The city is sprawled out beneath, almost looks like magic from up here.
The sun is gone and there are no stars and I just want to forever disappear.
The city is sprawled out in golden veins and pinpoint stars in the valley.
I watch it all, above this city for once, dreaming of some model out in Cali.
Some beauty strong and lithe and who would party with me when I get there.
Some beauty in a swimsuit blue and white, and with a blue lilac in golden hair.
The city is sprawled and from here it looks like something glorious and bold.
Forget summer is fading, and she left me, and the nights are getting cold.
Some beauty out in Cali knows my name, and has a devil’s pearl in her eye.
Some beauty out in Cali will make love to me, and then we’ll cuddle, get high.
The city is sprawled like a sleeping maiden, vulnerable and bright and sweet.
But there is no beauty up close, there is no lover here, there is no magic on my street.
Some beauty out in Cali watches the storm roll in with the churning silver surf.
If I can find my way out west I will be in her arms, an alien on this morbid earth.
Telepathic starlings told me here name, as they dived and swirled in a blue and cherry morning.
Her name, on her heart and the rays of the warming sun, and the defiantly reflective moon now.
A name can made a god in troubled time, an icon in the dark of a room, privacy of a song in headphones.
Walking in the still cool morning, the ripening morning becoming the flower of youth as I pass old places
where the war in heaven was fought and lost, and only a unstable and desperate moment believed won,
years later, years after the scare were permanent and the wings clipped, only seeds remaining to flower.
She might be there, at the end of the road, tree lined and by fenced in fields gone fallow, as birds starve.
She might be a friend, but I want only that, though I want her as lover and wife, I must turn away that dream.
Tips buy time and the illusion of light, but I cannot touch the real light now, having fallen so far, so far below the ground.
And her name makes the nights full of words and paradises constructed from imaginings desperate, sweet and mad.
These worlds the name opens up will suffice, as I wait for the hangman and the stillness that pleads for me.
The stillness in the night, we’re music stops, and dreams can’t be bothered, and sleep is a drug of no import.
Las Vegas is bright by it is light invisible. There is nothing revealed. There is no warmth.
The songs of my youth, of infatuation and sorrow, call only ghosts whose teeth draw blood.
All night I was awake. All that came were bad memories. Aching for sweet things lost.
Nothing soothes this longing, for what I once held close, and for what’s never been.
The sun is coming up, and to the east, away from the city, it is blinding.
On the edge of the desert, a square of green dead ends into coarse sand.
Stately and new houses already abandoned, and I was late to the party.
Their are only ghosts here, and skittering shadows inside that don’t know my name.
Coffee at a kitchen table in a house that looks cozy, but demons ruin everything for me.
All my treasures and comforts offer nothing, where I have only time, and my buzzing thoughts.
I can remember the girl that bought me the poster for some obscure Russian art film I loved.
But she is gone, and I am here, and I can’t find where my new friends are waiting for me.
Coffee in a travel cup, a thin sweatshirt and sweatpants, and I’m heading to the desert.
There is an angel there, there is a tower of bright light and ivory, where she welcomes the lost.
She will hear the honeyed prayers and grant me rest, show me the way back to a home in this world.
Out in the desert she waits, the sun would not lie to me, would not lead me astray.
But still, there’s a gun in the glove compartment, if I’m let down one more time.
She stands, sad, as far away as heaven,
in her stylish black tank top and jean shorts.
Her long, thin arms are strong with nothing
but their own hands to hold, disobedient children.
Was there a demon or angel walking by,
whispering in her ear or blowing kisses?
Was there a ghost, of something traded
or cast aside, golden apples rotten in windfall?
Then she’s “ON”. The smile sweet from her
harsh face, that cuts like a childhood kiss.
Angel and demon made her, and her light
is the eclipse half-light, crimson and bitter.
Cameras steal a piece of a moment, make a
soul a quotation and shard in the eye of men,
and the lonely or just lustful, or those all three.
A piece of a soul, a moment, to embrace the world.
Then she’s “OFF”. The mermaids swim to the top of
her thoughts and bring the leviathan tagging along,
the waters between dreams and flesh and what comes after
all lined up and bleeding her thoughts, but only sadness shows.
A year without sun. Without the touch of another.
I sleep, keep the lights out, dream of unspoiled paradise.
The war came. The world burned. It’s all gone.
There’s a calendar. Pretty women on the beach.
The blue tropical waters. The warmth of the flesh.
My heart still races. They’re all gone.
I dream of my favorite. We swim and play in the waves.
We make love beneath the stars. We are free of the past.
I wake up crying. I’ll never see another person again.
The war came. The world burned. It’s all gone.
come back to me.
Daddy tells me
that you are a
living beneath the
blue, blue, waves.
in the ocean you’ll
live through all eternity.
But momma, can’t return
ever for an afternoon
to be by my side?
Momma, hold me in
the breakers tenderly,
rock me as the water
rushes over my head.
come back to me
or carry me back
to the deep kingdom
you preside over,
with sitting beside
your golden throne.
come back from the sea.
you’re a mermaid queen,
but you’re my momma too,
come be with me.
Walking home to Cambridge, leaving London, leaving the lights,
those shining places, that thunderous sound, those lovely young girls.
I saw the face in a shadow and it walks with me as I’m going home again,
but home is not the place for me now; only my mind holds any dream for me.
The leaves are golden and yellow and bright, bright red, the sky a soft blue.
I dream of Emily dancing in the grass. A song playing seemed like it told everything
as she turned to me and smiled, long chestnut locks falling over her wicked eyes.
I dream of making love under stars, her softness and warmth, not that she left me behind.
The road is endless, and even when I’m back in my Cambridge home, it will travel on.
The road doesn’t end at the door, or in my bed. There’s not a woman waiing for me with
welcoming arms and a kiss on my grizzled cheek. Not a woman here to wipe away my tears.
I’m traveling down that road even standing still, with the shadows and demons picking skin.
In my old room, with that plastic rocket ship and tattered poster of Marilyn Monroe ,
the records grown dusty, the bed weighed down by the universe and the scoured mind.
I hope in dreams I can catch Emily’s hand again, and call her down like an angel of devouring.
Dreams, the only place to run, the only refuge in a blacked out mind. Count the cost of desire.