From Ink to Stars in Stories

Play the Role

Say the Lines

Go through Motions

Surrender or Slay

Take up the Mantle

Write your Credo

Ink your Heart and Skin

Dye your Hair

Change your Face

with Knives and Books

Live for Tomorrow

Suffer for Today

Speak The Truth

Live the Lie

that Money can Buy

in Empty Drams and Dreams

Walk with Stars in your Hands

Tread over the Clover Carefully

And Run fast, Run faster into the River

Meet the Monster in the Mouth

with Scales Balancing and Sparkling Spores

Stand Up

Grow Some Gills

Get Some Balls

But What of Feathers

Poultry, Prey or Predator

One, Two, Three

Father, Son and The Holy Ghost

Which is Believed, Blessed or Cursed

He or I or the Family History

That Speaks in Spikes and Stories

Thorned in Velvets and Marijuana Flumes

Excuses in Repition

that Don't Repeat but Prick and Pin Problem

on My Lapel like a Mottled Flower

That doesn't Die but Reconfigurates

Into a Brutal New Infirmy

Which doesn't Rape or Ravage

Only Callus's the Hands and Toughens the Heart

Corn Flower Beasties...

Nights are darker under the ebon wings of baying beasties and skrieking skelletal birds. Animals they are, subsconscious pretty monsters who help you shine your face silver. I'm tarnished, and the gold accents have shifted to glittery dust.

The slow eloquence of one's mind returing to the places where ivory boned birds battled for genderless oppession but what of the war worn beasties who fought on cornflower covered mesa looking for the elusive quality of love. But there were no anwers but numerous theories and we bottled them in cobalt and silver and threw them out to the ocean.

We laughed, Let them Fend for Themselves, when We could'nt? We were'nt brave, or noble. Yes we were hard, indignent,unrelentless, dreamy, fanatastically selfish but brave?

To be brave and fight, no, no, no...LEAVE ME ALONE...TO THINK....Let Me Go....TO DREAM....So LET THEM Go...

Let Them Go and Let Them leave...

Smashed Kisses, Webbed Mirror and Glimmering Ice Slivers, Avian Floral Malady.

All four blue and gold bottles are waiting for some to take them, decycpher their fogotten emotions and smash their kisses into perfumed pools of rubies and strawberry juice and waltz away to have someone's visions frostied and glimmer in waves of blessings and hexes.

Better yet, if I have my cloak on and a wand would I be able to bewitch this musical caccaphony into something that was safe, all polite in a box made by the precise hands of a house husband?

Have I come so far? I have tasted so many lips and learned their secerets, I have bed the ghosts of many generations and yet I see traveling, experiencing, books being writing and my wings unbound, unfurling.