Bard Influence
STREETS OF FIRE
I walk along in these streets of fire,
living nightshade dreams of lust without desire;
lust without desire.
I walk along in these shadows of pain.
Knowing life won't ever be the same;
I'll never be the same
Then I see the dying eyes that answer me from the mirror.
In horror I behold;
reflections of a shattered soul
I stomp along like Man o' War.
I survive but I don't know what for.
I don't know what for
I talk to shadows alive with cries
Accusing me of crimes I have conspired
Then I hear the crying child that calls to me from within
In horror I behold,
Reflections of a shattered soul
I talk along all night sometimes
Hoping to remember sweeter rhymes,
I remember better times
I march a line in this valley of fear
Gunshots and funerals are distantly near
ever distantly near
Then I hear the Sirens cry
I want to climb through the mirror
and be a body without a soul
I walk alone in these streets of fire
Singing nightshade songs of lust without desire
Then I hear the wailing moan of the virgin torn
In horror I behold
Reflection of a shattered soul
VISIONS OF ISIS
The evening Sun is cascading down,
see me on my way.
I'm looking for Nirvana,
at both ends of the day
The midnight moon is soothing,
and singing of the wind
I'm running everyday now,
my face is getting thin.
Visions of Eternity, like dreams of lives I've died
Flash by in the winds of forever
and a crowd of feelings cried
My Ego was already ancient when the Earth was but a seed
Hourus answers quickly his sacred mother's need
My spirit cries in pain
for it's trapped in this earthen cell
Ecstasy is to drowned myself and soar in the air again.
Through tiny flashing portholes,
I glimpse the shadows of time Can I see the answers,
can the truth be mine?
The morning sun is burning, my search is at an end
If I find no god to save me, I'll be my only friend
I RAN AMOK WITH A METAPHOR
I ran amok with a metaphor
Pitched a foul ball the whole nine yards
Followed bread crumbs like greased lightning, devoured their
significance
I've got an angel in the wood pile
I dropped the ball at half-time with a double or nothing handicap
I had to break some eggs to bring home the bacon
There's plenty of fish in the sea, so I set my snares
Threw caution as far as I could spit
I remember the Alamo to forget a woman
I am a thesbian trapped in a man's body
I carry my albatros along hoof prints in the sand
because I heard the flickering shadows
I am restless in lethergy
You can't mix oil and water life fire and rain or like water for
Chocolate
I slept like a theif in the night
Birds of a feather have fine lives
Sunlight dawns like a dying man needs blood
Soothe me to violence
Comfort me to rage
love me just to break my heart
Make love to me in the Battlefields of rhetoric
I am dead like birdsong at morning
I will return like warm butter
Chicken always come home to sixes and sevens
Jeepers, Creepers, I just got back from a Broadway Show
The candle light is deafening
STILL RINGING
Destiny, the foreground is invisible
And I will wait an eternity for the past
Eyes still scream at me in memories
But I must avoid self absorption
Finality beacons as the faceless mother
that must now do her work
Terror and nothingness are inseparable
All is calm in desolation
Sorrow is the initiator of change
as Peace has been the result of War
Inaction is the release of indecision
Actuality is a concept unknown
Pity is my lover as horror is my child
Insanity is my only defense
Hate is the precious gift I give myself
Good manners are a thing of beauty
Limitless is the isolation
and transient is the purpose
I've seen it all and my ears are still ringing
THE DEVIL AND ROBERT JOHNSON
It is midnight,
a lone figures carries a box guitar where paved roads are
soon to come and sits down at the crossroads.
He is tired, hungry and lonely. He looks at the moon, full
and red. If he talks to anyone now, he is talking to the moon.
"In this world, a black man ain't got much chance of gettin'
much of anywhere in life." He looks at his guitar he is holding
in strong hands with long spindly fingers.
"But if I could gain fame and fortune playing this guitar,
I'd sell my soul."
When his words have finished echoing into the night, he
hears a voice.
"Robert Johnson." He looks for the body the voice came from.
"Would you really sell your soul for fame and fortune?"
"Who is dat?" Robert begins to panic as he searches the
darkness of midnight at the crossroads.
"Now really Robert," the voice continues. "You come to the
crossroads at midnight and want to know who I am?"
