kdownes

Part I: guns ‘n’ roses

They never paint portraits

of flowers, unless said flower

happened to be growing out of the barrel

of a gun perched in the hands of a child.

Still, the seven men who care

took a poll amongst the staircases

bookshelves of doll faces and myriad

foes collected among the dreary, rain

drenched down the windows and found

to no one’s surprise,

that there are in fact only three kinds

of lies – the ones you tell, the ones you

know and the ones you leave behind.

peter piper lost a pack of

pickled gherkins, pickled onions are too

sour in fact to stomach, poor old pete

I guess this means dinner’s off

What the hell, let’s all go

into space, just to see if the world

really is a sepia as all the poets

claim it to be.

oh, one last thing

Can you hear me Major Tom?
Your signals weak, there’s something wrong

Major Tom, what kind of name

is Major Tom anyway?

Stoner

Part II: booze dreams and drag queens

write...

heart on page

no, wait

too messy

I’m a stone’s throw from a crow man,

hang the tin cans, one two three

haul them timbers boys I think this is gonna be

a big one.

I wonder if blood

comes out of paper?

Pump the veins, drain the brains

left, right, left, right

drunks down the centre

and me in the middle

with the out-of-work

unicorns and fat faeries.

What is your name?

one more drink and I won’t even remember that

down the hatch, around the corner

drown them timbers boys, here she comes

Did you read those letters?

tisket tasket, silk woven basket

did you ever find your heart

you fucking bastard?

Part III: vicarious victor (denouncement)

I’ve begun living vicariously through myself...

Maybe they’re right

maybe

I need to stop hiding and just

say it, y’know?

No roses, no guns, no hazy booze dreams,

no topsy turvy swirly wirly up the hill around the corner...

god, there I go again.

What am I trying to say?

Isn’t it obvious?

No, I guess not.

You all

didn’t get it

couldn’t understand

got lost

I can see it in your eyes.

You think I’m mad, don’t you?

sitting here, writing to impress

faceless masquerades and

people with names like “#1 Synth”.

I mean, I’m sorry

but what kind of name is “#1 Synth”?

I’m rambling again, aren’t I?

see what happens when

I just write?

I think I should kick this back

back into gear.

I think, therefore I know

therefore I am, therefore hitherto

unto us, unto You, Lord of love and hope

hope to God, clutch those straws, hurry

you’re drowning in sins, oh, sins sins sings songs

and what are songs but lies?

and we all know, there are only three types of lies

so who are you?

Part IV: dance, monkey, dance

we’ve had this date from the beginning...

We are the cigarette ash at the bottom

of the glass, the last drawn-out gasp.

You and I share a dream called life;

the curtain falls, the seats abandoned

long before the last lonely applause

rings out.

You’re so beautiful when you’re dying

so clapclapclap your hands and

stampstampstamp your feet.

The canary’s flown, the cage

abandoned

hangs lonely above my head as

stars fall so gracefully.

And sometimes I wish I could take

what’s left of my bones, what’s left of my skin

and sew it together into something

beautiful,

something complete.

so dance, monkey, dance.

dance for the dead, dance for the living,

dance for that banana on a string,

the temptation drawing you forward.

Dance, monkey, dance

cause no one wants to dance alone.

Part V:  this’ll be the day that I die

I watched the moon rise over santa rose airport

watched the silver rain down on the runway

I tasted paradise for seventeen minutes

now the rest of my life is pain.

I wrestled sunshine from the bottom of a glass

I drained the last of my life through the flask now broken on the floor,

crank the volume, draw the curtains

the circus is leaving town.

and the three men that I admire the most

are eating scrambled eggs and charcoaled toast

they’re burning down the Sunday roast in the park

as the children all scream, they’re life is a dream.

Saturday sun drips down through my skin

Sunday night is hitting me hard

Monday runs a knife in the back of my brain

Tuesday’s got me by the arm again.

Wednesday I go out drinking

Thursday drains the last of the life from my veins

Come Friday I’ll be writing the last of the lines on the wall,

quote after quote I will scream:

“Farewell, American Dream

Turns out your not as strong as you seem

and they’re sharing a toast in heaven tonight

over the falling of the last great Age

Drove my chevy to the end of the road, stalled the engine

the cliff never saw it coming.

And as the last of the stars bid adieu to the night, I’ll say:

This will be the day that I die.”