess we may have had the drugs in our eyes. We pulled out our wallets from our tucked in dirty slacks. The bells clank and we watch the women cry for criminals.
They left dirt all over these tracks, from hearse to the course. Lines of people greet the family and the family friends, And the fiendish enemies, and the pretending sociopaths smile on. With dollar signs in their eyes. Exotic in champagne aftertaste.
God rest this old gigolo. Raised on nose candy and tranquilizing lipstick flavors. Assailants bump into the crowd and I feel a little claustrophobic. The room becomes a foggy night, as I smell perfume drip from wigs to stains on the floor.
I stumble, attracted to my dying high to a flowery patterned sofa. Curled up in fetal and about to barf. I sweat through the aluminum, past the clearance shirt, and my funeral jacket is mop water.
Midnight swimming in my head. To sleep baby, ready to sleep. And I want my thoughts to be less melodic, and less tragic. So what emotion am I supposed to have? When my fever chill passes over my broken body. Can I exist normally? I’ll sip the 2 hour old coffee from a stained olive green mug, and Haunt this room like a mime. Bleeding white paint from the walls over my funeral jacket. Miscreants look over and ask if I’m really family.
No clubs or bars are open to lay in my brown recluse charm. I know everyone says at funeral the nice things that the deceased have done, I just want those at mine to say. Once in Heaven, once from the circus. Like always.
Death by Dame
Scowl, it was Sunday afternoon. I met this old guy flying by the saloon. In his Cadillac falsies. He was always a smooth talker. Out on the town, selling lies. Like a newspaper made by the town flirt. Tobacco drips from his mouth and, He watches Main Street strut to the pounding of all- The rusty trumpets. His mind will never be that of something but obscene. He’s got pills for it all, And he’s got six divorces. All the motels know him by name. The cracks of all the flattery. The stains of all the boiling howls against his skin. He loves the fishnets and the blue lipstick the most. Beads of sweat and pearl necklaces dropping by the vanity mirror. He thinks he’s got the midnight by the stilettos, But this night he has a .38 to his womanizing eyes. Can’t dial another dame. His death will soon follow.
1001 Days Before the Scream
Thursday began the delusions By Friday there was a hint of seclusion The giggles bit like frightened mice.
By the next week Something was clawing at the vacancy Left by shadows Kept growing more and more - and more beast-like.
A month in the rattling tails Like a rattlesnake militia Testing and begging for a scream.
But you...
Still not frightened enough.
Walking up with the breathy tangles on my neck Sly, slick with many questions The walking around in the daze Crawling, then back to walking.
The deep voices of jumbled word priests are taunting, praying for your scream.
The chipmunk voice dancers are singing, moistening your lethargic wet dream. There is a calm grandiose...
A few years in.
Thinking back to normalcy. The sunlight and the rain and all. Balance each other out to become - Your dark and trusting friends.
The grass will grow straight, Crooked, burnt, and sometimes laced with decay. Netherworlds overcast cloudy, pungent waste.
You dissolve into a slight breath, Catching a shriek! in your lungs... but pause before the orgasmic vocal becomes loud.
By 1000, you are a gagging lunacy freak Pulling petals from your floral heart. Bleeding here Bleeding there Love me once Love me twice
And finally,
As midnight struck day 1001
A scream passes Ready to face Your next scream You begin the new phase.
Save Me From the Bend
There are some afternoons you find yourself on the bend. In a fight, for the attentive eyes of night. Away from sunlight and smothering like mucus stuck to the skin. Forgetting my gardens, my phaeton drives. My disease of anger can now rest easy. Wanting the energy of the moon to massage my mind. Hum until the monsters leave. The day feeds all the chewing for fallen angels. I want to rest in the thoughts of an evening. When anything visible or invisible can breathe, however puny the light. At the parties, alone in shadows. Crying in blankets, maddening lips. Hushes of the rain. Oh, just save me from the bend.
The Broken Heart Ramble
My new mission didn’t get very far. Collisions between the plates of worships. I fell apart on my first day. Everyone began to tug at me. Pull me to your furnace. Like hungry packs of wolves in the wild. On an Anemic snowy day. Not to be fearless like the broken hearts. The broken hearts that built that bridge, that is now wet and wooden. Erected to become limp in the driftwood.drownings.
