After the song
by the same name
i got dragster flames
shooting out my shades
after the rhapsody in blue
and Picasso's blue period
i got flying purple people
eater
after the Birds's word if flipped
I'm on a slow boat to China
couldn't be finer
to be in Doggie Dinner
at 2:00 in the morning
reading a copy of Notes from
the Underground
pucker my lips on the reed, eyes bead
closed ready to blow this Juke Joint down
way down in nowhere-s-ville spooky jive
town, jazz matchstick ready to light em up
I'm dancin to the Tall Cool One
A tune that plays on a revolution turn-table
I'm a spacey sputnik man in my lunar capsule
smokin my zig-zag man doin the tic a tac on that
flat hat, so tall and so groovy, riding the cosmos
wave, that fuzz-station noise comin off the static
changin the radio dial up and down , lo-fi mystic
the bandwith, flippin through the tunes weird sounds
scratchin through cracks in the codes on them roads
still bleedin through all that commercial for white whites
and bright brights all that station identification, between
black hole sounds of space shootin the hypnotic curl
I'm in a low dive universe, totally gone down the tube
my mind lost in a spot of zero-points dancin on the top
of the ceiling, twisting the night away in loopy de loopy
existential questions that keep chasin my mind around
through metaphysical westerns with high noons and
sunk moons, as the plug Indian head nickle flips,
for the show down, for the slow motion draw on the gun
they be standin there with holes showin though for the sun
rises in the east, for the sun sets in the west, for that coin
falls to the ground of being, and seein the rays comin out
for they shout, heads or tails, for they call it, Tall Cool One
and the Wailers, wail on it...............................daddy-o
z pome
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revolutionrabbit
- Posts: 729
- Joined: March 29th, 2009, 8:55 pm
- Contact:
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revolutionrabbit
- Posts: 729
- Joined: March 29th, 2009, 8:55 pm
- Contact:
colored bits
colored bits thrown like faces
through fog letters written by hand
washed in blood moon's painting
within number glyph leaves reaching
down the long gray backgrounds
turning around speaking silences
down streets that wander like zero drunks
very old words spoken from red lips of lovers
from black voices that swim in orange masks
the reasons everything is sleeping
like passed out newspapers in the city rain
like stars in a void night lights of falling points
things we refuse to see behind the times square
the smokey mirrors turning around neon corners
the ghosts of music drifting down derelict hotel halls
with candy paper walls drifting through torn sky
the electric totalities explode forgotten minds
we are in the basements of religious belief
in the bottoms of drawers of stone that hold truth
like razor blades rusted in golden tomb boxes
reflections off of dead language that lost its way
in doomed eternities of endless screams of violence
like lava flows in a deluge of tears the years tumble
though we hasten to primitive spiritual powers
holy burning signs in the eightfold nothingness
in huge mineral underworlds disappear and reappear
dead words walk through gigantic carved infinite doorways
for purification and rebirth, the justification and the move
through the maze of meaning turning around itself
perhaps you see beyond the judgement of abstractions
perhaps the negative transmissions are speaking beyond
the damnation carnival behind the rose petal translations
the subterfuge of slaughters the transparent landscapes
all the blind spots are becoming dervish objects
we are now at the initiation of ancestral trees, the spectre
of archaic distance become the resurrector of chaos things
through fog letters written by hand
washed in blood moon's painting
within number glyph leaves reaching
down the long gray backgrounds
turning around speaking silences
down streets that wander like zero drunks
very old words spoken from red lips of lovers
from black voices that swim in orange masks
the reasons everything is sleeping
like passed out newspapers in the city rain
like stars in a void night lights of falling points
things we refuse to see behind the times square
the smokey mirrors turning around neon corners
the ghosts of music drifting down derelict hotel halls
with candy paper walls drifting through torn sky
the electric totalities explode forgotten minds
we are in the basements of religious belief
in the bottoms of drawers of stone that hold truth
like razor blades rusted in golden tomb boxes
reflections off of dead language that lost its way
in doomed eternities of endless screams of violence
like lava flows in a deluge of tears the years tumble
though we hasten to primitive spiritual powers
holy burning signs in the eightfold nothingness
in huge mineral underworlds disappear and reappear
dead words walk through gigantic carved infinite doorways
for purification and rebirth, the justification and the move
through the maze of meaning turning around itself
perhaps you see beyond the judgement of abstractions
perhaps the negative transmissions are speaking beyond
the damnation carnival behind the rose petal translations
the subterfuge of slaughters the transparent landscapes
all the blind spots are becoming dervish objects
we are now at the initiation of ancestral trees, the spectre
of archaic distance become the resurrector of chaos things
-
revolutionrabbit
- Posts: 729
- Joined: March 29th, 2009, 8:55 pm
- Contact:
these
these are just now rewritten poems from a few years ago, i need to consolidate, bear hug with me....peace , love, & diggers!
