The Bartender

Calm, collected, crowded by lip-bloated fans;
He’ll get what he wants even if his eyes drop
on the bashful enjoying fried pleasures.
Nights of hard work tipped by the body
and mornings paved by tired hours.
While Bob Dylan is singing about tangled Blues
he’ll weave his web – rugged looks
and enough drinks to boost charisma;
he’ll get what he wants even if his words
don’t run smoothly down her throat.
Calm, collected, crowded by lip-floated fans,
the bartender is king & only the night is his

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Chocolate & Flowers

I must have overslept when
the message was delivered;
when eyes met & hands were held;
when one awaited another’s phone call –
passion’s own tension with matters of patience.
I must have woke up too late, after
they said how one could find it;
what to say between trembling lips;
what to do in between sweetened sips of silence –
passion’s own frictions with matters of tension.
I must have waited too long in line
for screen tests & awkward auctions;
no intellect could bid high enough;
no attention for brown eyes & hair;
just sold-out sex, painful, bloody –
passion’s own joke on those lacking direction

Promotion

Flight and fight,
trains deliver the body in their usual pace.
Usual – when silence hits the air with clarity,
and the horizon aligns with a single color –
boring, dangerous, optimal.
Success leaves its oily marks on my fingers,
there’s still an aftertaste
when the tongue licks the salt off the tips –
privileged labor in the 24/7 era,
flight, fight and that frail fright,
give me a sip of that wine, I’ll be fine.

Media Massacre

So simple is the disregard,
the righteous’ addiction to flat claims –
angry, easy on the target.
When the masses shoot idols
they never miss. Crosses made of flesh,
bones left for the dogs right after.
His blood like wine in the throats
of the wrong people;
they’ll forget her body
no matter how hard it stinks.
It’s never a matter of principle,
but a contest where losers
always win the attention

Lose Your Smile

Inside looking out
while the train is checking-in
after six hours of shivery shakes.

Time to take the wheels,
feel the thump through loud earphones
and go.

Down the stairs
into the halls of transportation,
I’m moving with a smile

I won’t lose it under clear canvas skies,
when tomorrows smile back
between gothic bricks of independence,

there’s a charm undiscovered.
It will remain closed,
but to try to open it
will always bring true bliss

For Angus & Noria

Life sculpted by a song, by sunflower oceans.
What more can two souls ask for?
The tender light on erected green
under the darkness of the night.
Did she dream? Did he ever find a loved one?
Creation has never been more sacred,
than in the hands of hers planting
and his strumming – and air is just air –
gardens grew, melodies drew a face & a mask,
a forest of plenty dedicated to
the unattainable sweetness.

Simple Song

Will someone take the ugly?
Take the ugly, take the ugly,
and bury it, don’t tell –
bury it, don’t tell.
Maybe then, I guess.
Maybe then, I guess –
All Apples golden will be,
All Apples golden will be.

Would someone take the doubt?
Take the doubt, take the doubt,
drown it deep in the sand,
down the bottom of the grains.
Maybe then, I guess –
Maybe then, I guess.
All Roses Red will be,
All Roses Red will be.

Will someone take the false?
Take the false, take the false,
throw it – to a distance unknown –
where all are done alone.
Maybe then, I guess.
Maybe then, I guess –
All will flower inside of me,
All will flower inside of me.