Loser's Parade

Smart Parrot Playback

the maniacs who love the maniacs who love

Ly Maniac

leave us alone, you artless rock, breathe black and white and exhale

Helltoy

they take the art out of the heart and put the cunt in the function

The Eight O'Clock Dribble Show

painted hollow effigy, in hope to decorate the inside

Ecstasy Is Blind

they'll hire and blame you, now your half-second thought is permanent

Lonely Disaster Mess Town

Sentimental Water Plant

am I supposed to be mesmerized by these circus antics?

Criminals

The Little

Have Yourself A Had / Stare!Stare!

Wannabe / Modern Vending / Timmy & Johnny

Daydreaming. Succeeding.

Everything Has A Number

Calm

Young

Franchise

static
beats his heart in the attic
of his love
so silently
he stands in fields
green blades to his heels
and she
whispers in English
but those ghosts,
no one can hear them
but he listened anyway
patience is hope is patience

he told himself
in the poetry of waiting
stanzas written
in different seasons
     in fields
for the same reason
     to heel
And he waits for reason 
In his heart 

his verses
never grew,
why, there’s no distortion in age
why, those letters were the same
when he wrote them in the spring
to not a present person
    presents for a missing person
but he wrote to a soul
his poems ready in the glovebox

he told himself
I might see her at the store
where she bought
all of her gardening things
     for fields
baring different seasons
     and he waits
for reason in his heart

Fields

and woke like the drowned
so recently found
so breathless and pale
so lost in the sounds
of applauds, and greetings
to heaven it seemed
oh, So heavenly was
that terrible dream

she was carried through the crowd
towards the sirens,
as loud as red and blue
and relax, housekeeper
here, we will keep you
            safe
my son        your son
your hand    his hand
oh, not so hellish
she believed

Drowning, Hand in Hand

violins screaming 
in sleep 
precious dreams, 
bleed like worn feet
cut by the weather
the cries of newborns 
stillborn to grief 
to grey skies
and dead gardens 
skeleton trees 
on their knees 
we live in wells 
pointing up at that pretty sky 
catching currency 
on our tongues 

it's in love 
not in art 
thornes against 
the gardeners heart 
his mother 
in a field 
burnt by the sun 
squashed by his heel

Art After

Suzanne, Grace,
Mirriane
her name,
like last year's poppies 
matters not 
misspell anonymous 
and be sorry, say sorry
but written at birth 
a blank page 
a blunt pencil 
carved in that thin wood 
like the solid wrinkles of bark 
I named her for art 
Suzanne, Grace 
Marriane,
the lilies of years gone by
untouched by the gardener
I drew a boy watching a field 
die in winter 
death, Gods bless 
how artful of death
        poking petals and tongues 
for that sip, that tear 
seek pity for music 
for punks not in love 
Suzzane, Grace,
Marriane, go away 
it's never the words 
that sing me to sleep

In Order of Appearance (The Worst Kind of Credits)

like a seed he grew, 
but under boots and heavy weather
heavy the hand of lace and leather.
keeping his words clean
 with the aroma of cleaning things
and chores so boring
             to mourn for snoring
he said love
    under his breath, his boots
    belt and buckle 
    the solemn blues
    of a bow tie massacre
he said you
    to her, the lonely gardner
    who at the weight of breeze
    fell into the arms
    of her work.

Bow Tie Massacre

June / July

there blared a ringing phone
ring urgency, ring hope
and he tapped his feet 
to kill anxious ants
that swarmed about the empty
reception desk.
Too shy to call, emergency
that room so bored
so used to urgency
and he walked, grand steps
in those heavy boots
       embarrassed, hating
the nosy cameras in the room
poking their noses
like thirsty addicts
or impatient kids
with the will to commit
emergency, he cried
          he cried
          he wailed
and the little lenses chuckled
despite the shame in their tales
emergency, he cried
          he cried
          he wailed
ants falling from his eyes
a stubborn little voice
boots clobbering in the silence

Salt Water Criminals

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