I always thought there was this rebels
party going on somewhere, and I just had
to make it there. And I would never have to stop
rebelling against normalcy then. A party like
the torch that’s burned before and will
out burn us all, still and yet to come.
Decades long. People born there and people died.
Fuck. I had this thing all planned out. And now no
matter how South I go I know not even I can
Burn the Man of time forever.
I used to think the divinity of a Doors record was
The same thing as a Beethoven one.
Now they’ve all become catalogued,
my fingers in analog
have spoken out the order,
of history in quarters.
An alignment of stars, called critics’ whose bars
imprison their words except to
bang the same damned pot all day.
Critical poker face. I want to cut out your place
at the table, like Stanley Kowalski,
but I just don’t have the biceps the time
or apparently the timing.
So here’s an alternative guide to rhyming;
don’t leave the kids table unless you’ve
given, taken or witnessed a good shining.
This is a house of lies though.
Barely a dancer in this generation.
Let alone an infinite dance.
Best to work on the two step.