Falling on the first day, When no one cared to strengthen the arch. Constant crumbling, ornaments bubbling under. Rivers strained in tears, puzzles floating unsolved. They played the favorite, they became the prime. They gained all the garden jewels and became the most sublime. An illegitimate sunshine was born to a sky.
Hide the faces of the fallen behind the possessive clouds. Mumbles, talentless and faint. Elastic and wimpy in these halls. Hear the straining rope, imagine the roses blur from this ropewalk fall. I know my dreams, I know my roots. Planted in the ingenuity of these physical laws. Like a drunken limp. The greedy laughter steps to my energies. My panic has always been the flaw. Not one to be married to obedience. Blessed by the sedition of a mind.
I am nothing more than sacred proteges to lovers who never met. Over in the meadow is the cordless thieves that thirst for me, By some time engaged in criminal deeds, I feel like I’m finally about to meet mercy this evening. When the shadow man meets the faith, and the vanishing begins. So stubborn when prayer is failing. I can’t meet those demands of a growing seed. Always looking for that false beauty. Asking for her to be mine. As she converges into the skin of a new demon to flirt through. Am I the smoke stench in this air, that everyone smells, but no one sees.
Just a flickering dead old age soul. Romances that splintered during a broken sonata, Stinging when cinched, Climbing out the ether of the native druids. They have the bite, they have the grip, The gnaw like the wolves. Arctic chills begin to fill up in my blood. Multiply until the spread is my skin and not just the tingles filling in the pores. I can’t warm myself, without another’s embrace. Submitted early to the mask of greed.
Claustrophobia
How can you feel claustrophobic and empty at the same time? Why is our sex more important than caring, growing, feeling full humanity? Every time there is a meaningful feeling, we can embrace, Those stars in the sky want to erase in the haze and now we are spotless. Just pure dark, suffer and shake. Removing the wedges to break, to break. With a dim moon sitting inside the sky’s womb still hiding. What is natural? God? A Devil? Hate or Love? Are there any natural friends, or just disconnected pedestrians? I feel the suckling of momentary leeches. The shy girl, the loud girl, the energy, the buzz, the quiet The breath of cool mint whispers. Are they real? What is calling my name? Another minute of limited time wasted. How can you protect what is weak? When you are scared to be protected yourself, How can you make someone else smile again, or trust again? They are their own drug.
Drums Tapping, Guns Shouting
The drums pounding. In a motor breath jungle. A cigarette burns in a mouth of a wounded moment. There is a touch from a velvet finger. Blue eyes staring. Caressing the ego. Sensory slime. Rain boiling up in the nimbostratus. The spirits wipe the sky clear. Without beauty for a moment, all erased for a moment. The blood begins to tangle like vines in my head. I’m the clear jewel. The pure soldier. I’ve fought these nightmares with guns. I’ve cleansed the wounds of the evil. I’ve torn apart the wonder of joy. And dreamt up a splendid cowardice. While holding shells and making bombs. The security in these tourniquet castles. This used to be enough for the fulfillment. The blood was kept thick and bonded like leather. Now I look eye to eye with napalm, swatting my eyes like ninjas. The missile irises launch defeat into the heart. My course is a scar. Oozing negligence. Light trips in, leaving me drunkenly. Thoughts race by in a haste. The light can’t keep up with the speed of these thoughts. Sagging in my eye sockets. Did all the peace burn through my weightless pockets? Panoramic bloodshed. In the explosions when freedom sank in this mud. I hate seeing my shine in your stains. I didn’t ask for this.
Bio: Michael Igoe, neurodiverse city boy, Chicago now Boston, recovery staff at Boston University Center For Psych Rehab. Many works appear in journals online and print. Recent: Spare Change News(Cambridge MA), thebluenib.com, minerallit.com. Avalanches In Poetry Anthology@amazon.com. National Library Of Poetry Editor’s Choice For 1997. Twitter: MichaelIgoe5. poetryinmotion416254859.wordpress.com. Urban Realism, Surrealism. I like the Night.
New York City During the Fall of Saigon April 1975 By Michael Igoe
Prelude
He spent all last winter, fixated on a death wish engaging in a total war. He felt better off; he had a ball storing coca-cola in glass jars. As deja vu sprouts, bathe in sweat he's not sure if he's an utter halfwit He's struck with memories of roles he thought he plays in old movies: surely a change would do no harm.
Give Me a Minute I.
