Ill, Illusory

The Young Bloods sing their figmented blues
On the streets that lay like made beds
And their voices blow like a gale
Reaping the flowers of Space and new territory -beyond.
It opes hollow hearts and parts lips anew gossamer.

Look at these children,
Open wide and screaming throat smiles,
Millions of misfortune, bantam Americans
Dream in the day while their bodies
Mourn dead energy.

We are One, Look Closer, One is We

There is more to a tree
Than the dark grains of wood.
There is a dark age of rings
Hiding foliage in the womb.
And sand, little lustering opiates
Of the desert groan and howl
Building false monuments
Like angels without an altar.

Sour Wine Envies the Thick Wit of Blood

Another day becomes night in the Opium den.
There goes the sun- drunk
I've seen it rise and fall
From lethargy to life,
and back again.
Tis' but a black light buzzing my skin
into the most sodden pallor.
And on the tabaret, une bouteille de vin
Sinks into my muscles
How gently they sleep on the bone now, weaklings.

I have heard that under my breast
Lay hard roses in full bloom
And a tyrian haze at the cheek.
And when the vin soaks in,
Sardonic chasms teem my brain.
For I braid the voices of a dulcimer
Into the sky, a ministry made of sunbeams
Shaking the lustful harp like hands of savages
And stones, opal stones remove themselves from nature
to be the bridge for the crossing Gods in you.