When gray fades into gray And black and white appear There’s clarity from chaos From things you used to fear These things that used to own you Have finally set you free But the chains still drag behind you No matter how you try and flee You’re straining to move forward But your past it weighs you down As you walk it clanks and rattles ‘Though you’ve finally made new ground These chains they slow your walk And you cannot climb the hill So you stay here in the valley And know not what calls you still
I am the mother of the dead soldiers whose blood wins only a grave. I am the child of the dead mothers whose cries reach no god. I am the father of the great idiots whose hearts give birth to wars. And it is for all these singers poets lament while the earth moans.
It is for those who are hungry and cold, who have forgotten who they are, who wait in their meekness for some impossible saviour the old ones taught us would come in dreams, that I sing this song that is the name of our family.
O you powerful nations of imagination how you strive to keep the people from touching and rebuilding their tomorrow.
You will soon enough know all your relations, soon enough you will be brought to your knees and not through some mute hope or promise that leads the people to slave in your factories.
It will be by the vast hope of billions who cannot be chained or silenced by your gold, your jingles, your poverty.
It will be in the murmuring heart of the people that you will hear the story of your own death you nations whose kindness resides in the radioactive fist that melts bones and the memories of our ancestral union.
You will be strangled in your own vomit and your children who are fed by machines will one day lay down and curse you for those angry worms that are eating their hearts.
Perhaps then the people, if they are still here will be gentle and lift them from their tears, will take them again into the circle that is our lives spinning around the sun.
Yes, I am your son and your daughter, your mother and father and ancestors, lover of winged finned and furred people who caress the grass with abandon, who drink in the waters with hope.
My wails shall fill up the skies of our world until you shall listen or watch us all die.
Our obese culture, churning out drones, sweaty dollar bill fists shoveling loaded forks into their rectal mouths, Supressing their coach potato rage with the over-medicated, over-advertised, over-the-counter thinking of this new age.
More eating. Less reading.
Chomping. Chewing. Chomping.
Further dissolving a constipated education system, the consumption is so loud it is impossible to listen,
School houses are pens for the living dead where hands only raise to scratch empty heads.
Maybe we need more MTV, more me, me, me, more SUVs
less empathy = more HIV
Am I cursed with the only set of eyes that can actually see?
We wage a war on terror - AN INVISABLE ENEMY while religion is raped and twisted into political tools used to munipulate the masses of brain washable, yet good natured fools, And brown skinned children are sent to their Gods, as we download stolen music to load up our ipods,
So what, Our beady, greed-focused, judgemental eyes have left the city of New Orleans to be claimed by flies.
But America knows best -which is sitting around getting fat, so for piling up your plate, this is where it's at.
It started with a girl wandering, locked out a pale ghost carrying milk on a wooden yoke in frigid winter lost, with no language, hallucinating Hiroshima, dogshit, and escape, on mushrooms, in a see-through nightie wearing fear, going by bus, following a loose marble into the highway reststop with the wax sculptures, fast food fungi, the torture maps, charts and diagrams, lost in the horror film lost in the frantic search leading to the haunted house leading to the increasingly enclosed space and finding her mother inside the dull mirror of the broken mammogram machine costing a quarter.
The girl and the mother are strangers. That's all I remember.
When gray fades into gray
ReplyDeleteAnd black and white appear
There’s clarity from chaos
From things you used to fear
These things that used to own you
Have finally set you free
But the chains still drag behind you
No matter how you try and flee
You’re straining to move forward
But your past it weighs you down
As you walk it clanks and rattles
‘Though you’ve finally made new ground
These chains they slow your walk
And you cannot climb the hill
So you stay here in the valley
And know not what calls you still
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
ReplyDeleteThe Sleep That We Dream Of
ReplyDeleteI am the mother of the dead soldiers
whose blood wins only a grave.
I am the child of the dead mothers
whose cries reach no god.
I am the father of the great idiots
whose hearts give birth to wars.
And it is for all these singers
poets lament while the earth moans.
