East Orlando Blues
For many years I sat here watching,
Listening, and nodding,
While the streets morphed
Into grey playgrounds,
Asking for children,
With no fathers to give them,
Prayers and thoughts.
We answered their calls,
Raced in our bikes through the parks,
and the stars,
And pretended to be older,
But no one came,
When we all cried,
And asked for those years back.
Years of repeated mistakes,
Years of wretched longing,
Staring at lovers in class,
Classic long brown hair,
Your fragile red wrist,
Hidden underneath your sleeves,
Has it healed?
Have you cursed me enough
Through your fixed white teeth?
Virginities stolen in daylight,
Forgotten we turned away.
Or how about you black ghost?
Secret attempted suicides,
Alive but repeatedly dead,
Where were you running to?
Your long lost father,
Or mystic chaotic New York
Streetlights and flair?
Cringing in our sleep,
Suburban paradise at our feet.
Us pseudo intellectuals compete,
Coffee shops of Orlando,
Chess, hummus, crimson thoughts,
endless chatter up and up,
Darkened conversations and songs.
Tell me you hate everyone,
But in the end you love them all.
We’re the children of lust,
Were we always wanting love?
Nothing can fulfill you,
Under dimming street lights,
Behind the wheel of your car,
The music blares,
Our fingers drum,
Our spirits fade,
But our hearts are warm.
Somewhere in our pasts,
What we pretended to be,
The lies we said through our teeth,
Became you and me.
The stars are always out,
Even during the day,
Hidden behind the sun,
But ignore them all you want.
Empty notebooks and un-tuned guitars,
Pop music and midnight walks,
All the promises I forgot,
My broken grammar fills your thoughts.
Sex at the park,
And fucking in the back seat.
Empty parking lots filled with mystery.
Kissed your body and wished,
That you would miss me.
Smiling in old photographs,
Lower the window and let the air in.
The light in the room is gone,
I can still see
Where your golden hair used to be.
Old wrinkled hands come together,
But god is gone,
Orlando sleeps,
And I am weak.
Judging by your touch,
You must have the sweetest dreams,
Judging by your voice,
You must say the purest things,
And all I ever wanted was you,
Only you.
The rain trickles down my walls,
My chest gets numb,
The fan spins and I lose control,
No one knows me anymore,
Even the mirror loses the score,
Rejection hurts but so does love,
We are sinners and winners,
Losers looking for a better life,
Folk music and jazz,
Electric feelings flash behind my eyes,
This is my only story,
For which I don’t see an end,
Blue but beautiful,
I will always transcend.
Acid Camping Post-mortem
A poem for a made up God and an unnamed girl.
I
It all came here,
Rain in the trail,
It all burns here,
No where to run,
Breath in the air,
Circling sun.
It all came here,
Beneath the leaves,
It all dies here,
Something we fear,
Personalities,
Blinding and clear.
It all came here,
Waving your arms,
Yes! it’s not real,
This dark sharp ink,
Becomes black ants,
Pulsating around.
Getting so lost,
In every thought,
Endless summer night,
Red eyes burn bright,
Kaleidoscope skies,
Lonely moonlight.
II
Who can I ask?
Who can I ask?
Who do I ask?
What is real?
No-one just me.
And over there,
They walk to camp,
Don’t look this way,
Falling astray,
Can’t get away.
Paper cut sky,
Mixing with my mind,
I can’t tell,
Between the sweat and tears,
escaping my fears.
Everything weeps,
The wind talks,
Through the leaves.
And the best part,
Are all the shadows,
They never fade.
And over there,
What is real,
Over there?
My lucid dreams,
They are not real.
Girl, your stray love,
It is not real.
I feel you coming,
I hear you coming,
With every single step.
Oh God,
Can you hear me?
Or are you dead?
III
When I see you here,
Blinking and storming,
Humming and glowing,
Looking right at me;
Through the endless trees,
In this lost great camp,
Fireflies hover and glow,
And I catch myself.
Because I am real!
Every shadow,
Every sorrow,
I ammmm real!
You don’t understand,
They judge,
And you judge.
They yell,
And you yell.
In and out of the woods.
Yes!Yes!Yes!Yes!Yessss!
I ammmm real!
I sit in these woods,
And it hits me now,
Glimmer of bright light,
Stares at me tonight.
The Truth!
In this large great fire,
It is the one truth,
Misunderstood.
I’m the last one here,
Always sorry,
Always late.
IV
God are you crazy?
Are you mad?
Or is it,
That I’m sad?
Animalistic!
Pure essence!
Perfection!
Shirtless and bare!
Naked!
The truth is rare!
