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Mutual This Morning

as i open up
you pop out like an
email
at YM

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Out Like A Lamb

Im feeling very moses like
You think that I could lead you?
Or humble, more like david
Would you help me cause I need you?
Or Ill be charismatic
With the power to persuade you
Supposing Im a saviour
Or a drunkard, or your highness
You slither in these sheets
And then you ask me for forgiveness
Ill tell you parables of making love
And spreading kindness
Flames rise like butterflies
Been frightened by my stompin
Im laughing cause they dont know who I am
The philistines toss tangerines
cause springtime is for dancing
In like a lion and out like a lamb
Goliath sits and watches
Tired of this investigation
So children grab your m-16s
And load your ammunition
I will work all night
Rewrite the book of revelations
Flames rise like butterflies
Been frightened by my stompin
Im laughing cause they dont know who I am
The philistines toss tangerines
cause springtime is for dancing
In like a lion and out like a lamb
Now go and tune your guitars
And Ill meet you here tomorrow
Grab that case of scotch
Its all the courage you can swallow
Ill burn for all your sins
But Im expecting you to follow
Flames rise like butterflies
Been frightened by my stompin
Im laughing cause they dont know who I am
The philistines load magazines
cause springtime is for dancing
In like a lion and out like a lamb

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A shot rang out like lightning out of a gun

Goodbye to the land where the sun always shine,
to the blue sky that always is bright,
goodbye to the light that comes every day
and hello to that midnight which is cold and dark.

A shot rang out like lightning out of a gun
fading the sun while white vapour rose
out of a shot out armoured car,
I couldn’t close my eyes or look away.

Goodbye to that enemy tank stopped in its tracks
against a bank of earth
while my armoured car’s gun rang out
sending a phosphorus shell with fire from hell.

A rocket flew past with a flaming tail
like a star falling from the sky
before exploding against a tree with a blast

and goodbye to the enemy soldiers who fired it
while we moved past at speed
with a machinegun howling a great cry.

I heard that enemy commander weeping over the radio
while his frequencies were blocked
being in shock
and sounding like the voices of many men

crying in the anguish of death
as if a deadly net had been cast
and I wish that I could understand Spanish
but the noise was ear-splitting

and it was goodbye to tank after tank
and goodbye with blast after blast and going in quick
stopping, firing and running away fast

and every enemy armoured car we found
only got one shot
till the last shell had being fired

and tired we went to fetch some more,
ate in a hurry before being wished good luck
and going back to war.

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Addictive

once you get
to writing poetry,
you become addicted
to the art,
you cannot stop
until you
pop out like
a bud into a
full blown flower
and you know
what is next,

the wilting and
falling but you know
what is next,

the hibernation
of the seed
the drying and
cracking

it is a cycle
but it is so beautiful!

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Remember The Three Stars?

do you remember the three stars
one night that we have been seeing
during those dangerous days
of our union?

did i not tell you to take two,
as the other one has been taken
by another person that i love?

you have been keeping them
all those years
and nothing really happens

how you kept the glow
was a waste of time, really,
no other stars pop-out like
a round white mushroom
in the dark sky

your time is over.
I am retaking one of the two stars.
It is mine.

Now i am taking over
my own dark sky.
I will hang the star
named for me.

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Clothes

Put on a clean shirt
before you die, some Russian said.
Nothing with drool, please,
no egg spots, no blood,
no sweat, no sperm.
You want me clean, God,
so I'll try to comply.

The hat I was married in,
will it do?
White, broad, fake flowers in a tiny array.
It's old-fashioned, as stylish as a bedbug,
but is suits to die in something nostalgic.

And I'll take
my painting shirt
washed over and over of course
spotted with every yellow kitchen I've painted.
God, you don't mind if I bring all my kitchens?
They hold the family laughter and the soup.

For a bra
(need we mention it?) ,
the padded black one that my lover demeaned
when I took it off.
He said, 'Where'd it all go? '

And I'll take
the maternity skirt of my ninth month,
a window for the love-belly
that let each baby pop out like and apple,
the water breaking in the restaurant,
making a noisy house I'd like to die in.

