Friday, February 22, 2013

"Godspeed You! The Black Emperor releases their first LP in ten years!"

The Rapist

With his arms outstretched,
a little life began to awaken inside him besides the fear
shaking his spine’s flesh. 
Raw pain itself pulls the strings
as he peels the skin off the guitar. 
Monotone anger strikes to be stricken again to fullness.
Knows nothing.
Hears nothing, but listens to that goddamn 
sweaty sameness.
Swallowed frustration grows stronger with the rhythm.
His sick penetration –the soul of his mind–
bites deeper and deeper, until insanity becomes a crystallized habit.
Twisted clarity boosts his strength to overcome, 
yet lives to deny the music in the muse once again.

If there was hope, there is.

If there was life, he’s alive...
Loving the speed as he speeds through a lone race.
Hungry and strong out for another prey.
A mighty animal that knows no fear,
as he plays and plays the distorted tune.

As if truth had been spun around his spine
letting new flesh sickly build up from it, 
yet never healing, draining the life out of his 
forsaken being,
he is tired of the beauty
that isn’t his own.  


A used band-aid over rotten wounds as
his claw strikes his own head forever questioning the whys in his heart
and he vomits his hollow hearts out into space 
and becomes one with the emptiness of life, 
beating on his drums – 

A sound substitute for heartbeat.

Monday, February 4, 2013

The Roundtrip

The night-street became one flat shiny mass of asphalt.
Bus wheels, tricycles and bicycles balancing at eye-height.
What if time stopped? -  Passers-by wouldn't be passing by.
That vendor would have to bear with the iron on his shoulder.
Buses wouldn’t go past.
Fingers would be stuck inside vaginas, a nose, or an ear, forever.

Time never stops.

I know nothing more here,
on this muddy curb.  
My friend starts up her bike.
We drive through too many flickering streetlights,
eat through boulders of potatoes, fly with Buffalo-wings spread wide on a platter.
Margaritas feed the senses, voices amongst voices fill the air in an upside-down world,
where refugees recite poetry, to re-connect their breath with the breath of the motherland
for peace.

Children are being raped in remote villages finding refuge at schools.
They will tell their stories later.
Time will never stop.

The morning smells of roasted coffee beans.
The dusty roadside chases the monkeys on, and me-
wandering amongst random stones- I arch over a vision.
Ancient stone faces come alive, watching their new queen
at leisure from traffic and time, from bored eyes, from broken vows.

Dragonfly-looking butterflies chasing sunshine all the way
onto the tip of a paintbrush  held by someone who isn’t there.
There is, however, an artist by the walls of reality,
making the exact replica of  a postcard. 

I’m too flattered with my own old face.

It’s time.

Checking in on another flight.
Someone yawns loudly into the back of my neck.

It’s all in the air...