I am singing through the voices of my heroes
Here on a grey day in February
And the wind is yelling at me to stop.
I have burned through Neil Young
And now I don’t know where to turn.
I want to paint the mellow autumn
That he describes, only my drifting fingers
Repel the brush. My own voice can’t hit
C sharp minor 7. I want to drown this creative sorrow
In a bar, alone, with quiet music,
But I am too nervous to live out this cliché.
The parrot women with their pails
In the middle ages all have ale
To waste away the Friday after next,
The voted in the ex-president
Of somewhere without precedent
Cus he was the only one to read the text.
The rebel man with his masonry
Did something out at sea
That no priest in any case would dare to do,
But it was Roman in religion
And English in tradition
Trying to find the drug to get over you
Na-na-na’s come from the radio
Like Spain or Mexico
With the water wobbling like the pigs
In the restaurant with the concert
Concertina player happy with his dollar
And change.
Night life, fireflies, somewhere in Greece
Ruined by my being overly obese,
The horn player compliments my choice in dress
But like an envious romance
We argue when we dance
And then find ourselves in needless distress.
I’m cautiously optimistic, hyper realistic
Happy with the walking stick
To travel over mountain and monument alike,
But I know how it feels
When you’re in heels
And you get out on the third strike.
All these contemplative melodies
Can soothe obsessive maladies
That tremble and shake me to my bones,
But all the words of vagabonds
Burn so bright and then they’re gone
And I’m back to being fearful and alone.
Twisted rhythms, crooked rhymes
Help me through the trying times
When my head is spinning like a moving wheel,
Cold nights fall to dawning days
They throw their jewels then fade away
And I’m left wondering how I really feel.
I envy Ahab and his whale
Even one so doomed to fail
A prisoner determined to succeed,
At least he had a goal to chase
I’m sitting in a silent place
Waiting for a call to come to me.
I’ve got confusion coming from my eyes
Towards the charming cloudy skies
About which road I should follow all the way,
Like anyone thrown out to the world
Left to voice their own concerns
I’m struggling to find a thing to say.
The parties I want to attend
Throw champagne in your face in disgust
Then scratch your car; and
They play something smooth like honey
On the speakers. You talk to a narcissist
Until you’re ready to beat them with the bottle.
No matter your turn of phrase you somehow manage
to demean and offend the artistic upstart
who you’ve been listening to for the last hour.
You fall into the pool
And the ripples make the moon light dance
All around You. Then you stand in a dripping
Blue suit, smile, and walk out.
False cowboys take up motel rooms.
You’re in that weary state where you mumble phrases
Like: “I don’t know man” and “just give me the key”
And you want to wave goodbye
To the ugly landscape. The person at reception
Tells you the pool is closed. There’s no barrier around the pool
But you don’t want to take a chance. There’s one room left.
A cowboy stands idle under the sad yellow light
Blackened by flies and acting forlorn.
You know for a fact his mind’s on the steak he had
When he was seven and his father came home early.
Motel rooms scream secrets
But you’re too tired for degeneracy – anyway,
The mayor of a nearby town is entertaining in room 207
Dressed as a gigolo Santa in July. Never the less,
The orange heat of the dawn sun
Coming through the blinds in the desert morn
Is as welcoming as any waterfall.
Propulsion, speed, Opera
Bowling down the road in sleepless coattails
And the same gloves you slept in –
What a gorilla, devoid of inspiration
Wallowing in howling sin, desperate as a star
Ready to supernova. Arrested for jaywalking
And screaming at the police for offences
Mismanaged. Work in the morning,
Sad wailing musical pipe dream romance –
Stale coffee. Dreams written as tattoos.
Every eye is on you like Apollo: a crumbling obelisk
Cursing to the dirt, asking the earth
“Why aren’t I rich yet?” – Some kind of prayer.
It’s an aspiration,
Nay! A dream!
To destroy a hotel room
While my body is as weak as a guitar string
Left on a guitar by an 80 year old
Farmer who’s seen everything before.
But, unlike him, I’ll be dancing
Gyrating like sin, singing and drinking
(Attempting to do both at the same time)
Ready to interview a Mancunian upstart
With a fringe
And a paisley shirt
But the guy will have to call me and not give up
Because I guarantee I’ll be passed out
In glory.
Lingering late night warm and lonesome
Catching smoke between the trees.
Taxi’s wait in the dark. Some people stand
Looking down the road with worry;
Others just pass them by.
Listening to the Replacements
Catching the bus
On blue winter evenings.
I wander if there’s a fire burning
Beyond the horizon,
And if it’s worth breaking away
With no plan
Lost in the vain determination
Of youth.
I want to be the guy
In a scraggly white shirt
Torn trousers
And a black wide brimmed hat
Sitting in the shaded doorway
(Green paint peeling, number 23)
In a small Spanish town, a drink in my hand
And a nylon string guitar
That I play
To earn some spare change
From the tourists.
laughingheartsite 