Dreams

What to speak of these dreams of mine,
What to say, that will not be lost or forgotten with them,
They come only as disjointed images,
They stay only as withered, estranged memories,
Remembered, only to be forgotten,
And forgotten to be rekindled in these nights,
From dusk to dawn I dream,
But morning arrives and I open my eyes to the world,
Reminded, I am then, only of facts,
Of figures, that prove the futility of dreams,
Sometimes in slumber, sometimes while wide-awake,
I dream still,
For it gives me satisfaction and desire and hope,
Hope, of respite, of retribution,
Of solitude, of all the time in the world,
And all this time to myself, to remember to dream…

This life is a fucking 3-ring circus

This life is a fucking 3-ring circus,

A ring for him, a ring for her and the last one for luck,
The acts, they begin but never seem to end, or end without any inkling or spark to show where they began,
The morbid clowns of the circus, they smile in a superficial grin, the happy ones only hop along in their naiveté,

The ringmaster directs the rope walkers to walk across their tight ropes, who, then fall, only to have their falls cushioned by giant nets, laid there, on the expectation of them falling,
The gigantic net waits for its prey, act after act, day after day, then gobbles these fallen horses, these freak 2-legged horses,

Those magnificent creatures on the flying trapeze, how they swing their life in the complete trust of it, their existence dependant on those who jumped before them or those who might come after, never alone, never individualistic,

The multi-colored, scantily-clad, show-offy, showgirls, of perfect thighs and wondrous eyes, dancing hourglasses in your ring, they disturb the sanctity of the ring and take attention away from the juggler or the queen,
They lead meagre lives of mild means, sit by the elephant parade and wait for their lions to come by one day, but instead the weasels con them into a ride,

The strong man and the flame blower take all the praise, but not for long, enter the international man of rubber or elastic, he now gets the ooh’s and aah’s,
None for the clown though, the common clown, the star of the circus, never does he get no stare nor frown,

Then suddenly, as dare devils induce feat after feat, and the damsels prance along on their feet, the clowns gather in a great sense of haste,
The net gives way and the ropists dive, everyone hopes the trapezists are alive,

A silent showgirl runs off with her lion,
The elephants stamp out the weasels cage and move on forth, toward the stage,
The audience shudders to the circus tents fall, but it is fortunately held up by the man who is 10-foot tall,
They gather around but I’m nowhere to be found,
Life takes its toll on the midget and the troll,
The flamist lives but the strong man is dead, rubber man melts, turning white hot from red,

The human cannon ball yells fire, aims outside and lights his fuse, but the 10-foot man and the tents construction, prove to be wiser to his ruse,
They gang up against him as a major obstruction, leading the speeding bullet to its ultimate destruction,

Now, as always, covered in darkness, having shot our only hope, engulfed in a pall that doesn’t begin to please me,
I cry out to the ringmaster, “This life is a fucking 3-ring circus… Release me!”

Enchanted Land

Lost opportunity, and a mind lost to the world,
A mind rock,
A heart stoned,
Laggard, haggard, flushed butts down his hole,
From fix to fix, I exist!
The electric shamans ravings, coo somewhere in the distance,
His Indians gather on dawns highway,
We breed in the darkness of dusk,
Where do we sleep, in this enchanted land of smog?
Why do we sleep, in this enchanted land of smog?
There she goes, should I go to?
No I must sleep in this enchanted land of smog…
Tired eyes,
Exhausted lies,
Told and retold,
Lo and behold,
She stops and winks at the ravenous one,
He gathers courage and the remains of his strength,
And they disappear in the enchanted land of smog,
While I still bravely attempt to sleep,
But I do not exist anymore,
I do knot care,
I while my time while they come and get me,
As they slowly get to me,
Those carriers of us all,
Ours are the souls,
United in the enchanted land of smog...

An Ode to Life

For all her mysteries and misgivings,

Its twisted ways and untold turns,

I salute life,

I know, if it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t know her,

And all that is part of her,

For it is more than life itself that I treasure these things,

Much more, so much more…

I do not know life, but I do know that having her, means more that just having her,

Experiencing her means experiencing the wind, and the stars and sunlit rooftops, shown with rising heat in days of summer,

And having her, means knowing all other who have her…

I salute life,
For the people she has blessed by giving herself to them,
Some more, some less deserving than others, but all there to strike a balance,
Damsels in constant distress or highwaymen of a time long gone,
Those I know and those I care for, mostly those I don’t,
Among me or you or them, she does not discriminate,
She knows not how,
Selflessly she gives her all to all who ask and some, who don’t,
Maybe its because she knows that its because of them that she exists,
Or maybe she only exists for them to exist,
I salute life,
For all her confusion and all in her that isn’t,
For all of chaos and all order and method,
For all of her contradictions,
For all who strive to better their experience of her,
For all who fail to do so, or give up trying,
For her challenge,
For those who accept,
For those who choose no to,
For all beings who’ve had her or have her or will have her,
For myself and for her,
For rationality, emotion, original thought and the lack thereof,
For the past, the present and the future,
For fate,
For destiny,
For death,
I salute life!

The Drunk Bartender

Parallel thought invasion causes angered devastation,
Knowledge is rightfully burnt and love undergoes molestation,
In this world what is true is often lied,
And people’s aspirations regularly commit suicide,
Standing in the middle of this god-forsaken road in the middle of the night,
Here they come, step on me and march clear out of sight,
Those were the giants of grief, fear and anxiety,
The underlying danger on the road of life’s complexity,
They squeezed you hard and got every last drop that remained,
After they were done all your energy is drained,
Theoretical assumptions and analytical studies add to the confusion,
And they believe that people would fear the threat of a nuclear solution,
I’m positively low my man hand me a drink,
Make it strong, Long Island with a whisky stink,
Ahh! Much better, now that my senses are slow,
I wouldn’t have to think about that what I already know,
The end of the world is near, they say, it might come at any time,
I laugh at the poor bastards while I nurse my Gin & Tonic and carefully try to rhyme,
Riding on the storms of filtered perceptions,
Trying to hide from fanatical misconceptions,
There is a craving desire to know what is true,
But those who really want to know are but a few,
This world is a cliché, a statement delightfully sarcastic,
And every time the past repeats itself, it’s equally fantastic,
They call me a drunk, and say that I have lost all my senses,
But the rum in my hand is just to help me drop my defenses,
A clear shot of tequila and the tangy taste of fresh cut lime that will follow,
Activates my senses and frees my mind, that earlier seemed so hollow,
I drive up beside me and strike up a conversation,
And they stare at me as though it were some sort of hallucination,
But I don’t just give in; instead I look at their eyes,
And at first glance in know it is but a disguise,
Strange but true, they feared me; because they knew,
That I was their Messiah, their savior,
But I still couldn’t understand their strange behavior,
Their dense dark minds are brimming with pain,
And their, soul, screams out through their eyes shrieks in a manner that seems insane,
I close my eyes and to my home I go straight,
I’ve decided now, that I will quit my drinking and try to improve their fate,
To make them see what they never saw here,
I think I’ll become their bartender when sweet death draws near.