For underpants I'll pick white cotton,
the briefs of my childhood,
for it was my mother's dictum
that nice girls wore only white cotton.
If my mother had lived to see it
she would have put a WANTED sign up in the post office
for the black, the red, the blue I've worn.
Still, it would be perfectly fine with me
to die like a nice girl
smelling of Clorox and Duz.
Being sixteen-in-the-pants
I would die full of questions.

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Out In The Open

They were the sweetest words I'd ever heard
My heart could barely take it in
Like water offered to the lips
Of a tired and thirsty man
Cuz it's a tangled web of woven
I don't know all the reasons
But it amazes me to wake up
To your mercy every morning
So I'm standing here spinning around
In the fields of freedom
And I'm still alive and reaching out
And I can feel the healing
Cuz you say
Come on out come on out
Come on out come on out
Out in the open
Come on out come on out
Come on out come onout
Into the light
There is no jury
There is no judge
Ready and waiting
Are the steady arms of love 124
For the sake of never making waves I
Kept my secrets to myself
And no one ever really knew the
Darker shadows of my heart
But I will be a witness
That there's nothing in me dark enough
The power of forgiveness
Cannot resuce from the deep
So I'm standing here spinning around
In the fields of freedom
And I'm still alive and reaching out
And I can feel the healing
And you say
Come on out come out
Come on out come out
Out in the open
Come on out come on out
Come on out come on out
Into the light
There is no jury
There is no judge
Ready and waiting
Are a steady arms of love 240
Hey
And I'm standing here spinning around
In the fields of freedom
And I'm still alive
And reaching out
And I can feel the healing
Come on out come on out
Come on out come on out
Out in the open
Come on out come on out
Come on out come on out
Into the light
There is no jury
There is no judge
Ready and waiting
Are the steady arms of love
Come on out come on out
Come on out come on out
Out in the open
Come on out come on out
Come on out come on out
Into the light
Come on out come on out
Come on out come on out
Into the arms of love
Into the of light
Come on out come on out
Come on out come on out
Into the light

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Guy Ritchie

We always have a take that's 'one for fun', so once you've got what you need, you can do what you like. Something does occasionally pop out of that tree. I'm always open to ideas.

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Open

Slowly open my heart up,
Like a machine opening up a can.

Pour out the blackness and let my heart be empty again.
For it is overflowing with pain.
Because I have never melted his bad heat like a microwave.

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Springtime Magic

There is so much magic in springtime
As our landscape begins to wake up
Much like a warm delicious coffee
That we sip from a special coffee cup

Little sprouts pop out of the ground
Oh, what did I plant last year?
Often we get a big surprise and
It's so pretty that we may shed a tear

Trees that were naked and quite ugly
Begin to have a fuzzy green
For leaf buds are really excited
To open in springtime it seems

I love this time of year and without it
It would be ever so tragic
Nothing makes me happier than
Mother Nature's Springtime Magic!

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Looking Out The Window With A Blue Hat On

Oh she comes on like a fog
And then she goes out like a neurotic dog
So now Im sitting her thinking all day long
Looking out the window with a blue hat on
Find me an open grave
Just push me in
Then let me up to live again
So she bought a little book
And filled it up with names she never shook
So Im just one of them thinking all day long
Looking out the window with a blue hat on
Find me a sky high cliff
Just let me try
To jump right off maybe Ill fly
Looking out the window with the blue hat on
Find me an open grave
Just push me in
Then let me up to live again
Oh she comes on like a fog

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Look Out For My Love

Theres a lot to learn
For wastin time
Theres a heart that burns
Theres an open mind.
Look out for my love, look out for my love
Look out for my love, look out for my love
You own it
You own it now
You own it.
Theres a weight on you
But you cant feel it
Livin like I do
Its hard for you to see it.
Was I hurt too bad
Can I show you daylight
How could I be sad
When I know that you might.
Look out for my love, look out for my love
Look out for my love, look out for my love.
Look out for my love
Its in your neighborhood
I know things are gonna change
But I cant say bad or good.
Silver wings of mornin
Shinin in the gray day
While the ice is formin
On a lonely runway.
Hydraulic wipers pumpin
til the window glistens
Somethin sayin somethin
No one seems to listen.
Men with walkie-talkies
Men with flashlights wavin
Up upon the tower
Time reads daylight savings.
Im home again to you babe
You know it makes me wonder
Sittin in the quiet slipstream
In the thunder.
Look out for my love, look out for my love
Look out for my love, look out for my love.

