The big hand reaches one at 4am, And I was you, and you were them, In the foggy faded moonlight buzz, Misplaced what made me who I was, Or who I always meant to be, When all was lost and I was free, Consumed by his desire, your disease, A gaze that burns but never sees, Denial justified by thoughts of fate, Either born too soon or died too late, As love serves to magnify the flaws, Forgive the sins, obscure the cause, Use honesty to seed the lie, Drunk driving through the needle's eye, And after all, and all it took, I wasn't worth a second look, My only chance, your second choice, The stars still imitate your voice, But the song you sing is not for me.
The garden is filled with gods And beggars and dull, fat cubes That gather rain. A bronzed angelic family nods, Weighted neck-joints, tubes Of browning flames. Arrested drama, perpetual frown, Wrestlers mid-lock, Eyes into the sky. I can relate, my luck's down, Girlfriend's gone, I'm stuck To my skin, lonely. Easy to imagine the appeal Of the museum garden life, Appreciated and secure, With fat cube friend's repeal Of flat love, new bronze knife To cut into the meat, to cure
Light steps sound from the basement stairs. A case of home brewed liquor in his father's hands. Bizarre, cancerous bulges from cap to bottom. Plastic explosives from corrosive neglect from stow-away rooms In white neighborhoods.
His father with a bronze idea, all of them with a destructive mind A twenty-two saloon rifle bottled up too, Like a maniac gone off his reds and blues, Ready to fire out With remorseless recoil.
High octane, high explosive, high art. Cartridge clicks into the chamber. Son like father, his aim is true.
Like twelve year olds with cherry bombs We blast a hole right through.
Fucking boom! Rancid swill rain Staining the biting bright snow
A girl was born in Bed–Stuy, Brooklyn on the 30th of June to a family of influence and wealth descending from the very man John C. Calhoun, himself
Lena Horne was a beautiful woman and soul; diversity radiated from her very essence from her spirit itself
Her racial heritage was a mix of African American, Native American, and European descent - family pride and honor came with her family name as the Horne was one of the First Families of Brooklyn
As raised and nurtured in a cosmopolitan sense, she was more than a pretty face and lovely name
The chanteuress was also a civil rights activist who fought for the rights of others, she denounced racism and fought injustice which unfortunately still exists
An epitome of style, elegance, and grace whose charms, bravery, and charisma will never be forgotten; she left an indelible mark in history
Known for her commanding presence, subtle dignity, and strength - she was a powerhouse in her own right
She graced this world with pride and strength; a rare soul and beautiful heart
May her legacy forever shine, cherish, and protect the future generations to follow
She will never be forgotten and always a light for coming tomorrows
Sentinel Celestial being, Bronze god inferior being With the complex of a gold god More than a man Eyes of fire Breath of frost Full of of contradictions Mind lost in the gaze of her eyes A tradition far lost But if god made man how do men make gods And expect these gods to fit with in a frame That men made Damn Ain't that a shame we create frames for something far more ascended Then feel as if it had betrayed us once we realize we were the fools Just mundane tools
