Idle never boasts love, Just passing number lines, One double double four; Pass grapes divine tor, More sunlit they bore; Pi simple, three point one, Four.
Winter seemed to never end, I was standing in the rain. What is dead will rise again, to be lost to another raw cycle. We were dreamt up bare in the frigid cold, with only tears to shed. We were pale bodied lips tinted red, patiently standing by for seasons end.
Does one write music, Tunes or conclusions, When tongued foolish? Could God write a poem, So deep and wholesome he could not read, Without tears in tandem? Feet so sore-stung, Like a horse in the open, he would forever run, Chasing free of freedom, At best, to never love.
Write your life, line by line, From post to post, time in finite, Decide. Vibration is not entirety, Leave flying to the pilot, Masons, vocational thieves. Applause, Songs written of concepts, Concert to the rest, nonsense. Only to soothe the soul, One forgives and consoles, Otherwise the wise have but knowledge, Lies are all but college, Which behold, Yet deny all the garbage they bestow. Take your hits, pipe by pipe, From fist to fist, time is final, Less vital due to all your fighting.
Like a hurt cardinal, bandaged, Perhaps again it flies perverse, Perhaps times himself per verse, Per second, per lurch, per word; Managing his time it finds a perch, Challenging himself, flies the world; Flies and bugs no more, Pecking the spine it eats a horse, Like a fuhrer pardoned, seminal, Perhaps one finds it not so curt, Curtsies, words lies, Lord survives. "I would make gentle return, Messiah of none, I arrive, Time to waste no more." It hears but fury, speaks short, "Perhaps past such things were worse, Such meaning in verses, Supple leanings of wings of worry, Speckled and shiny this rock is yours"
Write not of tramplings, Tramp whispering, quiet: Were you to write a hymn, For him, would it be so pious, So timeless, could it be? Could you close your eyes, See peonies in a garden? What is a peony, but alive, Without a whistler to guide? What is my life, but pennies, Withstanding misers in life, What is the point, but a sword, Curt be I to point or hide.
Misunderstood lyrics, Reverend, Had you not asked of my kids, Or the loved ones I cherished? Thorough I write my kinship, Kingship, flagship furlough, No science to write myself, Is it just lies of unknowns, Just lies, unknowingly, Trust dying in fun foals, Or stampedes around the field, Not Informed of where they going? Can God even hear a man when he moans, Does he cover an ear, hope and pray? Does he occasionally call things gay? You misunderstand my intention, No questions ponder foolish in heaven, God's gift could be enjoying the stay.
What if I loved what I hate? Would the prices get raised? Would they be kept away? What if I said I was gay? Would anything change? Would I get more women that way?
In my heart Beyond the stars All of our lives in intercourse Crossing green men lead Leaving us all Alone in the Universe Fall leaves of green They dim to dust All precious metals rich with rust Life Apart seeks to become One All Alone in the Universe
Horns, voice of the poor, Holy, vision is only. Rather, than coroner's noise, Throw the dice of paradise your holding. Father, can corners point? How can a leader lead, Scared of people peeping, Their knowledge growing. To plough after planting seeds, Scared of people leaving, Father, am I to join? I feel my collage is nothing, My college is nodding, Politicians are nodding, Should I be hoar myself, Before myself? Should I embrace my life, Before death? Should I allow imbibing, Am I building a shelf, Or finding myself?
Asparagus, are you aspirant plus, A spare, or pair of gloves, Au Pair, in a pear of groves, As parallel was, as it will grow, Outrageous, as pairs will go. Beans of green fielded, ate, All the others upon my plate, Clean, of childish readings. Late, all the others, Plate clean of childish things, Like television and admirings.
Pence felt worth, more than all, Dirty and small, spending curt. Maybe to shout, Maybe to doubt, Chasing two shorelines, Given scourge or knout. Schoolyards abound, Fence built high, to the clouds. Fools abundance, mountain climb, Peace can be free, expensive as dying, Riddled with fear unknown, prying, Heavy to swing for liars. Fences can be expressive as lessons, Lesions on the back of your neck, Illegal, yet a photography session, Perhaps I soon like Kim can attest.
Leased bells, music borrowed, Please, tell me of tomorrow, Of swallows leaving belfries, How else can my ears will, Until I hear their sorrow? Peter, son my lover callous, Draperies and linen, down, Failure? This linebacker asks, Just throw my ball, pass, Runs forever to never catch, How will I know his sorrow? Unless he is, as a tinder match, Tender lover of impossible tasks, Inflamed tether, ball impassible, Gasoline for the man who hits.
Kissing set to lecherous sorrow, Tell me God, what is to borrow? Missing letters, better tomorrows, Missive lectures until I follow? Mating set of anxious swallows, Tell me lover, what is the worm, Other than your gifts I consume? Warm.
Images of text, a thousand words, Thousands absurd then bridges bend. Curt be my pen atwixt their cloud, Fountain of their dreams allowed, Pounding coins, their dreams aloud Outbursts blurred of Hitchen's hand. Dreaming mountains with giant crowds, Client crows, their giant demands. Imagine a test, a thousand words, Testing absurdly on a given text, What word comes second, or last. A mass, a mast, a caste aghast, Rest snugly where water amassed.
Iamb missing letters, in dismissive letters, Dedicated to a missive later, a massive dinner; Lambs missing mint, or better, Life kissing under a bridge of lectures, Mindful thought of conjecture, checkered talk, One could use a walk, blind to aught, Whether the weather is fine or not is no matter, When the pitter patter of life has gone.
Act white; Pack light, Passing every alley in a mad hike. Can you wear your Nikes out, When theft is at a mad high? Can you wear your Gucci belt? 'Cuz theft is at a mad high; Thirsty people getting water like they're Mogwai, Then they're eating after midnight. Man, I can't even see straight. I feel mad high under the streetlights. *Rustle Rustle* as a squirrel runs past. I'm in flight. What the fuck was that?