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Watson at the British Open

The aging champion kissed its stones
and waved to all his fans.
At Swilcan bridge across the burn,
As twilight fast descends.

No claret Jug for Tom this day.
His Open at its end
Just this final hole to play
As twilight fast descends.

Five times past champion and beloved
He'll not play here again.
He'll cross this bridge for one last time
As twilight fast descends.

His ball arcs up into the sky
And settles on the green
Near Swilcan bridge across the burn
As twilight fast descends

A simple putt for birdie, Tom,
Yours was a fitting end
You went out like a champion
As twilight fast descends.

Tom Watson, a five time winner of the British open played his final round at the old course at St. Andrews this year. While former champions are permitted to play the open until age 65, the Open is not scheduled for St. Andrews again until 2015, when Watson would be 67. The Claret jug is the trophy awarded for winning the British Open. In Scottish, a Burn is a small running creek. Tom Watson failed to make the cut this year but he did Birdie his final hole.

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Irkalla's White Caves

I believe that a young woman
Is standing in a circle of lions
In the other side of the sky.

In a little while I must carry her the flowers
Which only fade here; and she will not cry
If my hands are not very full.

±

Fiery antlers toss within the forests of heaven
And ocean’s plaintive towns
Echo the tread of celestial feet.
O the beautiful eyes stare down…
What have we done that we are blessèd?
What have we died that we hasten to God?

±

And all the animals are asleep again
In their separate caves.
Hairy bellies distended with their kill.
Culture blubbering in and out
Like the breath of a stranded fish.
Crucifixion in wax. The test-tube messiahs.
Immaculate fornication under the smoking walls
Of a dead world.
I dig for my death
in this thousand-watt dungheap.
There isn’t even enough clean air.
To die in.
O blood-bearded destroyer!

In other times...
(soundless barges float
down the rivers of death)
In another heart
These crimes may not flower…
What have we done that we are blessèd?
What have we damned that we are blinded?

±

Now, with my seven-holed head open
On the air whence comes a fabulous mariner
To take his place among the spheres—
The air which is God
And the mariner who is sheep—I fold
Upon myself like a bird over flames. Then
All my nightbound juices sing. Snails
Pop out of unexpected places and the long
light lances of waterbulls plunge
into the green crotch of my native land.
Eyes peer out of the seaweed that gently sways
Above the towers and salt gates of a lost world.

±

On the other side of the sky
A young woman is standing
In a circle of lions—
The young woman who is dream
And the lions which are death.

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What Stephen Lawrence Has Taught Us

We know who the killers are,
We have watched them strut before us
As proud as sick Mussolinis',
We have watched them strut before us
Compassionless and arrogant,
They paraded before us,
Like angels of death
Protected by the law.

It is now an open secret
Black people do not have
Chips on their shoulders,
They just have injustice on their backs
And justice on their minds,
And now we know that the road to liberty
Is as long as the road from slavery.

The death of Stephen Lawrence
Has taught us to love each other
And never to take the tedious task
Of waiting for a bus for granted.
Watching his parents watching the cover-up
Begs the question
What are the trading standards here?
Why are we paying for a police force
That will not work for us?

The death of Stephen Lawrence
Has taught us
That we cannot let the illusion of freedom
Endow us with a false sense of security as we walk the streets,
The whole world can now watch
The academics and the super cops
Struggling to define institutionalised racism
As we continue to die in custody
As we continue emptying our pockets on the pavements,
And we continue to ask ourselves
Why is it so official
That black people are so often killed
Without killers?