They feed off each other,
Tall trees are boundless,
Lightning and Venus,
I feel you behind me,
Searching and mindless!
Is it raining?
I cannot tell,
The pages are wet,
Just like the wood.
I’m getting lost,
In every thought,
But now I know,
One thing is true,
One thing is real...
Boston
A poem for Jay Carlage, and once again, another made up unnamed girl.
I
Sweet sorry of desperate Boston,
your lights are on but dim,
I can see your soul,
deep within the headlights,
and alleyways near the Common,
Red movie signs,
Red brick on red brick.
You’re silent now,
as the moon rises,
and black clouds dance on by.
Crossing still cold graveyards,
hidden under green tall trees,
where the limp dead bodies,
of old brave pilgrims must lay.
I can hear you whisper,
calling me to stay.
Pouring out your stories,
blinking for the planes,
glowing in my eyes,
and dancing in the shade.
You’re simply beautiful,
And I can’t look away.
A calculated disaster,
coming towards my way.
The 19nth floor towers you,
admiring and conversing,
calculating for hours,
taking up your shape.
We’re alone with power,
left with nothing that’s ours.
Jay Carlage,
this city sings your song,
the ghosts at Boston Harbor,
Each and every hour.
Every road drives here.
Lonely Dark haired girl,
you’re one of the few,
but I wan’t everything,
and nothing to do with you.
II
Nine O’clock walks,
Boston, I had to find you.
Beacon Hill is not too far off,
you’re filled with people,
every inch and block,
you’re red and healthy,
but lonelier than me.
No one watches me on my walk,
my steps grow faster,
shuffling them on,
I’m trying to find you,
so you can help me,
fight and find myself.
I need you,
every skyline,
all your red leaves,
If you were a sinking ship,
I’d chain myself in.
Bostons children are now men,
laughing smoking haze,
Their blackened hands and hards,
tools and war paint.
Picture me,
As I am dead,
I breath in the hair,
Cigarettes and all,
Because its all been said.
Footnote:
The red and yellow phenix,
hidden in the autumn trees.
Oh the fights between,
the moon and the sun,
fighting for attention,
fighting for each others light.
All the sings of life,
Running clever Beacon Hill,
grease with servants form East Boston.
The kindness of your voice,
the kindness of your stare,
the hatred of your love,
fills my lungs with air.
For many years I sat here watching,
Listening, and nodding,
While the streets morphed
Into grey playgrounds,
Asking for children,
With no fathers to give them,
Prayers and thoughts.
We answered their calls,
Raced in our bikes through the parks,
and the stars,
And pretended to be older,
But no one came,
When we all cried,
And asked for those years back.
Years of repeated mistakes,
Years of wretched longing,
Staring at lovers in class,
Classic long brown hair,
Your fragile red wrist,
Hidden underneath your sleeves,
Has it healed?
Have you cursed me enough
Through your fixed white teeth?
Virginities stolen in daylight,
Forgotten we turned away.
Or how about you black ghost?
Secret attempted suicides,
Alive but repeatedly dead,
Where were you running to?
Your long lost father,
Or mystic chaotic New York
Streetlights and flair?
Cringing in our sleep,
Suburban paradise at our feet.
Us pseudo intellectuals compete,
Coffee shops of Orlando,
Chess, hummus, crimson thoughts,
endless chatter up and up,
Darkened conversations and songs.
Tell me you hate everyone,
But in the end you love them all.
We’re the children of lust,
Were we always wanting love?
Nothing can fulfill you,
Under dimming street lights,
Behind the wheel of your car,
The music blares,
Our fingers drum,
Our spirits fade,
But our hearts are warm.
Somewhere in our pasts,
What we pretended to be,
The lies we said through our teeth,
Became you and me.
The stars are always out,
Even during the day,
Hidden behind the sun,
But ignore them all you want.
Empty notebooks and un-tuned guitars,
Pop music and midnight walks,
All the promises I forgot,
My broken grammar fills your thoughts.
Sex at the park,
And fucking in the back seat.
Empty parking lots filled with mystery.
Kissed your body and wished,
That you would miss me.
Smiling in old photographs,
Lower the window and let the air in.
The light in the room is gone,
I can still see
Where your golden hair used to be.
Old wrinkled hands come together,
But god is gone,
Orlando sleeps,
And I am weak.
Judging by your touch,
You must have the sweetest dreams,
Judging by your voice,
You must say the purest things,
And all I ever wanted was you,
Only you.
