The Dust in the Wind

[Luzifer]

0

The Fool


I want to walk down black-coal streets and not scream to all saint to come here and protect me
I want to be able to scream backwards in time to the master of all things spinning through me
I want to serve myself at the platter of commerce with no mans eye cut loose upon me
I want to speak with a tongue that doesn’t bleed when acid-rain enemies come to take away sunshine friends that don’t know anything but daffodil-powered praise for the masses
I want to ask the whole world the question that I asked my father and to which he said “No, there ain’t nothing but lust for you son!”
I want to spend my mouth-money on things that matter to me and not on snowball dreams that always land in inferno
I want to send novelistic postcards to my friends that tell them the word-winds that blow through my brain under lonely-moon skies
I want to sing in indifference white as the snow that don’t fall here in city of streetlamps and store tramps and off-ramps and greeting card smiles
I want to grow that which grows in the moldy alleys of dorm halls, under dead books and soul crooks and brain hooks
I want nothing at all that is special and glitters in diamond pavilion under gold drenched cocaine and condom hewn mirrors
I want nothing that drips from the teat of the brass cow mother of all things that smile in suits all laced like regiment soldiers of the cogwheel apocalypse king
I want nothing that the smoke-shaded reef-lord is showing me but something that I don’t need a bent lens to see clearly
I want nothing of screaming rebellions that don’t pass to the waiting people but instead stay inside like a bad giver
I want nothing but the dust in the wind


XXI

The World


But nothing flows from these soft crying streets that lay like a road map to sarcasm, cynical, addled by angst towards the nothingness that slowly consumes them
And all of the fair weather writers and rain-loving poets have all but forsaken this town of grey skies that stand lifeless with no tears in side them
And half of the people they are out buying hand cuffs for the people while the other half gives them the money to buy them without asking questions
And all of the ice in my soul it is melting under the matchbox heat of the freebasing sirocco that blows through the room
And all of the doctors are fighting against people who beg for perfection with paper slip cannons that ring without answer
And all of the trainyards are used for shelters by people who have some place to go cause they weren’t taught how to dream
And the singers say to me “Boy, these are the voices, there’s darkness and light, redemption, temptation, and crime!”
And signs by the freeway all point, every which direction but up as they are painted by the man with the wings to bear many
And all the houses are filled with the sounds, of the people who are banging against themselves and their loves and all without hearing but for the sound of their drum
And the tune they are making is something that couldn’t pass through the mouth of a fool who is staring at the magazine rack
But the man, haloed by moon light, left with a brief case saying, “Oh but I love you and so I do leave and so I shall hang me in shame”
But nobody heard him the just ached with all power, towards every desires while the venom, steel fire grew upwards around me
And the pages of scribble by blind men and paupers where through to the flame to be burned there with Plato and Hobbes and my father, the god of all paintings, as the smoke loomed upwards for miles
The smoke it made a signal, and the signal a warning, and the warning a message that was washed away with the tide.
And all that remained was the dust in the wind

[Happi Giraffe!]

these poems are deep in meaning. very interesting. good job.