"Is that you Devil?" Robert asked the night.
"I have many names Robert."
"Devil, can you give me fame and fortune for my soul?"
"Are you certain you want to do that?"
"You can have my soul Devil, my body needs the help now."
"Very well." agreed the Prince of Darkness. "Give me your
guitar so that I may tune it. Robert." So Robert Johnson handed
his box guitar to the Devil,
And the Devil tuned it. It made a sound like Robert had
never heard before.
And the Devil handed it back. "Now Robert," he continued
"play the hell out of this guitar and fame and fortune will be
yours. But when you are done, your soul is mine."
So Robert goes on and his long spindly fingers play the hell
out of that guitar.
He goes on to be one of the very first recorded blues players.
But his 'Devil may care' attitude catches up with him and women
and whiskey are his undoing.
It is night and Robert Johnson is playing a dive. between
sets his is talking to the owner's wife. He likes her, she likes
him, but her husband dosn't like what he sees- so he puts rat
poison in Robert Johnson's whiskey.
So Robert Johnson found himself in hell accusing the Devil.
"You cheated me Devil,"
"Not at all Robert, fate has simply played his trump
card.But you have died a martyr, a murdered man. You will get
another chance. You will still have fame and fortune
beyond your wildest dreams. This is how we will do it.
Not too much later, a son is born to a young sickly black
woman.
She names him 'Johnney'. The father is fighing in the war, he is
not there when the boy is born. But he returns and finds his son
without a mother. She never recovered from that last cold she had
from leaving the hospital in winter. He renames the boy
James Marshall Hendrix, a name with power and dignity.
"The night I was born,
Lord, I swear the moon turned a' fire red,
My poor mother cried out 'Lord,the Gypsy was right!'
and I seen her fall down right dead"
Jimi wanted to play the guitar from the time he was the
youngest voodoo child.
When his father told him to sweep his room, he'd play that
broom like a guitar with those long spindly fingers.
Jimi had such strong hands, he could bend bass strings all the
way. It was like he had some kind of unfair advantage. Jimi was
playing in bands from
his early youth on. Because he knew that a black man ain't got
too much chance of
gettin to far in this world. But he dreamed of seeing his name
in lights.
Jimi played hard. Jimi played all the time. Jimi played with
everybody.
Jimi even played with the army band when he was a
paratrooper.
Jimi was in Vietnam, he knew what a machine gun sounded like.
One night an Englishman from this famous rock band finds
Jimi playing in some dive, and Jimi is "discovered". Before long
he gains fame and fortune
for playing that guitar.
Jimi played hard. Jimi went all over the world. Jimi made
music so beautiful it makes people cry.
But there were lots of things Jimi didn't understand. He
didn't understand where some of his songs came from. He didn't
understand why he
acted the way he did sometimes.
He didn't always understand why for example he needed to
have someone test drugs for him. He forgot the rat poison in the
whiskey, but he remembered distrust.
He knew he was a Voodoo chile, he didn't know the half of it.
He thought he was possess by deamons. He really believed it.
He would talk about going to New Orleans and having a root woman
drive out his deamons.
But,one Robert Johnson was all the demon he needed to drive
him the way he was. One Robert Johnson Demon was all that was
required to drive him to music, women and sweet poison.
Jimi lived out one of history's most incredible lives as the
vehical of Robert Johnson the Divine Horseman
Jimi played hard, but the Devil plays harder; and he dosn't
always play fair.
Dream of a babling tower
I dreamed of a babbling tower. A treasure stolen out of mortality, tangible enough to satisfy it's grievous glory. It whispered it's rebus of the cross, repeating it's promise that the river would run red with the sound of blame. The stars eclipsed like winks revealing indigo candles, swimming in the sweet taste of mercy. In stillness my soul awakened. My scars stood to accuse my reckless temper. I hold to the demand of a rare hero. Because all night I wept, insane for her touch.
SALAMANDAR ENKI
In the Beginning, there was only the water. And it was only there because
it had cooled from being the first breath of God.
So as it were the first breath of God,
it was full of life.
And it came to pass in the following eons,
that are a blink of God's eye,
that the Paramecium and the Amoeba
coagulated to form a more complex organism.
And from this mass cooperation of tiny
one-celled life forms came tiny creatures,
the worm, the jellyfish and simple crustations.