The rain trickles down my walls,
My chest gets numb,
The fan spins and I lose control,
No one knows me anymore,
Even the mirror loses the score,
Rejection hurts but so does love,
We are sinners and winners,
Losers looking for a better life,
Folk music and jazz,
Electric feelings flash behind my eyes,
This is my only story,
For which I don’t see an end,
Blue but beautiful,
I will always transcend.
Acid Camping Post-mortem
A poem for a made up God and an unnamed girl.
I
It all came here,
Rain in the trail,
It all burns here,
No where to run,
Breath in the air,
Circling sun.
It all came here,
Beneath the leaves,
It all dies here,
Something we fear,
Personalities,
Blinding and clear.
It all came here,
Waving your arms,
Yes! it’s not real,
This dark sharp ink,
Becomes black ants,
Pulsating around.
Getting so lost,
In every thought,
Endless summer night,
Red eyes burn bright,
Kaleidoscope skies,
Lonely moonlight.
II
Who can I ask?
Who can I ask?
Who do I ask?
What is real?
No-one just me.
And over there,
They walk to camp,
Don’t look this way,
Falling astray,
Can’t get away.
Paper cut sky,
Mixing with my mind,
I can’t tell,
Between the sweat and tears,
escaping my fears.
Everything weeps,
The wind talks,
Through the leaves.
And the best part,
Are all the shadows,
They never fade.
And over there,
What is real,
Over there?
My lucid dreams,
They are not real.
Girl, your stray love,
It is not real.
I feel you coming,
I hear you coming,
With every single step.
Oh God,
Can you hear me?
Or are you dead?
III
When I see you here,
Blinking and storming,
Humming and glowing,
Looking right at me;
Through the endless trees,
In this lost great camp,
Fireflies hover and glow,
And I catch myself.
Because I am real!
Every shadow,
Every sorrow,
I ammmm real!
You don’t understand,
They judge,
And you judge.
They yell,
And you yell.
In and out of the woods.
Yes!Yes!Yes!Yes!Yessss!
I ammmm real!
I sit in these woods,
And it hits me now,
Glimmer of bright light,
Stares at me tonight.
The Truth!
In this large great fire,
It is the one truth,
Misunderstood.
I’m the last one here,
Always sorry,
Always late.
IV
God are you crazy?
Are you mad?
Or is it,
That I’m sad?
Animalistic!
Pure essence!
Perfection!
Shirtless and bare!
Naked!
The truth is rare!
They feed off each other,
Tall trees are boundless,
Lightning and Venus,
I feel you behind me,
Searching and mindless!
Is it raining?
I cannot tell,
The pages are wet,
Just like the wood.
I’m getting lost,
In every thought,
But now I know,
One thing is true,
One thing is real...
Boston
A poem for Jay Carlage, and once again, another made up unnamed girl.
I
Sweet sorry of desperate Boston,
your lights are on but dim,
I can see your soul,
deep within the headlights,
and alleyways near the Common,
Red movie signs,
Red brick on red brick.
You’re silent now,
as the moon rises,
and black clouds dance on by.
Crossing still cold graveyards,
hidden under green tall trees,
where the limp dead bodies,
of old brave pilgrims must lay.
I can hear you whisper,
calling me to stay.
Pouring out your stories,
blinking for the planes,
glowing in my eyes,
and dancing in the shade.
You’re simply beautiful,
And I can’t look away.
A calculated disaster,
coming towards my way.
The 19nth floor towers you,
admiring and conversing,
calculating for hours,
taking up your shape.
We’re alone with power,
left with nothing that’s ours.
Jay Carlage,
this city sings your song,
the ghosts at Boston Harbor,
Each and every hour.
Every road drives here.
Lonely Dark haired girl,
you’re one of the few,
but I wan’t everything,
and nothing to do with you.
II
Nine O’clock walks,
Boston, I had to find you.
Beacon Hill is not too far off,
you’re filled with people,
every inch and block,
you’re red and healthy,
but lonelier than me.
No one watches me on my walk,
my steps grow faster,
shuffling them on,
I’m trying to find you,
so you can help me,
fight and find myself.
I need you,
every skyline,
all your red leaves,
If you were a sinking ship,
I’d chain myself in.
Bostons children are now men,
laughing smoking haze,
Their blackened hands and hards,
tools and war paint.
Picture me,
As I am dead,
I breath in the hair,
Cigarettes and all,
Because its all been said.
Footnote:
The red and yellow phenix,
hidden in the autumn trees.
Oh the fights between,
the moon and the sun,
fighting for attention,
fighting for each others light.
All the sings of life,
Running clever Beacon Hill,
grease with servants form East Boston.
The kindness of your voice,
the kindness of your stare,
the hatred of your love,
fills my lungs with air.