It’s the same thing, that we’re allowed, walking or running. When I heard echos of unseen presences the kryptonite ticking of the gruesome clock. Something that wasn't, I'd say that it happened. And I’d wonder in vague terms, would light return to 8th avenue. Sitting ragtag on both hands in the alcove of the property. On sale in the aging storefront the lottery ticket and cigarette. They’re bought with song all the songs are the same they’re mellow as a plum. At the front of the counter where samples are offered with a fly- by- night smile. There’s no time like this one. In those times when we are in peril, we find it easy to make much more of whatever appears on the horizon.
II. In a park’s stillness the generators died from short circuits. It must be the easiest, to use the dud rockets in radioactive shower As protective blanket, I can feel on my skin (MLI 2024)
The Year Seems the Same
This is the day of final snow to forget all the damp grime. With a sense of relief, I gathered four limbs, paused on the landing. Beyond the clusters of junk cars sleeping admonishing voices I felt meek, I will yield; I won’t miss the chance for a lovelorn assurance. Defining a certain figure, with a will to be airborne. A nexus, dead to rights, excites balled up nerves. I’m getting the itch to mean what I say. In proper jargon, I wish my words went with things. “If frozen, ice is cold” I’ve been through this before, in the picture of the last week, they didn’t take on a real form, they took on only a semblance. I know a hiding place in mock bereavement I stand over the side, at the well of mourning. You’ll be here soon you will behold me as more of the same.
Mid Morning
It was one of his worst habits he drank all the soup he could. He’s not yet deceased, face down in the alley. Amongst proudest barbers. proud of plying his trade. Making pointed remarks as shards of hair dropped engaged in conversations with outstanding citizens with shined leather shoes. Their glamourous smiles in shapes like crescents.
He didn’t stand a chance When the lights burn out.
Easter Manhattan
Dawn is hours away, but t's clear as a bell. Then red rims of sunrise will glance against glass. Somehow the glass, will seem as crystal. You and I lie silent you and I lie in sin. The avenues storefronts are ruined and shuttered they dared to determine the slave ships we're in. Some are doomed to wander they might wander the earth until they give up the ghost. But now we're talking at three in the morning You admit to favor an island the most. For certainj graveyards, seen numb to the bone;
damned be these living; they're certain of living. Bands cool to amazement will play rogue to a boss. that land works the best.
Burden
During lifteimes of the masses a story's swallowed the whole hog written by saints of the arcade They are carless saints weary in the weeping, wage war against God They adhere to mottoes blazing on the corncies.
I Can’t Do That
In the chute of night I feel totally barren. I'm paying close attention to what the dial light says. I like getting dressed in a few shades of red. I start to walk, I hear strangers who are able to think out loud. Brain chemistry awry I leave the institution, wrapped up in plastic. But I don't want any deals with Cadillac fins by night. The woman next door, in diamonds and mink is shouting in Spanish. When she drank and drove she bashed her headlights.
Life on Coattails
I'm living in an angrier world than the one I lived in before. I'm sorry that I'm tempted by the way it all plays out. I wanted to move on to a different stretch I was blinking blind, I nod, I was graceful. They burn men's rags right near the shoes but I'm not a witness at the scene of the fire. There's no surprise in singing the love songs without ballast in the scramble for the angels When they visit as our guardians you can tell them what we value.
In A Backwater
These are the savvy foes who feel like each other. At the bar's entrance for a billiard's game. Never giving a single inch. Comrades in arms, neutral in presence brushing raindrops in the blues of dusk. They mean no harm to the skies of Eden. They never gave me one jot., the whole time I knew them. I know why they're angry, They all ran out of money.
Found in a Dilated Fist
The objects just there, flaring and crackling, sometimes they dilate. The soup ghosts who belted you well known for dead and fevers, biding their time at the Solstice., in their accord with the islands. This is the place where the deep sea is created, destined as foursquare. To roll like marble, crossing the basalt, Let luck enter your life, enter like sinuous tigers allow them to avoid you. in luck and in love, you can be avoided at least till evening. Unwilling to take the blame but they're aghast to be seen, walking the sentient trail.
Foreign Tongues
These are messages that are superfluous detailing an illness. A complete picture, of the ethos of ardor'] kinship with forests following directions. They don't come from giants they're not plagues of locusts; they speak of their distraction, assuming their original poses. The meanings they carry is obscured by their noise. They're best in an argument that demand quick response about paltry sums of money. The morning brings a much needed exit.
Fevers of the Mind 