And Lo and behold! These tiny civilizations of microscopic entities learned to work the DNA.
They learned to re-work the exoskeleton into bones of cartilidge, sinews and muscle.
From that came fish and the very first sharks. Stronger bones brought the amphibian - the frog, the skink and the Salamandar!
One day a young and adverturous Salamandar named Enki looked again at the surface of the water, the only sky he had ever known.
He was always facinated with the way it shimmered.
He had always wondered if there was anything past that barrier that the elders had forbade anyone to cross.
He wondered why he was forbidden to even try to climb into
the sky and see what lay beyond.
He wondered if going there would bring him closer to God.
He traveled to where the mountain met the sky defying the ancient law of the elders,
putting one little web foot in front of the other,
he finally broke through the surface of the water
and found himself on dry land. Only he knew no word for the sensation he felt under his feet.
Enki coughed the water out of his gills and became the first creature since God himself to breath air.
His head felt light and the heat of that Meditaranian sun in the summer was more heat than he was accustomed to.
But this experiance transcended everything he had ever known. He returned to his people to share his discovery.
But instead of being greeted by an enthusiastic reception for word of the world beyond,
he was met by an angry mob ready to string him up as a heretic Salamandar.
Sensing their mood, Enki implored them: (IN WATERY VOICE) "My brothers, I have had a
wondrous and enlightening experience that has shown to me that we can rise above
our present level of existence and may even prove to be a turning point in our evolution"
The Crowd, not properly understanding him, lynched him without a second thought.
Still, in the weeks and months that followed, their curiosity ate away at them.
And when no one was looking, they went and looked for themselves.
And they found that he was right.
Eventually, there were creatures that only lived on the land.
And the truth that Enki had died trying to bring to his people was just a fact of life.
So as you walk the earth and pay a visit to the sand
Have a drink for Salamandar Enki The first to walk the land.
Invocation of my Phantom lover
She comes to me like a solid fantasy.
She is a welcome succubus, but I want more.
As our energies intertwine like red and white roses in an astral garden, we nestle in tall
grass and gazing at the stars, ancient and disinterested.
And we are watched by the Moon that always listens to feelings.
Yet, I am still alone in an unmade waterbed. I adjust my weight, brush the hair from the
eyes of my astral visitor and say:
Come to me as a lover, I need you woman corporeal.
Come to me as a woman so I can satisfy your body.
The wind thinks I am dreaming, the fan blows an electric breeze. And I say to her:
Come and be my woman and we will seek our healing.
We can treat each others' wounds while rest on this road called life. This road is too short,
too wide and empty to travel too much alone.
Come to me in reality so we can live out this fantasy
I blink, and she is gone. And I am left to wonder, for the moment, for the night, and
probably for a long time to come, if she was ever really there at all.
Jennifer
My friend told me he'd seen you there earlier.
"That's cool," I said. "But if she wants to see me, she knows where to find me."
And then I saw you, eyes drenched in anguish.
My heart leapt for you, alabaster complexion, fragile beauty in torment.
I longed to help, in my own way.
So I walked up to you, leaned against the pole you leaned on.
I talked and you ran
You tried to ditch me by going out the back
Or so you'd like it to look.
Never let it be said that Wyrdsli can't knock back a beer if there's a pretty face involved.
But a pretty face etched with a trail of tears bears even a little more effort.
I ran around the outside of the bar to head you off at the pass.
'timed myself to catch you on the other side and not puke. I waited,
I watched,
using my best strategic skills to catch you, I found you on the inside of the back door.
I guess you knew what I'd do.
You saw me and turned away. I followed you to the bar itself.
I tried to get you to talk.
"Why won't you talk to me?"
"What have I ever done to you?"
No answer. Only tears.
Your turned away from the bar and I took your crying frame to my embrace.
And for one moment I believed I could hold you forever and the world would cease to exist
outside our Universe.
But you broke away and pushed me away
I chased you by rumor.
And then I saw you with him, whoever he was.
I watch you from a balcony, sex being had behind me, and watched and wondered
And then I knew- She's beautiful but crazy, she's beautiful but crazy.
She's beautiful but crazy.