We are not talking about war or revenge
We are not talking about hypothetics or possibilities,
We are talking about where we are now
We are talking about how we live now
In dis state
Under dis flag, (God Save the Queen),
And God save all those black children who want to grow up
And God save all the brothers and sisters
Who like raving,
Because the death of Stephen Lawrence
Has taught us that racism is easy when
You have friends in high places.
And friends in high places
Have no use whatsoever
When they are not your friends.

Dear Mr Condon,
Pop out of Teletubby land,
And visit reality,
Come to an honest place
And get some advice from your neighbours,
Be enlightened by our community,
Neglect your well-paid ignorance
Because
We know who the killers are.

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Mystic Journey: Water

a gray metal tanker berths on grey metal sea
like a new-born cocooned on mother's bosom.
transporting tons of vital oil, it has come
from the north, and winter, east and night,

challenging currents. it was along aleutian
shores, facing furious siberian storms that
shatter human skull like eggshell that he
handed over control of autonomic functions

of his charge to the bridge. now he maps
solely by instinct (half-forgotten memories
of half-forgotten youth startle like robins
or scent of elm sap stuck to familiar palm.

endless waves of wheat starched like sunday
shirts beyond an old battered barn: perhaps
the whole world is only an endless ocean
of grain? a slow canoe ride down a slow

dreamy stream in dandelion spring- who was she
anyway? so long ago.) following the sun
along the ring of fire into the sea of japan.
there, earthquake gonged sea floor is fluid

flesh of magma, deep as himalaya, angry as hell,
hot as sin. at black hole pressure of thousands
of tons a measure, boulders big as buildings
are split open and tossed out at ocular speed,

searing eternally sunless sea to steam instantly.
creating streams within currents, currents within
streams that make even the mighty river yangtze
seem a sleepy strawberry creek*, its 20 thousand

mile cord of white lava fountains bleed, coiling
round pineal black pacific like a cobra
choking itself. the ring of fire is nucleus
where molten metallic earth meets solid air.

to there is traced the source of all life on
earth, and of all anguish in life. there,
the moody moon is unchallenged regent, ruling
all motions and emotions, every moment governing

the power of gravity, which even sublime sun
is subject to. like the black-watch bag-pipe
and drum that echo not only in ear, but light
spine and skull, the tanker's hundred miler horn

beat back many-headed monsters and much feared
dragons which once marked the end of the world
but which now pop up only when we depth sound
the subconscious womb in which we all drown.

*Little Strawberry Creek, Alberta, Canada

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Papa Luv It A. K. A Poppa Luv It

Intro:
I do this for you baby
Papa luv it do, yknowimsayin
Mmm,
(do you want to be a player) yeah
(then you got to have that flavour)
More of that mr.smith flavour, bust ya brain right quick, yknow
(do you got to be right) second move yknowimsayin?
(at all times? ) yeah, all the time, all good
Verse 1:
Uhh, thats the sound of the man
Workin with the mic in my hand
Ready or not here I come
Its another one (damn, not another one) yeah
We bring it just like dat (like dat)
Droppin triple platinum flavour on the drum tap
Dog a donut nice and crafty
Poke your lips out sassy when you ask me
Special request is granted (aah)
Head all slanted, (uhh) the gym has planted
(so what you tellin me youre too smooth to pop? )
If it pops should I stop fore it drops?
Who knows? who goes? who flows?
Me and you? (yeah) just remember boo
(I promise Ill remember) everything I do girl
(I promise) I do it for you, word is bond (I know) word is bond
Chorus:
Papa luv it way she does it
(do you wanna be a player? ) uh
Papa luv it way she does it
(then you got to have that flavour) yeah
Papa luv it way she does it
(do you got to be right)
(at all times) papa luv it way she does it
*repeat*
Verse 2:
Feel it, hold out your hands (and) open up (damn)
Now let it flow from both cups (aw man)
Is he good? (no doubt) all the time, miss
Is he right? (no doubt) one of a kind, miss
Now tell me what you really talkin bout in three words or less
Ladies (get it out) like this
I luv it when I give it to you raw, baby
Hate to hurt but hurtin makes you crazy (crazy)
Its my duty to dig booby
Make a video (yo, you mean my own movie) yup
You can star, here we are
Theres ya blow, let it flow, you already know
Undress slow, I drop a lil french on ya
Then geronimo!
You wanna bed debut
Take your time, do it slow, just remember boo
Chorus
Interlude:
This is that skin music, that midnight-rub-you-right skin music (x3)
Top choice if ya choose it
Chorus/outro:
Papa luv it way she does it
(do you wanna be a player? ) yeah its everything I luv
(then you got to have that flavour)
Make it right for ya baby, yknowimsayin?
Papa luv it way she does it
(do you got to be right) take you to the next level, word is bond
(at all times? )
Papa luv it, I take you to the next level baby, Ill take you there
Papa luv it way she does it
You see a lot of brothers is afraid to do things like this,
Youknowimsayin?
Papa luv it way she does it
But I aint scared to be smooth, baby
I aint afraid of love, yknowimsayin? Ill take you there
Im willing to go there, papa luv it way she does it, word is bond
(do you wanna be a player? ) its that flavour I love, yknowimsayin?
I like to bring it like that (do you wanna be a player? )
I love bringin it, ha ha, I love bringin it
(do you wanna be a player? ) it really is sick, yknowimsayin?
Todd know what I mean (do you wanna be a player? )
Big cole know what I mean
Huh, flash know what I mean, my man zel know what I mean
Word is bond, papa luv it baby, yeah

