Margin of the night

It´s all about the heat of the night
The hasty avenues
that now form apart of you
In the twilight stew
In the light tones of a dirty dusk red and blue

It´s all about those hot sweet hours
we use them to dream heavy heartily
Sinking further in
crossing the city in our minds
Taking a trip to tomorrow and stepping back
into the wee hours

Geckos launch themselves across the warm brick walls as they do
As we desembark from those hasty avenues
Entering the day empty showers and loos
Wetting and drying ourselves the night still sticks like glue
Up to midnight and down to dawn procuring the truth

House of Athol

In the house of Athol
Down the Sandy street not far from the beach
That four story house of five families
the ones that held the town in their hands

There in the part of the yard that is shaded most of the year
 that part of the garden still yields gooseberries and flowers
as if from love alone and not sunlight
As if grand Athol was blessed even in dark times

The uneven and twisting streets of the small town didn't impede the love idea
Builders were invited to sweep the dust away and build something great
Athol and the families created the city and it's greatness
The wine tasted sweeter at sunset and calluses grew around the crystal glassware

For everything in the city was abundant
Even shaded consciences seem to improve by Athol's blessing
Even bad intentions were forgotten
City of dusty roads, of the seaside and peace

The instinct

The folly and the triumph of the land tiger
The stare of an animal seeks out the shapes dancing outside the jungle
The swing of it's head and drop of it's paw as he readies for a tangle
There are teeth bared, enthusiasm and hunger to mangle

It wants to live cried the heavens
Live, fight, eat and breed in these lands
It turns it's head unafraid of the wetter months to come
Stuck on the scent of some unfortunate creature

That land tiger and it's cumbersome paws
it's satellite ears, thick shrugging posture
but under that skin is a heart that beats to kill
A mind that would devise the where and how

Slow it may be to learn he will rise
and the instinct like wine will have matured
upon the land a fiend top heavy in the dry
post monsoon lean grinning hidden in the night's colluding mist

Reaching for the bottle

Across the road is the instinct to celebrate
Knock off fingers reach for brown bottles
The mind for some version of cheer
Everyone in the traffic has the same idea

but they really have to be somewhere
even though they are stationary at intersections
Windows down, stomach growling started
wishing they were at the party

When they arrive again it´s that "change the walk"
house offering present handover, grin because it´s that obliged moment
take it like a pill to kill socially bad omens
eyes scan for appetizers before the mind analyzes the register for small talk

Chairs slowly fill up, as the timid wet their nerves prostrate
Only a few left now as knobbly knees frustrate
it´s as if it were a giant house bus taking them somewhere
their conversations moving them

The hot foreheads glow as they converse controversially mouth throbbing
They are like bathers at a thermal pool cautiously disrobing
Steam addicts in a sauna taking off the last of their clothing
slouched waiting for someone to spill their drink

Deathless hotel

The long shallow tropical streams
full of plants and animals
Everything growing and being pulled by the current
So colorful and beautiful

Over the mud where I tread I look into the creeks
At all the life and color in them
Some outer world retreat
Where everything is shared

expansive two story couple´s retreat
Huge lounges where silent residentes meet
No expressions n their faces
eternal old age has claimed them

A place where no room is private
People spend hours choosing clothes there
as if it would make some kind of difference
Hope as big as a monument and as small as a rubber duck

The streams are so full of life they run blue
Last day anxieties and invading people trouble the suíte couple
As they put their relationship in shape trays and marinate it
Clothes are thrown around

In the streams animals and plants have fused somehow
like aliens clinging to the inner margins pointing the flow
So many lost souls in this nowhere hotel
each looking for a place to glue themselves to

As if that would validate them
as if that would give them some divine purpose
They exist in this building for millenia
yet they drift in the hallways like junkies looking to score

But what kind of Holiday is it yells the girl?
The man shrugs and asks how they might remove the people from their living room
Some volcanic planet on the edge of a neighboring galaxy

Holy loser

The traditional loser has given himself permission to lose
handed himself over like a dirty coward pirate informing on his captain
the only thing that matters is your word and you sell it like cheap candy
You sell it with your pessimism

If you can't fight for what you believe in and when you do it's half your might
Then take the space for your weak body and your vagabond bum on the bench
Sit this one out and leave it to the players that love the universe
and don't blame it like a spoilt boy for all your misfortune

The loser, a predictable model of complaint and half measures
Not willing to step up the pace for fear of falling on their face
Still clinging to the chance he might claim the credit
Though like a rooster he crows loud he's just an everyday chicken

Sultry whining under their breath
not a drop of manhood in their depths
What a waste of a man an everyday loser in complaint
Pitching his bad luck from the superstition of saints

Pale convention

Oh the people sleep
their destiny was never to question
to be but a bucket embryo in the matrix of the screen machines
How they sleep

Ideas that were chewed like gum
that piece of road hardened gum discolored compact
is picked up by the desperate fast answer seeking youth
the ones with no patience who pick that hardened gum up

Without even questioning it's whereabouts
The horrid naysayers and apocalypse predictors
stealing the very vitality of the youth
Throwing the whole goal of living in the trash

The amazing evolution of everything is tasteless
to the street gum chewer
to the dead sense of smell because their ideas come from the sewer
All the greatness of any generation lie in their questions

Not those easy bandage answers
that pale convention applies to the nasty wounds of interrogation