VAMPIRE CHRISTMAS
by The Vampire Lestat
(as told to Rev. Wyrdsli)
(with apologies to Clement C. Moore and Anne Rice)
'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse for
I, the Vampire Lestat had drank all their blood.
The stockings were hung from the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholos soon would be there
But,the children were nestled all dead in their beds,
No visions danced in their heads,
Because I, the Vampire Lestat had drank all their blood
And Mama in her 'kerchief and Papa in his cap,
made a delicious midnight snack,
When I, the Vampire Lestat drank
all their blood
Then outside in the sky, I detected,
Eight tiny reindeer with fat man connected
With a driver so juicy and thick I knew right away it must be St. Nick
More rapid than fast food those little dears came
The thought of their blood nearly drove me insane
The scent of their flesh was almost alchemical
I would drink them down, drink them down all
On Dasher On Dancer On Prancer On Vixen On Comet On Cuipd On Donner On Blitzen,
to this list of deserts I did carefully listen
And presently, as if I had planned it On the roof top the little hooves landed
Then, not knowing it was for the last time Down the Chimney the big elf did climb
His clothes were so dirty, he looked like a bum
As he unpacked his bag with little John's drum
His eyes how they twinkled his dimples so suculent
This house would have to be his ultimate
I met my fat victim right by the tree
and the look on his face was a delight to me
The shock the fright the sheer incrdulity
Oh thank you Anne Rice for my immortality He stuttered
he stammered he shook his head
He turned as white as me knowing he was soon dead.
His mouth droped to the floor like delicate china
Now he knew this moment was the final
The stump of his pipe also dropped to the floor
But he would be smoking no more
I grabbed him and drank him and he shook like jelly
It was better than eating at a North Pole deli
So I finished him off and discarded the corpse
I took all the presents too of course
Now hear me exclaim as I ride into night
A Vampire Christmas to all and to all a good fright
WHAT CHRISTMAS MEANS TO ME
I was young at the time
and this is lives a gone by
But I will never forget the day
They came to take my mother to the fire
They say she was a witch,
I don't know about that
'for I was just a child
when they came to take my mother to the fire
The neighbor said she put a curse on him
and made his cattle die
I know of no such thing
I only know she cried,
When they came to take her to the fire
I know she worked with herbs,
as a mid wife she was respected
But her healing was used as evidence
against her
When they came to take her to the fire
They took her to the jail
shaved her body of all it's hair
I know this because she was bare
When they took her to the fire
God, they said, won't suffer a witch to live
just as we should not kill
But murder is what they committed
when they took my mother to the fire
They said they did it in Jesus's name
he didn't say a thing
I only know there was no love
When they took my mother to the fire
Now comes the Religious Right
like a modern Cotton Mather
With it's mandate for culture cleansing
using God to justify genocide
Just be sure to put up a fight
when they come to take your mother to the fire
Accidental Road trip
I drove eight hours, sat out a hail storm in a Burger King, sipping coffee and staring at foreboding clouds, "Two weeks" I kept thinking, "She must be going through hell." I searched Memorial boulevard at night, declined the services of a street whore, but asked her help searching for the IAG, where I worked the door to raise money for your commissary, slept two hours on a couch, drove to Rice Street, surrendered my driver's licence, put my jacket in a locker for twenty-five cents, to see you. You. You, in a county blue jump suit, beige plastic sandals, black nail polish chipping from your toes and no make-up. Still beautiful to me. You, behind two way glass, when I hoped I could hold you. I wrote you, told you I wanted to see you. You must not have believed me. "Who the fuck is coming to see me at nine in the morning?" You asked yourself as they escorted you from you cell. When I saw you smile seeing me, it all made sense. To see you healthy, clean and unhurt. To see the color of your eyes again. To watch you peek at me from under Raven hair. To make you laugh, teasing you, you make a guy go through a lot for a second date. It was all worth it: the accidental Road trip, the visit to my dead parrot's grave, the poignant return to Little Five Points, the search on dangerous streets at night, the poor excuse for a nights sleep, the mad dash, dirty and harried to the Fulton county jail, to see you again, and tell you I love you.
