Synapses fire with a war-for-cheap chatter,
that self-same discharge that plasma chars air to vacuum.
and those fires keep rising,
and them flood waters are rising,
but you, you’re ether bound, and damn if that sound don’t just
R E SOUND.
‘course, me, I’ve got these toes dug to earth,
fillin’ the bits of me with the grit of me,
ain’t for the martyr rush of it,
ain’t cowboy hats ‘n findin’ yourself ridin’ destruction down to earth.
I just find it hard to breathe in the ether,
ain’t thick enough for my blood.My wavering fingers trace the burning lights
flitting upon distant and cheap shorelines like prized bonfires
they measure a 7/4 rhythm
they keep the waves at sea
but you, the feet of a day’s brutal cutup—holy hell doesn’t that
PRO FOUND
but as for clout, I need 100% of pure distillation
a crystallization singeing my brain waves
not for height of the ten miles
not for the wormwood of bohemian thoughts glowing under green lights
I am the anesthetic enterprise from without
for fresh words to chew on.
prized fire prize-fighters in tattered pixelated bandanas,
too many Street Fighter(s), 2 many street fighters to count.
They’ve got those sandpaper fists,
just whittlin’ away at anything, everything.
‘n you up with the pure still,
a thousand facets reflecting new ideas down to the fray,
but,
and,
yet,
so,
that 7/4 tempo gets called by the conductor;
ritardando
And no longer is it about the fists of the angry,
nor is it the fires of the cheap.
The floodwaters rise, and no one cares if they slosh over.
It is not the flit of their fists,
but the grit of their passion I am waiting for.
I want to feel the grass, feel the soil.
Glory is in the dull thump.
Someone who does not repeat themselves, cannot be sure they are heard,
glory is in the dull thump, thump,
that thirsty thump of a taken toss for the traces long since, long since lost,
crescendo,
affrettando,
fortissimo
‘n their ain’t a thing wrong with crystals
‘n that still of the clear where they ferment the new,
but it ain’t, ain’t got that 7/4 beat, that gut-thump repeat, that meat to sink self in.
Only get that from the well-tread, oft-said.