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My Life Is Sweet

(feat. Afficial, Curren$y, Krazy)
[Chorus - 2x]
My life is sweet
You could tell by the Benz and the Beamers and the Jeeps
Big wheels, big grills make them say oooh-weee
Custom made Bentleys, t.v.s, mink seats
Make them scream wha-wha
[Curren$y]
Cars and shut it down any set, first dude in the city
To have Intevet, equipped with the Internet
Performance chip is faster than any jet
I'm down the block, and you ain't even start your engine yet
I use to hustle on the block for rent
Met P and I ain't came out of my pocket since
See all these chicks wanna get with me
Because the 6 got more appliances than Circuit City
[Chorus - 2x]
[Afficial]
Afficial we the Reebok boys, call us a classic
And rap slowly up on the block, gun and a package
I leave the country cause Paris cooler
Fall back and take a day off like Farris Bueler
Young punks I'm the ruler, you follow my lead
Slow down I been doing this, the product of speed
Can't roll but I'm a weed blower, I get my ki's lower
16-5 a few weeks, I'll have a green roller
[Afficial]
I thought I told you the flow don't stop
And it ain't No Limit on the stage if the show don't rock
You can still catch me up in them clubs
In that 2K3 Yukon sitting up on them dubs
Since they wanna know about my whip
I'ma tell em like this, I got enough keys to start a dealership
Now how they think they floss toys
When we in places, so far from home they call us the Lost Boys
[Chorus - 2x]
[Afficial]
When I go to the lot, they call me Connect Four
Cause I bought four cars on the road, with four doors
Spend another mill, put diamonds on the grill
Push a button, and my gun pop out the steering wheel
It's real, stack dough and make more
While you cats come up slow like Lamborgini doors
You might see me in a Range, you might see me in a Porsche
I get paid every month like child support
[Krazy]
Luxury, I love that bird it's easy
Lift it out, but still a Jag can't please me
But a 6, without the rims is cheesy
Like a bitch, I like my tires breezy
The spinners, on my Navi to tease me
With a sunroof open, it's kind of breezy
With a tank on my neck that just might freeze me
I'm scared of a Viper, she'd like to see that
[Master P]
You ever ate a cheeseburger, on a million dollar plate
Flew to Paris or France, just to get away
Like to party, so we buy the club
Every whip that we drive, be on 24's or dubs
The new Hummer, had it before it came out
200 and 50 G's, I put it in my mouth
Bought a mansion whodie, just to make music
Like the President got a jet and don't even use it
When it comes to ghetto balling, there is none higher
Get a supermodel for a banker, two million dollar wires
In the winter whodi, we sleep on mink coats
In the summer we on the water putting chandeliers and boats
My cousin get athlete money, and don't even ball
My son's only 12, and he could buy the mall
Call me Ghetto Bill, cause I love the cheese
I don't gangbang, my favorite color is green
[Chorus - 2x]

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Patrick White

I Turn Out The Lights

I turn out the lights and lie down to sleep
and you open up within me like a lotus of fire
blooming in the darkness of a vast inner space
that has become my only skin, tattooed with stars
as I play solitaire with destiny, using your Tarot
of chameleonic constellations as a firing squad.

