The Buzzword Is Broken

Those men that fear change

Change in the weather
Change in the sun
Change in the way the moving is done.
Change of the power
Change of the lips
Change of the quick drip stock market tips.
Change in gender
Change in glands
Change in who's holding hands.
Change for the scarred
Change for the torn
Change for men with stripes to be worn.
Change in the graveyards
Change in the bricks
Change in the junkie that needs a good fix.
Change in a right eye
Change in a kiss
Change in a dead end heavenly list.
Change in our movements
Change in our minds

They are the future that must not survive.

Cast Out and Drive Straight

Break hard earth bold faced and take
Shots with pain like some men dream
To bury their youth.

Shake fast and loose this sense of
Past self that's faded like the lines
Of labels for gin.

Those steel stern sails can direct you to
Storms to make your blood warm and
Cook your heart rare.

But as long as the anchor is embedded in flesh,
Pushing through layers of steel wool skin,
The spirit will stick to the barest of stones
Waiting for boldness to break free from within.

The Saints

Raxed with guilt the gracious greed
Feeds nimble elbows that bend
For nothing but a well-cooked meal.

The saints are those with slings to steal.

Well mended am I for several stiff years,
But wearing cartilage like a peacock
I betray the root of my upturned nose.

The saints are those who show their bones.

Men construct to the second floor then
Balance in the middle naive beam dream
That they are the ones who struggle to lose.

The saints are those with holes in their shoes.

Incoherent confessions sink into concrete
And tears are the dinner of vegans grinding their teeth
For fake sausage links made of pâtè.

The saints are those who die everyday.

Don't Get Your Shoes Wet

Dark alley showers spitting sinks at a time
With loud cries that bounce from
Window to wall.

I am dried up inside
Like dragging skin on leather, just leaving
A trace of cells in the bumps and the bruises.

Fate chooses men with a blood soaked sponge
Wiping clean any trace of real truth,
So lie like the wind, you arrogant youth.

When did the right arm become the symbol of fortune?
Those desert-dead dogs who chose to throw left
Make the game less fun for everyone.

So freeze if you must to prove some ill point
That sounds so sick to pin prick minds.
Maybe a beating will bring him around.

The Clash Communication

Quick shot smiles and syncopated nods
at two or three notes collected together
Make men into brothers if only for a moment.

We strangle these objects in just the right places
And if any happen to survive we'll let it slide
As long as the future is too far to recognize.
Warm up hearts with old familiar faces and
Stretch them out to create a brand new
Form of clash communication to shake
Loose the walls of the misappropriated.

Count in and count out.

Pick up and break down what holds
Together the countless miles of unspoken
Love to be shown through a song.

Twelve Modern Men

The ground is spilled glitter on pale construction paper
As curses are heard from the sunset slaves
Preparing a path for the non-nocturnal.

Twelve modern men ache the burden of one
As far back as the cycle seems to begin
Men shuddered less at nature's white release.

Now exit quickly the oldest at heart
And abandon the hope of conquering fear
With rusty iron arms and a fire-tipped spear.

Those at the first stage of global grief
Will act like they're shocked when grandma dies
But they are the ones who poisoned her eyes.

Meanwhile the pining for silence carries on
And catches the tears that so often melt
If they don't first freeze in the pure winter air.

A Second Look, A Second Meal

The celtic tiger ate my dreams
With jaw clamped shut and one
Tooth gleaming and showing the air
The last of the elephant hopes.

When he saw me he spoke with
A copper-soaked throat that seemed
To echo of a future endeavor.
He must have known it was time to let go.

The decision was waiting inside of cave trees
Where other men waited on fate and a
Paycheck that came from less honorable means,
And we all know how useful flesh is as bait.

Ignoring the stone that split on the tongue
May have been a deadly mistake since
Words are as slow as the Liffey at night,
Pulsing with the beat of a nation's heartache.

Take a second look, a second meal
And serve the past as a post-dinner snack
Because dessert is sweet but death is not.
Knowledge of nature is what we lack.

A Disease As The Future

These among us seem plucked from the endless
Dozens and dozens of what the world sees
As half grown weeds in a garden of sanity.
Perhaps these bitter greens were purely
Mother's luck forced upon the bed and
We make the dressing from our particular air,
But life exists in an expanding array of atmospheres.

Why can't more than one be here?

We are the drug addict preachers and the
Whoring politicians, defining hard notions
With over ancient motions, rejecting any kind
Of brand new evolution in action and thought.
Millennia will make the consumer consume until
The earth has turned over the tables we set.

An Exercise In Exhaustion

Warp speed binary insomnia and a
Sloth of rot in the gut.

The OCD induced counting of the hours
As they drain away in a bright red
Dye that was meant for the morning.

Young women and old men,
Even younger women and very dead men,
They speak with voices of radio noises
And pound on my temples with
Unrelenting tempos and words of
Overwhelming hope and despair.

How deadly the morning.

How precious the air.

Beads of consciousness as water
Left upon wood to slowly seep in.

Welcome the morning,
This life wearing thin.

Be Sure To Make Your Bum Bed

Face down in the dirt the conversation pit
Sits seemingly in it's white and yellow waste,
Made of such stuff that walks the earth for
Generations until it's burned by drunken teenage boys.

After twelve nights straight on a bed of concrete
The giant piss pillow is a showroom mattress,
Only there's no scared shitless stock boy calling
His manager to kick the trash to the curb.

So instead of calling sanitation, turn it upright
So your disgust can be one man's vacation from
The dark prison breeze of the lake in winter,
Where no man is guilty no matter what you think.
God damn the man who watches his waste
Like the great right eye of misery and greed.