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revolutionrabbit
- Posts: 729
- Joined: March 29th, 2009, 8:55 pm
- Contact:
this
the words have spoken the same meanings
yet they drink of the waters of forgetfulness, they speak from ruins in the west, these voices drip in the fountains where the glass tigers transmute, dusty lamps floating along passages they hold the hypnotic curtains of the centuries back,
the honey of the constellations pours down through my succulent vision,making a series of circles whose rings revolve slowly on stone washes dripping down in progressions of quicksilver dimensions,
where i hallucinate the rain drop beyond the expanding rings, zeros magnifying, comb quivering interiors within reflections on the golden gutter, monstrous cathedral like vast stone opening,
in the lonesome mists, empty histories, jagged distance, river of glints, burning word leaves, skull jewel, cigarette tree, bitumen tears philosophy, prophecy undetermined. poet on the outskirts of the sacred ground,
should we not paint great endless weeping blood paintings?
Shall we not toss the ancient dice of cheap visions, waiting in the angry sea, waiting on the street corner with the most beautiful legs, and the suns dressed as beggars, wait in the amusement landscapes with the laughing black hole starfire floods...
wash through the hieroglyphic neon wastes the funhouse mansions with obsidian plinth windows, the monolithic chests rise out of the delirious background, the blue eyed star child weeps a pearl of light.
waiting for the fix on the wisdom of the ages, i'm on a hoodoo roll, snake eyes, i see her glittering chartreuse eyes in the early late light, of silver shadows, in the night of infinity leaving the stations, and the departures for parts unknown, where the conductor signals between destinations, in the arrival times next to the star laden voids and the center of empty space,
the malingering evening star, on the edge of language town, the unformed abstractions, restless totalities, taunted by forever, its ways, its circle of a thousand lifetimes, its essence of perfumed whispers of mystic inhales.I contemplate the majesty of your breath,
exotic matter, bits of nothingness on the primordial stage.to see the forest for the trees moving through the trees for the forest.I walked everyday from one end of the world to the other.
yet they drink of the waters of forgetfulness, they speak from ruins in the west, these voices drip in the fountains where the glass tigers transmute, dusty lamps floating along passages they hold the hypnotic curtains of the centuries back,
the honey of the constellations pours down through my succulent vision,making a series of circles whose rings revolve slowly on stone washes dripping down in progressions of quicksilver dimensions,
where i hallucinate the rain drop beyond the expanding rings, zeros magnifying, comb quivering interiors within reflections on the golden gutter, monstrous cathedral like vast stone opening,
in the lonesome mists, empty histories, jagged distance, river of glints, burning word leaves, skull jewel, cigarette tree, bitumen tears philosophy, prophecy undetermined. poet on the outskirts of the sacred ground,
should we not paint great endless weeping blood paintings?
Shall we not toss the ancient dice of cheap visions, waiting in the angry sea, waiting on the street corner with the most beautiful legs, and the suns dressed as beggars, wait in the amusement landscapes with the laughing black hole starfire floods...
wash through the hieroglyphic neon wastes the funhouse mansions with obsidian plinth windows, the monolithic chests rise out of the delirious background, the blue eyed star child weeps a pearl of light.
waiting for the fix on the wisdom of the ages, i'm on a hoodoo roll, snake eyes, i see her glittering chartreuse eyes in the early late light, of silver shadows, in the night of infinity leaving the stations, and the departures for parts unknown, where the conductor signals between destinations, in the arrival times next to the star laden voids and the center of empty space,
the malingering evening star, on the edge of language town, the unformed abstractions, restless totalities, taunted by forever, its ways, its circle of a thousand lifetimes, its essence of perfumed whispers of mystic inhales.I contemplate the majesty of your breath,
exotic matter, bits of nothingness on the primordial stage.to see the forest for the trees moving through the trees for the forest.I walked everyday from one end of the world to the other.
Last edited by revolutionrabbit on May 7th, 2009, 1:37 am, edited 2 times in total.
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