War and Etiquette.

Over the hill comes the sound of a joyous war.
Counter attacks of exuberance and cheer.
Rattling against itself, the sky echoes the sentiment.
Delicate and driven are these bombs of celebration.
The generals hold the torches as guides and spotlights
Armed to the teeth with great booming laughter.

Over the hill comes the sound of joyous war
I sit with you and wish for the war to come home.
The mob has arranged for a fantastic party.
The masses are wailing for hilarious success
Celebration will come to the chaff
and the chattel
And the cups will be drained as the fire consumes.

Behind every good bomb there is a disaster lining up for a refund.
These nights are long and my dollar falls short so belly up and be sure to remember to tip.
It's just moonlight, baby. Etched in glass with revivals and praise.
Tracking my scent, accepting my hand on your thigh.
Whisper the moonlight, baby. Etched into glass with a conniving blade
Tracking my scent, my tongue and that look in your eye.
Don't worry, dear, I am sure we will still exist in the morning

At the extreme limits of his spiritual being man finds himself naked as a savage. When he finds God, as it were, he has been picked clean: he is a skeleton
-Henry Miller Tropic of Cancer

About words

I will make sure I carefully pronounce every sentence of you. Deliberately exploring the language that you are. The last of the grey faced bastards. Left scratching at the window for the warmth and the soft glow. Waiting to crawl into your mouth, to find refuge under your tongue and warm myself in your damp, heavy breathing. To listen to you from the inside. To get a glimpse of the back of your words as they flee your lips like refugees into the wild. To let the booming of your voice add stillness to my tumultuous annunciations. Shivering in anticipation for the peak of your inhalations, that quiet moment before you breathe out. The almost imperceptible stillness that sounds like thunder on the moon.

Bridgeburner

There's no hope
And that's just fine
Only frenzy
And that's just fine

The truth is the rats win in the end

HashtagLanguage

Constant super nova. Intrinsic language trains built Into the subdermal. Helvetica Hematomas. Without language would I love you any less, or would the blind maddening urge to tell you mutate my very vocal chords till they go from growl to grunt, grunt to gab? A veritable Darwinian slip n slide right into math and advertising, the speak and say of evolutionary theory. The Beagle says, "moo". You know the rest. Below the Language skin we all say moo. If I could give up my lingual cortex or frontal lobe or whatever such word some doctor sneezed out there is for it, I would give them to you. Maybe you could use it to shield yourself from alien nano miners out to strip mine, pick-ax, blast all the language out of your heart, cause that's where language comes from. The word for the sun comes from the brain, but the need for the word comes from the ebullient heart at dawn. For the word "dance" was born out of the first uncontrollable urge to boogie when you hear the call in your heart beat, the word yes is the heart's way of thanking you for an orgasm. Any ways, perhaps you can use my language center to protect yourself, or maybe on days you remember me you could have it whisper messages my prison guard memory sends. Little poems in my voice

" Dream dream we are all dream, not one thing is what it seam, starlight inside and outside the door, they dance and dance and dance some more."

See? language comes from the heart. There is no reason there. Just pure energy formed into letters, by a machine none the less. I'm not writing this so much as tapping out the rhythm. Bah, it's all flapdoodle and some good old American punch your wife in the face bullshit. Language and love, albeit they dine in the same restaurants, daresay even share a table on Tuesday evenings habitually for at least four Tuesdays running, have an understanding. Love gives language a reason to dance, to paint, to invest in IBM. It let's language despair and know in it's heart, under the first arch of the M, that there is no hope. Love allows language to play and to run, to stop being words in those special sticky moments. Without language love would still reign in the land, tender looks, touches, grunts, minute waltzes over the desert sands. Without love, language would just be scientists turning letters into numbers, kings turning words into peasants. On the other hand without love, I could be a scientist or a king.

Things get heated when you rub words together, fires do occur, but the words are merely the sounding of the feelings the speaker represents. Well, if I'm stuck representing love, I'm gonna need some.

This sky is cloudless and dry, desert gulch, find some thunderheads for me, stratocumuli, let me see the drops form in front on my lips. Even if it's not the old familiar storm I long to spin in. Just show me the lightning that drove Tesla mad, that bowled the monster over, show me the lightning that sent Captain Marvel an invite to the party. Let it tell Thor we said, "hello". Zap. That cloud, your cloud, well it was like getting tazed by the joyous unknown that opens up the heart to everything around it. .

M m m m

Five Aces and the Long Ride Home

Madam I feel I've wronged you
I have yet to appeal to the good nature of such a beauty and introduce myself.
I am the snake that is holding all five aces.
I have dragged myself through darkness
when I got to the table, my belly was full.
My eyes are the narrow diamonds that only come from desert floors
cold blood diamonds
I saw the light at that table
in every man that got shot in the back
in the glory of the hallelujah I was there

the pit was mine, the snake was king
till the desert rose up to reclaim me till they caught me out for playing a snakes game
They let me keep my aces as I slithered into the dust

Follow me to find my name
It is amidst the reflection of stars on the rocks of they and them and I and you.
It sure is crowded up here.