LAMPHEADS - Words

The Oldest Trick

You cannot sell me half the air,
Or deeds to the stars,
Or trade with a monk,
Or kill the dead,
Or invent anything new,
Or believe a man with one eye,
Or bottle the sea,
Or scare a mountain,
All squares turn into circles,
All stone into sand,
All dreams into mist,
All streams envy rivers,
1 x 1 must equal more than one
We don’t need more words but less opinions,
Add enough points to a crown and its a saw,
And see-saws still work in space.

Boredom of the Fittest

Just another day,
Boredem of the fittest,
How much of you can you take,
How much is you,
how much can you claim,
How much can you deposit in the minds of mountains,
Rights of passage through Disneyland,
Gold tests the servant,
fire tests the gold,
But who tends the fire,
The shivering homeless blacksmith curled next to the sun,
Or Is it a lumberjack with an unburied hatchet,
Worshipping the neon jezebel like the first man,
Feeding on gratuitous photon wisps,
Sweating Jim jone’s cool aide,
Re-stoking during a squidy hour,
Like a new couple brew,
Poured from a bottomless kettle,
Loved like an only child.

Times Paper Route

Times never victim
times to fault
Time moves through us
A freckle of honeycomb in the osmosis,
A best we can find some new carbon,
But do the suns rays race to the leaf?
Time is a kid with a paper route,
More sapient than the old man with the deepest thought,
Hugging the nothingness as his something
A euphoric dimensia,
A writer high on their words,
Time is a comedian riffing to heckling ‘ers’ and “ests”,
Its not just a squatter on your wrist,
Time breaks us up,
Can’t we share a night with Tokyo?
A French chef in the 80’s,
A calculated brunoising of ids and egos,
Of our sound chambers and facades,
A record spinning with no needle or amp,
Ever increasing and decreasing in mass,
Like the throat of an ancient frog
Ever worshiped, then,
Discarded like reptile limbs,
If time grows white,
Then moments grow black,
Plucked and juicy cherries filled with space,
Fermented in the cosmos of manifestation.

The Moths Mania

The moth in a lamp store
Brought in by a lonely breeze
Trapped by a sense of hysterical purpose
Never to get close to a single bulb,
Chugging on the tit of procrastination,
Paradise on buffet,
Full before the plate is loaded,
Orgasms in every fold of origamied lampshade,
Circling and zigging like a kite with rabies,
Rushing like the hamster in the earths core,
Then falling like icarus at 9pm,
Into a deep abyss,
the clinicians sofa on opioids,
Until hurling itself to the windowpane,
To the sign reading “Closed,”
Humping the glass till sunrise.

The Carpenter's Renovation

My house is walking around again,
My limbs are your doormat,
Rid my apologies,
you may catch a draft,
But it won’t be the usual windy service,
My mouth is stripped of boards,
My nails and caulking, stuck to souls,
Im keen on your weather,
My temples in the sky,
I live between two notes,
In the kissing fields of planets,
There is a thousand tasks to in paradise,
Drinking bone broth of siths,
I subsist.

The Narcissist

From a worm to cephalopod,
Trying new forms,
I wrestled with god,
From bulb, seed, pod, each nestling wad,
Grew fins, arms and wings
pushed genetical laws,
How I came to be,
majestical odds,
At odds with the massaged mirage,
That holds our testically cause,
And no-one can touch,
in our dynastical vase,
Captain of nods,
leave in all on the sod,
Many followers came ,
changed to identical shod,
Catch me chewing on vows ,
under a lighting rod.

Paralyzed by Perfection

Once again, my plans were kiboshed,
Trying to build a croc, no design flaws,
A Well-oiled beast,
a flower pedaled symphony,
With Sacred vibrations,
All imps will flee,
Billowed from spectrumed Hephestrian pipes,
Shooting tones of pure star light,
That smell like angel pheromones,
And dust from the bricks of Giza,
Tickling nether realms,
Like an octopus unlocking a your aorta,
A brazen emblem searing, pulsing,
A godly formula blasts,
a pattern cast,
shaking stone in your temple floor,
Samba in the empty marbled corridors,
Where you keep your moral forge,
Casting intention and smelting the why,
Polishing, chanting, pounding the ire,
Rebuilding the spirit, foundation to spire.

Young Ice

Nothing chatters like young ice,
the reverb of the first touch,
A Thousand frenzied socks on a bear rug,
Re-annointing the permeable,
ion and will,
Bringing only what is found,
Boy only knows the bubble,
The beggar the bindle,
Blips and sonarous pops and clicks,
Whales speech into your cereal,
Barraging onto your frivelous canvas,
Wide awake during a rem cycle,
Feeding pyscadelic birds like a lost genius,
Throwing grain at the sky.

Short Poem

Rock, paper, screens and scissors,
My identity fell in a techtonic fissure,
All Tales Based on whispers,
All dogma based on whiskers,
And Ideals all lie,
at the bottom of tinctures.