Two Matters, To What Matters

Two matters, to what matters.
With the truth of renewed vowels and orchestras
blazing through the stench and breaking our clothing.
I am, you are, we together are starting a small taste of historical art.
  
Angels producing through speakers with nothing to say
as fingers communicate through text messages
of quickly forgotten words to distant dream lands.
We are here. And only here. And everywhere.
And what we make is nothing at all.

For who would be seen or to care.
Dying to be some big name, or listless song.
So many are or aren’t and you love both.
You are taking my words and turning them into true destruction of reconstruction.

The cinema glow that drowns our skin
shows us that we are simply causeless rebels.
Verdicts are cast that make us weep deep in our bellies.
And our only tie to reality is the bills we pay.

Hurdling over cast to the past weather from crowds of sea.
Excepting nothing from Jenny Peach Tree.
With broken promises and waves of broken bells.
We see two in celebration, Florida.

So, off with you to moldy beaches and thoughtless seniles.
Off to be with the dream of another. The dream of my brother.
Off to the land of panhandles and fellow man handlers.
Off to the endless summer with cocks in hand.
Off to the past life recreated for the present strife.

Or the return to the shit stain first land,
with open mouths and endless talks of endlessness.
With taped blankets and sensing touches of opera singers,
The family disease is forgotten.
Bringing pitches of empty use of organs to validity.

Pondering about a man and a women
and a black and white 60’s french sex scene.
Adjectives rolling off of our tongues about a film never viewed.
Our imaginations creating nonsense
as our minds drift to distant lovers and local friends.

Now to make the rest cautions or maybe on edge.
Looking down to the unborn men on my hands.
Hanging over sinks and smiling of the lost hairs of the members of the beat vibe.
Beating meats and eating out dated lips
drying themselves of the lips they can’t meet for
the lips of opposites keep them safe.

Thoughts and thoughtlessness crowding an overused room
and Frank is back up on the wall.
Drowning in a sea of literature with not enough shelf room.
We are the confused and the righteous.
We are the pained and the dead.

Living in talks with distant language.
Walking with the doubts and contradiction swelling like balloons.
With her tears following, as I adsorb it all.
Until I over flow and cry the same tears.
Evaporating and raining, as we live in the constant sorrows of missing finger tips.

 Dreaming in written words and talking through the air,
my mind creates a world of disappointment and betrayal.
For the crow has flown and acedia has been lost
and I am here with nothing to show but the joy of a few dear friendships.

In lost transitions to the dead breaths of this girl I’ve met.
Living, flying, right to the west.
Her hair wrinkles my very head.
Bruising my hair with sexual rights and lefts.
I guess it’s no surprise that the south suits the best of winters and springs.

70 sheets and everything to write.
One journal dedicated to a sweet piece and a sweeter peace.
The creative genius of a Nicholas Sparks bitch
inspiring me to love, hate and create.

The stubborn ass of the brain.
The sensitive heart of the bones.
The actions of the describing place.
Fences and tools, beads of rosaries,
and the ins and outs, the recipe of the best of the fellows’ fellowship.

Seeking in green the creating figment of the majorities imagination,
I judge with my two-tattooed sibling.
We think about truth and lies and the difference between.
Looking up at heaven, we scream ‘you’re just a sky!’