Little threads of joy and fear shudder through me,
revelation and lightning, fireflies going off,
the blasting caps of greater detonations yet to come,
and your face is before me, apparition and aurora,
the moon reflected on undulant water,
a jewel turning in the light of itself, blue eyes, full lips,
the blonde smoke of your hair on your cheek
disappearing somewhere as if a match had just been put out,
and your smile, your beautiful, wide, forgiving smile
that seems to flow from the warmest sugars
of an abundant heart; what dawn over a lake
has ever touched me silently like that?

One look at you and I am hurled into another more spiritual dawn
like a bird bewildered into singing by the strange joy
that threatens to consume him in the soaring radiance.
And though I cannot say you, you are the secret
I discern in the stars when they stop to whisper through the trees
to the bones of the holy man humbled on the hill
of his own insignificance; and then you are the only exaltation
that can raise him up again to shine above the night.

Always within me you summon like a bell; you
draw me out of myself like a genie torn from a lamp; my blood
heaves helplessly to the urgent clock of your tides,
teems with life and washes up on the shores
of mysterious realms where you are always the enchantress of the island;
what man or creature could I not become for you,
immersed as I am in the wine of your being? You are
the fullness of woman in the prime of her mystery, the vase of your body,
the shrine of a human divinity that generation after generation
inspires adoration from the brute
that comes, awed and shy of first fire, to lay pink tulips on the staircase,
grails and goblets gathered to be filled by the reeling honey
of your presence, the fire that burns without burning
and leaves even the wind love-sick and longing for ashes. Human,
you are five petals of fire; divine, one flower.


Break, then, if I must; in loving you, I'll break.
And should you never love me back and the air turn glass
and shatter
into a million splinters of emotion that settle at the bottom of the heart,
the broken wineglass, the crippled flower,
severed from its stem, or the moon,
scoured from its reflection on the eyeless river by clouds,
never know the laughter of your fountain, still
in every fractured piece of me
the whole of your face, in time and out, would shine
as it did in the dark before the light began. You are not a mirage
shimmering over vipers in these circumstantial sands
and I am not a candle in a hurricane. Though I love,
I know the world, its gardens and atrocities, its wounded doors
and urgent windows flowing with lace and longing.
It doesn't have much time for itself, busy as it is,
trying to hide the loss; it's looking for its eyes with its eyes,
its head with its head, its feet with its feet.

I've pulled the thorn from my heart, the worm from the rose,
the nail from my hand. I've gone mad and madder still,
looked up at hell out of the depths of my despair
and envied such exalted heights. And then it's all turned radiant
for no more reason than a dream, something nameless changes,
even as we plan a way into ourselves, or out,
suddenly an unknown light breaks through, and we have our eyes.

One moment of you, one firefly, in the vastness
I was falling through and galaxies ignited all around me;
the dead branch blossomed, the singing bird came
and the day was no longer a spoonful of ashes. Call it
what you will, pour it into any cup, plastic, crystal, or clay,
or drink it from your hands: it's still the wine, it's still the moon; it's still
always and only you that makes this confusion of stars and birds
in the treetops, this picture-music, this drunk dream, this tavern
that is an outcast's shrine to joy
raise a glass
to the sun in his blood that shines at midnight.

