Nothing much to say here other than I’m a man in love. I hope the joy comes through in the words when you listen. Artwork by Lindsey. ❤
So it’s blasphemy, writing love
to those deemed impure. Damned impure.
At least that’s what I was told
when I was so little so long ago.
Before the opening of the books printed
on paper from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.
Before my own taste of the proverbial apple.
I learned to consider other things
and that was my undoing, for what I didn’t know was
ignorance was the only safeguard
against a one-way ticket to that ultimate condemnation,
that lack of consciousness is the only way
they get to keep control.
Here’s my latest recording. It’s called Crush. Hope you’ll listen, like, and share. Love you all. Peace. ❤
This innocence is not naive,
nor is it blind to bad deeds done;
it’s simply choosing to believe
that in the end love makes us one.
Tension of the lustful kind, in control
and crushing, becoming
someone I don’t recognize in the glass
of the shower door, steaming.
Even under that pressure
there’s still the realization below that
it’s wrong, that it’s heresy
if I claim ignorance when I know better.
Purity is a ring on the finger of morality;
as the years wear on
its grip on the skin gets tighter
and eventually is pawned,
something of value traded in
for a paltry amount of funds in order
to extend pleasure
for another caress of the clock’s hands.
Look at me, all tension
demanding attention. Shouting from
a mole’s hill, mustard seed,
the mountain not budging an inch.
The clicking of keys, progress
from archaic grime
descendants now dissidents
fall back, remain
But don’t deign to be discouraged!
There are many marching,
spitting in the face of bigots,
and those despising those
who reach out for assistance.
My friends and my enemies,
we all use
Whether the tongue is a gun,
the cruel heart
stirs up jealousies.
A forfeit of values,
the white flag
while little distractions
Over and over and over
again, playing the populist role
badly, a shit businessman.
Hangover, hangover, hungover
again, the country wakes up,
the room in a tailspin.
The love we cup in our hands begins
to overflow until the only way to keep it is to
let it bleed into the streets around us
and soak until the pavement pulls it in.
What about the moments apart,
when the ideas go from being mere cells
to fully-grown monsters threatening to
pulverize with invisible weaponry?
Let’s not think about it.
My devotion to you will be enough.
I hear myself say it, but I don’t believe
the rain chooses who it falls on,
even if an umbrella is a choice.
The rain pleads with the pavement,
desiring only one thing: to mix
with the love that once flooded cities
but whose moisture now is