Song Of Myself

1. From A Dusty Bookshelf 2. All That Great Heart Lying Still The nightingale is still locked in the cage The deep breath I took still poisons my lungs An old oak sheltering me from the blue Sun bathing on its dead frozen leaves A catnap in the ghost town of my heart She dreams of storytime and the river ghosts Of mermaids, of Whitman’s and the Ride Raving harlequins, gigantic toys A song of me a song in need Of a courageous symphony A verse of me a verse in need Of a pure-heart singing me to peace All that great heart lying still and slowly dying All that great heart lying still on an angelwing All that great heart lying still In silent suffering Smiling like a clown until the show has come to an end What is left for encore Is the same old Dead Boy’s song Sung in silence All that great heart lying still and slowly dying All that great heart lying still on an angelwing A midnight flight into Covington Woods A princess and a panther by my side These are Territories I live for I’d still give my everything to love you more (repeat br.+ch.) 3. Piano Black A silent symphony A hollow opus #1,2,3 Sometimes the sky is piano black Piano black over cleansing waters Resting pipes, verse of bore Rusting keys without a door Sometimes the within is piano black Piano black over cleansing waters All that great heart lying still and slowly dying All that great heart lying still on an angelwing 4. Love I see a slow, simple youngster by a busy street, with a begging bowl in his shaking hand. Trying to smile but hurting infinitely. Nobody notices. I do, but walk by. An old man gets naked and kisses a model-doll in his attic. It’s half-light and he’s in tears. When he finally comes his eyes are cascading. I see a beaten dog in a pungent alley. He tries to bite me. All pride has left his wild drooling eyes. I wish I had my leg to spare. A mother visits her son, smiles to him through the bars. She’s never loved him more. An obese girl enters an elevator with me. All dressed up fancy, a green butterfly on her neck. Terribly sweet perfume deafens me. She’s going to dinner alone. That makes her even more beautiful. I see a model’s face on a brick wall. A statue of porcelain perfection beside a violent city kill. A city that worships flesh. The 1st thing I ever heard was a wandering man telling his story It was you, the grass under my bare feet The campfire in the dead of the night The heavenly black of sky and sea It was us Roaming the rainy roads, combing the gilded beaches Waking up to a new gallery of wonders every morn Bathing in places no-one’s seen before Shipwrecked on some matt-painted island Clad in nothing but the surf - beauty’s finest robe Beyond all mortality we are, swinging in the breath of nature In early air of the dawn of life A sight to silence the heavens I want to travel where life travels, following its permanent lead Where the air tastes like snow music Where grass smells like fresh-born Eden I would pass no man, no stranger, no tragedy or rapture I would bathe in a world of sensation Love, Goodness, and Simplicity ( While violated and imprisoned by technology ) The thought of my family’s graves was the only moment I used to experience true love That love remains infinite, as I’ll never be the man my father is How can you “just be yourself” when you don’t know who you are? Stop saying “I know how you feel” How could anyone know how another feels? Who am I to judge a priest, beggar, whore, politician, wrongdoer? I am, you are, all of them already Dear child, stop working, go play Forget every rule There’s no fear in a dream “Is there a village inside this snowflake?” a child asked me “What’s the color of our lullaby?” I’ve never been so close to truth as then I touched its silver lining Death is the winner in any war Nothing noble in dying for your religion For your country For ideology, for faith For another man, yes Paper is dead without words Ink idle without a poem All the world dead without stories Without love and disarming beauty Careless realism costs souls Ever seen the Lord smile? All the care for the world made Beautiful a sad man? Why do we still carry a device of torture around our necks? Oh, how rotten your pre-apocalypse is All you bible-black fools living over nightmare ground I see all those empty cradles and wonder If man will ever change I, too, wish to be a decent manboy but all I am Is smoke and mirrors Still given everything, may I be deserving And there forever remains that change from G to Em

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