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Patrick White

My Back Aching Like The Sky Goddess Nut Doing Yoga

My back aching like the sky goddess Nut doing yoga
over a sidereal painting that's burning like a bridge.
I've been many kinds of fool before, some just silly, some profound
but this is the work of a sacred clown hemorrhaging in the heavens
like the supernova of a pot of gold at the end of a ragged rainbow
still shining through the remnants of a colourful wardrobe.
I've been accelerating into space driven by a muse
of dark energy with an expansive heart. Time stops
as I exceed the speed of light across a threshold of starclusters
flowering in my wake like New England asters
with cadmium yellow suns with auras of orange coronas
glowing in their eyes. The apartment is silent
except for the trickling of the water pump in the aquarium
and a dance arrangement of goldfish that are swimming
in synchronicity with my thoughts and feelings
as if the heart of a human can speak through many voices
like the wind through the harps of the trees,
like the angels that descend among the daughters of men
when they're feathered in their beds at night like black swans,
or stars rooted in their own decay like waterlilies
that just don't know when to quit making beauty
out of the muddy deltas of their creative bloodlines.

She's firewalking in her sleep by now I hope, watching
a documentary of how the universe works in another city.
I'm flipping through the pages of the rooftops of Perth
outside my window like a weirdly bound heritage history book,
trying not to get any paint from my fingers on the view of the stars overhead.
Arcturus in Bootes still flying its kite in the west.
I need some rest. I've been bleeding like a cut rose
on the blades of the moon all day, and I feel threshed,
a cylinder of hay left out in the open starfields
for the black horse she told me to put in my last painting
to show something grazing under the full moon
like an eclipse that just discovered it had life on it
lyrically at peace with the siloes of light in the distance.
Even when love is cosmically oriented, God
how it loves to focus on the mystic details of everything
right down to the eyelashes of the ruby throated hummingbirds
hovering in a Pleiades of first magnitude larkspur.

Sometimes I feel like the fossil of a dreamcatcher
in the Burgess Shale, but right now, my third eye's wholly open
and I'm casting silver nets I've woven out of
my axons, blood vessels, nerve ganglia,
lunar fuses of serpent fire coiled around my spinal cord
like a helical riff of a bass run on a burning guitar
I'm holding like a metaphor for the body of a woman in my arms.

When I told you I was a sacred clown. I didn't invent it.
I meant it. I feel it. I can dance for ghosts at a seance.
I can dance for rain and war. I can paint my face blue
with moonlight and wode, and dance for peace, dance for fire,
dance for someone like you to step out of the darkness
as if someone had shaped a jewel out of the northern lights
and I was looking at it from the inside out through your eyes
on a a night of the new moon that isn't on any calendars
that are going to hang doom over my my voodoo heart
because there's never been a curse from the mouth of a Druid or Mayan
that could stand up to the courage that it takes
to receive a blessing without worrying what mistakes
inspiration might make when your muse is as flawless
as imagination obedient to the laws of her own myth of origin
and your art elucidates the crazy wisdom of your folly
like a discipline that isn't for the petty or sane at heart.

The stargates just don't open for those who are still in their right mind.
Just as the maple key to your entry, isn't about
what you leave out like a sin of omission that's culpably blind,
but what you leave innocently behind you
like mountain streams, and morning snails,
and the long uncombed comatose trails of sleepwalking comets
plunging from their dark haloes like Icarus
into a sun that only shines at midnight
like a candle on a windowsill calling out
like a poet for a new medium that's lightyears beyond words
to the first of the autumn stars purring like a cat in her dreams
when she hears the holy nightbird just before the dawn
knowing Regulus and Spica and all the stars of my art
won't pale in the lotus of the heart like real jewels in the eyes
of a sacred clown whenever he looks for her
shining in the ascendent of Leo long after
the Lyre, and the Swan, and the Eagle have all gone down
and all these poems I write on the wings of Luna moths,
enraptured by the sphinx of her radiance, are irrevocably skybound.

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Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs

No matter what life you lead
the virgin is a lovely number:
cheeks as fragile as cigarette paper,
arms and legs made of Limoges,
lips like Vin Du Rhône,
rolling her china-blue doll eyes
open and shut.
Open to say,
Good Day Mama,
and shut for the thrust
of the unicorn.
She is unsoiled.
She is as white as a bonefish.

Once there was a lovely virgin
called Snow White.
Say she was thirteen.
Her stepmother,
a beauty in her own right,
though eaten, of course, by age,
would hear of no beauty surpassing her own.
Beauty is a simple passion,
but, oh my friends, in the end
you will dance the fire dance in iron shoes.
The stepmother had a mirror to which she referred-
something like the weather forecast-
a mirror that proclaimed
the one beauty of the land.
She would ask,
Looking glass upon the wall,
who is fairest of us all?
And the mirror would reply,
You are the fairest of us all.
Pride pumped in her like poison.

