i want to right wrongs.
i want to write psalms
in the faithful script of david,
that read as songs to the unforgiven.
i was an industrialized day dream.
a stone rose in the concrete,
red hair the petals at my mother’s feet,
i was baptised in her blood.
reluctant to be touched,
my thorns gave a **** about intentions,
unfeeling and deliberate.
there is a definitive strategy to picking a rose,
either she didn’t care or didn’t know,
and everyday I was reminded of her sacrifice.
just blood loss,
no love lost.
i stepped outside to blacken my lungs.
get wet outside, they’re clapping for funds.
my steady walk stopped,
i couldn’t move,
too caught up in the breaks and ch-ch-chops,
the snakes and the cops
ravenously they watch
my head nod to the street’s symphony.
solemn and divine.
no longer confined.
i walk a block that was church to dead gods,
and listen to the city breathing.
the clouds were moving as fast as i was thinking.
the moon was playing hide and seek.
tonite i wouldn’t play,
i dreamed of sleep.
i want to be comfortable, again.
my significance muted by the quiet,
its finite grace i took for granted,
silence written in granite.
was it my own scribble or sanskrit?
i don't think i'll ever know.
the skyline's lights reflect in my eyes,
this jungle has lost its pigment for the last time.
we stood together,
green-less and one.
it was the disconnect that bound it to me-
my manufactured garden of eden.
the sirens are singing,
harmonizing and screaming,
american pipe dreaming...
i smoked myself sober.
i drank myself back to order.
secular ways birthed an innocence
foreign to these parts.
i stood naked and unassuming.
the bill boards brought me back here.
here; bound, gagged, and barefoot
in front of a jury of my peers.
here; the climax of nineteen years.
the fashion police had a case i couldn’t shake.
they had all but dragged the lake,
there is no escape.
there is... here.
i was sentenced with zeal,
to crucifixion on the cross of mass appeal.
real recognize real.
overstatement of the century.
it shouldn't be this cold in hell.
designer labels try
to hide inherited scars.
my ensemble less a puzzle, more a ransom note.
and i quote:
“we have what you need if you have what we want.”
cut and paste letters a fitting font.
i... forgot of eden...
i... am sitting shotgun in a stolen car.
i reach for the heat,
looking across from me
to the drivers seat,
she's rocking rings around eyes and fingers.
the gaudy jewelry of lovers past still lingers,
deliberate and cheap.
running on empty, we nod to the beat.
we are finished.
spin a dirty web,
in which we’re caught.
a street lamp's dirty halo
sheds enough light on the situation,
it's blasphemous that
we even associate with false martyrs.
the gospel of industrialization.