When gray fades into grayAnd black and white appearThere’s clarity from chaosFrom things you used to fearThese things that used to own you Have finally set you freeBut the chains still drag behind youNo matter how you try and fleeYou’re straining to move forwardBut your past it weighs you downAs you walk it clanks and rattles‘Though you’ve finally made new groundThese chains they slow your walk And you cannot climb the hillSo you stay here in the valleyAnd know not what calls you still
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The Sleep That We Dream OfI 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 circlethat 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 hungryOur obese culture,churning out drones,sweaty dollar bill fistsshoveling loaded forksinto their rectal mouths,Supressing their coach potato ragewith 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 loudit is impossible to listen,School houses are pensfor the living deadwhere hands only raise to scratch empty heads.Maybe we need more MTV,more me, me, me,more SUVsless empathy= more HIVAm I cursed with the only set of eyes that can actually see?We wage a war on terror- AN INVISABLE ENEMYwhile religion is raped and twistedinto political toolsused to munipulate the masses of brain washable, yet good natured fools,And brown skinned childrenare sent to their Gods,as we download stolen musicto load up our ipods,So what,Our beady, greed-focused, judgemental eyeshave left the city of New Orleansto 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:It started with a girl wandering, locked outa pale ghost carrying milk on a wooden yokein frigid winterlost, with no language,hallucinating Hiroshima, dogshit, and escape,on mushrooms, in a see-through nightiewearing fear, going by bus,following a loose marbleinto the highway reststopwith the wax sculptures, fast food fungi,the torture maps, charts and diagrams,lost in the horror filmlost in the frantic searchleading to the haunted houseleading to the increasingly enclosed spaceand finding her mother inside the dull mirrorof the broken mammogram machinecosting a quarter.The girl and the mother are strangers.That's all I remember.
Landmark: Leonardo 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, quotingthe Bagavad Gita in the light of the first worldwide tanningbooth. War is never the same.Dark Saturn pries himself fullborn from the everyman browof a poet's Zeus. Life is never the same.CinnamonGhoulj_gulbranson@hotmail.com
There's A Name for Women Who Are Attracted to Other WomenOk- one more time.Sappho:a small handful of broken pebblesscattered on the wind.And Lesbos,just another islandwhere there happen to be olive trees.