Suddenly one day the mirror replied,
Queen, you are full fair, 'tis true,
but Snow White is fairer than you.
Until that moment Snow White
had been no more important
than a dust mouse under the bed.
But now the queen saw brown spots on her hand
and four whiskers over her lip
so she condemned Snow White
to be hacked to death.
Bring me her heart, she said to the hunter,
and I will salt it and eat it.
The hunter, however, let his prisoner go
and brought a boar's heart back to the castle.
The queen chewed it up like a cube steak.
Now I am fairest, she said,
lapping her slim white fingers.

Snow White walked in the wildwood
for weeks and weeks.
At each turn there were twenty doorways
and at each stood a hungry wolf,
his tongue lolling out like a worm.
The birds called out lewdly,
talking like pink parrots,
and the snakes hung down in loops,
each a noose for her sweet white neck.
On the seventh week
she came to the seventh mountain
and there she found the dwarf house.
It was as droll as a honeymoon cottage
and completely equipped with
seven beds, seven chairs, seven forks
and seven chamber pots.
Snow White ate seven chicken livers
and lay down, at last, to sleep.

The dwarfs, those little hot dogs,
walked three times around Snow White,
the sleeping virgin. They were wise
and wattled like small czars.
Yes. It's a good omen,
they said, and will bring us luck.
They stood on tiptoes to watch
Snow White wake up. She told them
about the mirror and the killer-queen
and they asked her to stay and keep house.
Beware of your stepmother,
they said.
Soon she will know you are here.
While we are away in the mines
during the day, you must not
open the door.

Looking glass upon the wall...
The mirror told
and so the queen dressed herself in rags
and went out like a peddler to trap Snow White.
She went across seven mountains.
She came to the dwarf house
and Snow White opened the door
and bought a bit of lacing.
The queen fastened it tightly
around her bodice,
as tight as an Ace bandage,
so tight that Snow White swooned.
She lay on the floor, a plucked daisy.
When the dwarfs came home they undid the lace
and she revived miraculously.
She was as full of life as soda pop.
Beware of your stepmother,
they said.
She will try once more.

Looking glass upon the wall...
Once more the mirror told
and once more the queen dressed in rags
and once more Snow White opened the door.
This time she bought a poison comb,
a curved eight-inch scorpion,
and put it in her hair and swooned again.
The dwarfs returned and took out the comb
and she revived miraculously.
She opened her eyes as wide as Orphan Annie.
Beware, beware, they said,
but the mirror told,
the queen came,
Snow White, the dumb bunny,
opened the door
and she bit into a poison apple
and fell down for the final time.
When the dwarfs returned
they undid her bodice,
they looked for a comb,
but it did no good.
Though they washed her with wine
and rubbed her with butter
it was to no avail.
She lay as still as a gold piece.

The seven dwarfs could not bring themselves
to bury her in the black ground
so they made a glass coffin
and set it upon the seventh mountain
so that all who passed by
could peek in upon her beauty.
A prince came one June day
and would not budge.
He stayed so long his hair turned green
and still he would not leave.
The dwarfs took pity upon him
and gave him the glass Snow White-
its doll's eyes shut forever-
to keep in his far-off castle.
As the prince's men carried the coffin
they stumbled and dropped it
and the chunk of apple flew out
of her throat and she woke up miraculously.

And thus Snow White became the prince's bride.
The wicked queen was invited to the wedding feast
and when she arrived there were
red-hot iron shoes,
in the manner of red-hot roller skates,
clamped upon her feet.
First your toes will smoke
and then your heels will turn black
and you will fry upward like a frog,
she was told.
And so she danced until she was dead,
a subterranean figure,
her tongue flicking in and out
like a gas jet.
Meanwhile Snow White held court,
rolling her china-blue doll eyes open and shut
and sometimes referring to her mirror
as women do.

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