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Dead Boquets

Posted by Friar Turk , July 12, 2017 · 57 views

ode to jerry garcia where the fuck is phil lesh tickets for widespread panic
dDead Flower Boquets

The sweet scented rose
now, only remembered
its effluvium rushing to heaven
before, so that, the dry and paper

flower that remains
a signal to heaven perhaps
Hells final closing upon
the awakened masses

people so dead and exhausted
from burn-out scams
hell among the yearlings
witchcraft amidst the rushes
un-ending tours of burning tires
along the micro-dotted lanes
and hallucinogenic highways
of the longest and strangest trip
unending and further

further the river
the lilting river
trickling among the rushes
of songs sung to the river
and through the river sung
like songs sung
to unknown gods and legends

yet that this crooning once begun
be never forgotten
like legends become gods through their crooning
plucking through the endless, aimless years
and time ended, albeit unended
how else to end time, except for and through its unending

i could spin up an endless song i suppose
aiming with the clock of god in my mind
at the world and its tragic senses
attritioning beauty or jazz against the night
the chaos and the crowds
the steady noise and traffic
coughing harmful
poisoning lies
against the muse



















up ahead there's a turn-off
or a turn around
it depends on what happens
when you get there

and it might be a tie-dye rag
that tides you over
or an old veteran
with a bone to pick
picking bones, selling moons
with cats calling and crying
on a hot tin roof
and old dogs barking and baying
yelling up a storm
or a leviathan

and he won't let you look sideways
and he won't let you look down
with your eyes shiftin'
and you a-knowing
you don't wanna do no heavy-liftin'
and by now your probably feeling kinda lame
what with the alright street-kids
looking far less than insane

but he's not gonna let you off easy
and he's not gonna let you off nice
since you've been naughty
smoking that ice
and you wish everyday was Christmas

and maybe you wanted a fastball
coming in steady
and you wanted it thrown by fastboy named freddy
or maybe you miss your aunt
and you wish it was Easter
and the Spring mighta come late this year
so your mind is a humming
and your heart is a thumping
and you can't remember where you left your hand
because there's no glove in the world
that can catch this pitch coming in
they call it a humdinger

cause that old vet he's astill lookin at you
lookin at you and kinda wandering
to himself and sometimes outloud
when you gonna get back in the saddle
now that you fell off
since your horse don't care
he just sits there and stares
and your nurse is an eskimo
made of wax or tar-paper
and she's too busy building igloos
to care what you're about
or who you think you are
or how much you cost
cause it seems like lately you cost too much
cost too much to care what a pretty dollar's worth
and simply not worth

cause it can't buy you love
and it can't buy you happiness
and there's not much really
that it can get for for you
except for a lonely feeling

and getting chalked up with despair
its got you spell-bound
all this waste
wasted time and melody
haunted daydreams and sleepless nights

and you can't even remember how to sing

and finally the old man might get you to think straight
or at least to see what its like to see that way
and how hard it is to do so
and just how much of its a tax
just being hard on how hard it all is

but he might stop his shuddering
all this boot-quaking and hollering
if you ever come to realize
if he thinks that you just might come to know
if you ever come to reckon
that boned-men don't sell no bones




I hate vindictive poems and songs.

I do as well.   Cheers.    Especially songs.

July 2017

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