Forgotten Name

Lend me orchids, show me fire

One child, cherub, lyre.

Upon the rushing foam the petals lie

Like blue fragments in a silver eye

Watching from a sun burned cloud

This heart, a column that time wears down.

Who can follow my tracks in clay?

From my birth to my final day?

I leave my name to the ocean free

Words lost into eternity.

My fame inspires a cold stone grave:

“Here lies he without a name.”

And though Virgil, angels, spirits breathe

It remains as fleeting wind through the trees.

Morning Scene

She smiled to see the sail boat go

In the fresh blue morning burned by the Caribbean sun

While lingering smoke from ashen torches

Plume like escaping dreams.

She can hear still so early in the day

The crowds of hidden people past the trees

That sway slowly in the cool breeze.

They chant prices, offer salvation,

Sing Greek songs from a thousand years gone.

She can feel the water in the air,

The echoing dew from the final moments of night.

Its morning, like any other.

Mambo Cocktail

Gris Gris
Distant thunder
Mambo Spain, Cuba
Not the same
Cadillac Rock
Simple rhythms and pulsating beats
Slap bass rumble knife
Rocket voodoo money woes
Street sand, dirt, drink – drink
Cocktails, night time, Reagan
Economics: Drugs, no
Blues, yes
Poly sounds surround screeching parrots
Talking palm tree beach smoking
Huts tropical sea breeze
Louisiana stretch midnight party
Mardi gras poverty wooden floors
Happy life, swaying branches
Middle suburbs in spring
True love, Neruda Lorca
Let the Latin in.

Stream of City Consciousness

Walking out of a yellow stone wall bar
With a half empty tequila in hand
Ice falling out of your pockets
A serviette sticking out your pants
A cigarette ½ a centimetre in your hair
A signed Polaroid of the dancer
Who works telephone operations in Detroit
Mexican night cap sombrero slender
Cat wailing night time driver got batteries
For the smoke alarm back home
His wife is 180 pounds and works at Macy’s
He’d mow his lawn if he had one
You look at him with disdain
Ash mingles with the tangles in your hair
A gnome waits outside with a pitchfork
And the happy accident of 85 rides in
On a chrome horse
Probably out of dice again long trip Reno in the rain
Naked beat drunk midnight train
Hollering moon unfortunate crow with teary eyes
Children hide behind grit grey blinds
With the lights on watching the late shows
While mother vomits, husband cleenex drain clean
Big bop band draws the scene
Picasso, Van Gough they got change for the subway
Pop penny’s in the cracked hand of gorillas
With furrowed brows lying on the streets base feet
Lined with leather shoes on 1905 pavement
On 5th street constructed with earnest in 1886
One month since the publication of the daily paper
Rats take shelter in the covers there children
Squeal with hunger, virginal daughter makes an offer
Passing light shines dull and devilish, it’s belief.

Lonely Streets

I have stopped by the faint light of night
To see the clock face moon high above
And the rich man’s tomb sunken and dark.

I’ve turned the pages of Melville in the cold
Passing strangers with scarred hands pleading
I kept on reading, walking to echoes speaking.

I could never say goodbye to my friends;
The tap of my heel is the only sound now.
This nocturne never strays from illumination.

My need to call to those that pass me by
Intensifies with each unsure breath I hear,
Everyone is scared, a welcome hand seems cruel.

I have walked blue streets in morning mist,
Sun kissed stars fade away one by one.
All feeling of true loneliness has gone.

What Lies Between?

What lies at rest with the balance of life?

The saintly embers of a proud sun,

The opera of a flower in bloom,

The first sight of the world at dawn.

 

What challenges transcendence?

Torture in all its forms,

A guilt torn mind and an enflamed heart,

The final sight of your love.

 

What here lies between –

A full and ethereal attainable dream,

Every breath is a symphony in eternity,

Every face a star reflected in an endless sea.

This

I consider myself a realist (no I don’t) but I still feel that

I find my way into cheap utopian tat.

I’ll take tales of the liberty scene in Victor Hugo’s dream

Than the remnants of papa’s cigarette from 1923

Lying in the gutter of that (oh so) romantic city.

I could take the train there tomorrow but

I would find myself in utter sorrow when

I discover it’s just another country full of cunts like me (ha)

 

There’s nature (I’m not sure) where everything stays pure

But I still feel far away from my open door.

I could worship the great God Pan, it would be better than

Staying in and giving the TV advice about where it’s going wrong,

I wrote a song about it (it’s a hit) it’s on the tip of my tongue

It’s about how everyone’s old and I’m still young (getting older)

I’ve become a naturalist, a specialist in the human condition but

I’m not neutral, it’s humanity’s funeral when they can’t

Get their shit (drinks) together.

 

As I said before, I don’t believe in utopia anymore (don’t kid yourself)

It’s a roll of the die, I could be the Great Gatsby or the Catcher in the Rye

Do I aspire to the green light (I want money) or do I give up and whine?

Which one is right? I’m right all the time.

(That’s a lie)

The Price of Silence

What is the price we pay for silence?

Is it a dream, as cold as a fallen angel?

Or a heart burnt within the chest of a soldier?

Do we let our caged birds die inside us –

Or do we let them sing when we think

That no one can hear?

Should we defer from the life we desire –

Or do we sacrifice our fear to the flame?

Do we dare give it a name?

What do we think our silence could bring –

Does it give us all, could it pay for everything?

No, we are left with nothing.