Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

pinned to a cross of responsibility side pierced by you owe me's the blood of freedom drips like honey down the limitations of existence condemned to the prison of the ego insistence warping the dream world with heaviness as if to remind the soul that life is spirit caged within the frames of oak co...

brush on brush off
brush on brush off
do the strokes
stroke the dues
she a muse
amidst the blues
and me without shoes

she noted the look took copious notes into the book covered with word on the cover it says "Betty Boop" and i wonder what she sees in black and white while my rainbow streams trickle upon the floor like blood from wounds healing thru the magic of dayglo embers kindled by the worlds out side the hide...

i want to hear the piano played in the bar that i want to be in i want to hear the flute in the halls of the bar that i want to be in i want to hear the voice behind the piano and flute in the bar i want to be in i buy the drinks for those that play while i will stay in the bar i want to be in i'll ...

the bead seed need
forever strung out
and over the lens
cascades of fringe
acrid fumes of incense
dollying toying
the in CAN Do scent
resembles the bead
glass blown
from sands
of many colors
prisms schisms jisms
spewed from deep earth
pits of lust just puss

snort the legends
up nostril's path
direct rush to head
off the rustling leaves
fallen beneath
caged goats hopes
hopping in cerebral rhythms
destiny revealed
in patterns lost without
words humming thru
empty locked ness

in the House of the Load
we are buried knee deep
in the wholly writ of words
bleeding like diamonds
basked in charred coals
kept alit by dreams
hollowed from the
Knight's Mare
aloft in the cylindrical carnival
spinning in Horse Altitude

negate the state of mind with rhymes gurgling thru an oasis of depredation the nation besieged by fools whose tools are not jewels but newels cracked and broken splintered at the knees they wheeze they heave boulders of llies across night skies bombed silly by cries of desperation the nation crumble...

the cork only stops the flow
whenever the flow stops
paused by paws cramming
the stopper into the rivers

trip the write fandango
heal thru the silent spaces
that reach towards senses
grasping for meaning in void

stringed beans denim queens
never seen behind the scene
the garbage pales like light sales
blown dry by fallen tears
salted like storms over hilo hattie

never bow before the cow
horse feathers fly
beneath the eye
railroad sighs baby cries
bottle split over skies
rum drips to submission

junk baby you are on vein-ity road where you feel much better than you look except when you dry out your dark eyes weep for more one more shot one more roll little more jelly and the world will right itself in those dark eyes that see shadows all shadows even when the sun shines junk baby you love n...

Our economy has gone to pot, Clay.. or is that Clay pot...? whichever. I too, remember those great "4 finger lids" for 10 bucks... "those were the days, my friend..." Sometime in the early 70's (if I remember correctly...), I was living in SF and the house I was at, a dealer came over to make a sale...

My guess is that he hears the beautiful sound of that cricket in his sleep and it lulls him yet further into the comfort of deep sleep... I know it would me. (emoticon smile)

Welcome back, dog. You missed New Mexico this time around, I see. Better luck next time... Just kidding. Sounds like a great trip for you... a trip that would suit me, too, if I could get the hell outta this Phar Lepht place.

Lookin fwd to your words.