It is for those who are hungry and cold,
who have forgotten who they are,
who wait in their meekness
for some impossible saviour
the old ones taught us would come in dreams,
that I sing this song that is the name of our family.
O you powerful nations of imagination
how you strive to keep the people from touching
and rebuilding their tomorrow.
You will soon enough know all your relations,
soon enough you will be brought to your knees
and not through some mute hope or promise
that leads the people to slave in your factories.
It will be by the vast hope of billions
who cannot be chained or silenced
by your gold, your jingles, your poverty.
It will be in the murmuring heart of the people
that you will hear the story of your own death
you nations whose kindness resides
in the radioactive fist that melts bones
and the memories of our ancestral union.
You will be strangled in your own vomit
and your children who are fed by machines
will one day lay down and curse you
for those angry worms that are eating their hearts.
Perhaps then the people, if they are still here
will be gentle and lift them from their tears,
will take them again into the circle
that is our lives spinning around the sun.
Yes, I am your son and your daughter,
your mother and father and ancestors,
lover of winged finned and furred
people who caress the grass with abandon,
who drink in the waters with hope.
My wails shall fill up the skies of our world
until you shall listen or watch us all die.
America the hungry
ReplyDeleteOur obese culture,
churning out drones,
sweaty dollar bill fists
shoveling loaded forks
into their rectal mouths,
Supressing their coach potato rage
with the over-medicated, over-advertised, over-the-counter thinking of this new age.
More eating.
Less reading.
Chomping. Chewing. Chomping.
Further dissolving a constipated education system,
the consumption is so loud
it is impossible to listen,
School houses are pens
for the living dead
where hands only raise
to scratch empty heads.
Maybe we need more MTV,
more me, me, me,
more SUVs
less empathy
= more HIV
Am I cursed with the only set of eyes that can actually see?
We wage a war on terror
- AN INVISABLE ENEMY
while religion is raped and twisted
into political tools
used to munipulate the masses of brain washable, yet good natured fools,
And brown skinned children
are sent to their Gods,
as we download stolen music
to load up our ipods,
So what,
Our beady, greed-focused, judgemental eyes
have left the city of New Orleans
to be claimed by flies.
But America knows best
-which is sitting around getting fat,
so for piling up your plate,
this is where it's at.
As for me,
I'm full.
The Dream Dried Up When I Touched it:
ReplyDeleteIt started with a girl wandering, locked out
a pale ghost carrying milk on a wooden yoke
in frigid winter
lost, with no language,
hallucinating Hiroshima, dogshit, and escape,
on mushrooms, in a see-through nightie
wearing fear, going by bus,
following a loose marble
into the highway reststop
with the wax sculptures, fast food fungi,
the torture maps, charts and diagrams,
lost in the horror film
lost in the frantic search
leading to the haunted house
leading to the increasingly enclosed space
and finding her mother inside the dull mirror
of the broken mammogram machine
costing a quarter.
The girl and the mother are strangers.
That's all I remember.
Landmark:
ReplyDeleteLeonardo invents the wheellock pistol, then works on the
Mona Lisa for ten years. Art is never the same
An estranged Greek wanders into Marienburg screaming,
asking for "Die grun kinder?" Philosophy is never the same.
Taking a cue from his father Dracul and his mentor John
Hunyadi, Vlad Tepes invents the freeform abattoir.
Politics is never the same.
James Watt, after 20 labors, unveils his steamshovel pilecrapdriver. Industry is never the same.
Oppenheimer cowers and pisses his pants, quoting
the Bagavad Gita in the light of the first worldwide tanning
booth. War is never the same.
Dark Saturn pries himself fullborn from the everyman brow
of a poet's Zeus. Life is never the same.
CinnamonGhoul
j_gulbranson@hotmail.com
There's A Name for Women Who Are Attracted to Other Women
ReplyDeleteOk-
one more time.
Sappho:
a small handful of broken pebbles
scattered on the wind.
And Lesbos,
just another island
where there happen to be olive trees.