#LightEmIfYaGotEm #DontStopMan
SLUSH FUNDS AND 64 SQUARES
Losers get it out of focus to disguise the Truth which is obvious and clear to the One above
Spirits of our ancestors or the origin of the species’ galaxy and universe, God of a banana
Awakened within the dream to know that this and that is but the hope of another, a love
What it’s like to be all alone? Jammin’ in memory of thin skin, I shreds my red bandana.
Changing the bushes and the salt water to be my canvas to be my artwork, a soup of glycerine
Movin’ the waves and tide because of the wobble and revolving around the planet’s orbiting
Star above, the sun of our origin, not Buddha or God or Guatanama or Zeus’ dad or mama
Pain and suffering a feeling or the nervous system, real until the brain turns it a Void drama.
In or out of a neighborhood, angry and charming, you see from the point of view of my screes
Punks, gentlemen too, ladies ahem, excuse me, there is no stalling when Scratch comes callin’
When my train’s gonna come is the day and the night you won’t see after sundown, capece?
My lights stay on all night long just in case I die during the night, someone will see my light.
It shines to the bottom of the rabbit hole and before it hits bottom, it disappears forth with
To be or not to be is never a consideration when survival of the fittest is the mantra of styth
It is always to be forever beyond the grave, beyond the dead bones and dried up black felt
Heaven above this planet surface but below down at the go-dang dying fire’s asteroid belt.
Too blinded by the light to ponder the sixteen moves upon the sixty four squares of misery
Got stuck in the muck and mire and couldn’t shrug it off, didn’t see it comin’ but a survivor
I was the Extinction and personal extinguishment of personality-spirit-soul function, clearly
Invested in the dream within the Poe-epic dream, appearances, forms, come and go Igor!
Bringing the life back into the dead dirt requires divine intervention, a Big Bang of red hair
Start from the fear of being eaten to the discoveries from fire to pottery to skyscrapin’ terror
Indulged for a reason or not, it becomes the harbinger of fathers coming to high heaven buds
In the foothill gardens and the High Sierra plateau, hops flowers bloom into green beer suds.
Emotional rescuing nobody but your mother’s souls and father’s fortunes, still out of control
Draining the putrid swamp of the deep, black water and the strangers show without a soul
No help from family, relatives distant or near, no friends or acquaintances, just the homeless
All alone on the corners and in the gangways, found on road dead, outside a city pool of cess.
by
r j j stephan, i
c. Wednesday January Sixteenth, Two Thousand & Nineteen Anno Domini
{ OH Boy! ...drafted while listenin’ to the #StonesRolling #OutOfControl @The Rolling Stones & Derek Trucks & Susan Tedeschi & Ronnie Wood and Simply Red’s Mick Hucknall #IMissYou #BridgesOfBabylon tour on youTube link @ https://youtu.be/CxlTx8mmJEA }
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W.W.A.R.D.?
