Lingo Riots
I can always feel them dousing their hellish eyes on me
hurling massive stones on my pale skin
kneading me with their birthmark tones
fluttering from their lips
the kind of essence that kicks you into a staggering drunk
tumbling
mumbling
for one more taste
one last sip
I carry the description of an uncouth romantic
voluptuously damned
sunken like a Spanish goldmine in need of some discovery
full of curiosity and fantasizing praises
marvelous flowing carnivorous river
they sift me in a frantic
they lavish me in frenzy
I see things that no one else can see
I’m a godly witness
drowning myself with some rebellious philter
a chess piece in an infinite game
of fantastic alignments of disillusion
they play me with words
and free me of their stares
I beware the scowls of the bayside lingo
red blooded movements
my music summons no beats
I am the only being that remains constant
the undertone
the unbearable hum
that only the deaf can speak about
I can taste tragedy in the wind
most raptorial friend
that heeds no warning
spearing the air
the way the attracting smell of sex does
forcing me to taste one more
to sip at last
most adorable life
my spat of a sparrows flutter
let me touch the shrine
the ferocious glory
they kick me into an unbound faithful harvester
and I’m on that train again
open to the wind
feasting upon cupid’s arrow
like an elegant wine
in search for blessed bread
fool for the dream day
am I ever gonna stay on my trails
the ones I’ve created with such rambling thought
I dig the wander
the wonder
and they watch me
they know
they know how easy it is
how sly the mystery can be
their sinister smiles keep me chained to their sides
poking me with their slimy lips
like a habit
racing to change my destiny
like electrified saliva on a soul-natured tongue
and it’s all quick to scatter
like crime in progress
I beg for wings in my hours of death
remember my voice
my warming breath
dear love
sea of me
they spread like color in liquid
pure pleasure in my wicked minute
today I ask
let me shed a few horrors
spare a few lives
let me howl into the junkyard night
I want to be written in myth
eternal story
they know
my kind
taken from the true tongue
I just can’t get enough
of going back over old roads
the way they creep
the way they smell in soft rain
and this night is good
so good.
(from Lassoed With A Decorative Tongue, 2007)