Born-Again Orphan
I am alone again, like a born-again orphan Like a fallen leaf wondering if it'll be blown away or raked up Like a rouge tear absorbed into the sea of sorrow Like a losing lottery ticket Like a forgotten twinge of pain Like a passing thought lost on the highway of forgotten dreams I have wandered dead-end roads and paths of wisdom grown over with weeds In the end, at the end of endless days We are alone to face ourselves with naked reflection My smile is forced and unnatural The bags under my eyes have never been unpacked My hands are cut, scraped and bruised from fighting inner demons My head aches from pounding my head against the wall in frustration and I am alone again, like a born-again Orphan
VENUS IN SCORPIO
Seems like old times I wake in the morning to go to work And she is still asleep She was up all night drawing We slept in the same bed but we are worlds apart She is not my lover and I have long since ceased to be the man of her dreams I am Venus in Scorpio deadly is my venom's desire and I stung myself to death when I was in the flames. I love her and she tells me the same But we will never be in love again She is no longer the starving desparate waif that fell in love with me once apon a time We are eternal but not to be together And neither will we ever be We are fated for each other but not to be whole again Pain, like death, is a great equalizer. We smoke the Peace Pipe and cry one more time I am Venus in Scorpio deadly is my venom's desire and I stung myself to death when I was in the flames.
DINING WITH AMERICA
I think I'll pick up a street walker for dinner, so I'll have someone to talk to while I eat . I'll cruise down the boulevard in my late 70's LTD, find one just a little beaten up and the make up just a little heavy, and say "Hey baby, how much to have dinner with me?' When she gets in my car, I'll tell her, "Shhhhhhh, don't tell me your name, I'm going to call you America." I will take her to the nicest Restaurant in town. Where the busboys and dishwashers are illegal aliens that are paid in food and threats of deportation. The waitresses are doing lap and table dances, the Maitre d' is openly trafficking drugs and the bartender is cheating you on the drinks. They do these things because the owner pays them next to shit, charges outrageous prices for the dishes and gets a tax cut for his 'exchange student work program'. America and I will dine on the elderly, their liquid assets for soup, leafy green cash for salad, the bulk of their estates for the main course, and what's left of social security for desert. And she will get drunk on the blood of the Saints. She will boast loudly about her achievements, her power and her glory. She will brag about her puppet governments and intelligence missions, her Commonwealths, Colonies, her business and political influence everywhere and her black ops. She will excuse her self to 'powder' her nose' with a gift from the CIA. But I know better, she has gone to sell her ass in the bathroom to a terrible, horrifying beast of extraordinary strength with ten horns, iron teeth and bronze claws. For he is the best, and who is like him? And who can wage war with him? I know this because when she comes out, I see his mark on her. I will grab her and say: "America, you are a Whore! You are the whore that sold us out to the Reticulans so you could build faster computers, bigger planes and smarter bombs. You are the whore that sends our young men and women to wars we've cease to understand, that sets up puppet Shah's and then act shocked to find the Arabs hate you and call you the Devil. You are the whore that said you love our children, but you burned them up in Waco and blew them up in Oklahoma city, and you want more cops to watch us. Your skinheads and Klansmen disgrace my abolitionist heritage, and your blacks rape my white sisters more than I have fingers on my hand, toes on my feet and hairs on my fucking head to count. The things I have to do for a dinner date!
THE BATTLEFIELDS OF ART
I came, I saw, I address the night On haunted avenues. We entertain a fickle muse with blood and sweat and years Welcome to the tragic zone, and the Battlefields of Art. Now here I am like a Poet-Priest attending to the mysteries. We sing for love and cry for pain, caressing private histories. We cut the price tags from our hearts in the Battlefields of Art. With ink stains red I kiss the pen, that bleeds each crying time. Come beat the drum and sing the song with strange discordant rhythms we dance to a different slumber in the Battlefield of Art. I pricked by skin with golden blades So my blue blood won't congeal. Your attention span lifts like a fog, to reveal the trail of tears. Tread softly through the land mines of the Battlefields of Art. And wake to the sun without remorse of your weariness or pain. There is no promise that insistence will make things any different. You make the call, ride or fall in the Battlefields of Art. If love unknown to weeping lips, comes worship as the grail, aticipation creates expectation, reality falls short Choose advances carefully, in the battlefields of Art. And casualties are not unknown. But never of the pure of heart. Sacrifice inevitable to make the battle cry. But fear is always your greatest enemy, in the Battlefields of Art.
