Rabid Babyskins

She uses silence to teach me how to wait.
This scarred and rutted ground, a well worn path.
I use airports to teach myself how to stay still
These overpacked bags that teem with warm thoughts.
Hate waiting for our time for so many different reasons
Our time is all times, it exists inside us.
So much past to take the moving walkways away from.
So much more future to just leave at the gate.
She says such beautiful things, even when she is saying nothing.
She thinks in such beautiful ways, and tries to hide it with words.
I find myself learning, even though it's against my nature
And I've been drinking and smoking my way through the streets.

Let the Governor know what I think of his pardon.
He can use it for fuel, or for food, or for barter
I'm content in the freedom of knowing I'm 'imprisoned'
That neither his labels nor theirs' can imprint my heart.
I am content with the silence, the learning, the waiting
It's not a prison, it's the song in my heart
She speaks in a way that belies the forgotten.
In secrets and innuendos, and I am digging my tunnels
Occasionally she's a stranger, and some times she's just the same.
The tallest tower behind the walls , yet still it's just a label.
One man's prison is another man's art.

It's not just a kiss with you, it's a secret you whisper into my mouth that I won't figure out till later. A sweet something that grows out of nothing. If you elevate a savage you create a savage with the lingering feeling of your lips on his. No soma need ever apply, no soma needed.

Well, here we are again
Just a ghost in the blankets
I can hear your voice ringing doorbells
Everything just repeats, and repeats, and repeats.
The voiceless voice.

It's not just a kiss with you, it's a secret you whisper into my mouth that I won't figure out till later. A sweet something that grows out of nothing. If you elevate a savage you create a savage with the lingering feeling of your lips on his. No soma need ever apply, no soma needed.

Is this the apocalypse dawn?
Have I gone mad?
Have I been...corrupted by too many episodes of mad men doing mad things for the sake of that one damsel in "distress" who may or may not even be watching?
Despise the shakespear that wrote love songs to his dead friend's bony head
But embrace with RAPTURE the shakespear that wrote love songs to tyrants and faeries.
Are the angels going to descend?
Or Have I been lucky enough to be a white boy schooled, just barely enough, in jazz to know that thy great apocalypse is sounded with trills and scat, not pomp and circumstance?
Is this all the product of libation or salvation?
See what I did there?
We sacrifice emotion and tiny jumping bits of our hearts for art...
....just when it starts getting good...