The Golden Dawn of a Twilight Year

The Golden Dawn of a Twilight Year

 

In the endless choirs, the bells of new years day,

the ball slowly falling to the ground like a cheap dream

collapsing;

 

in the meadow behind the courthouse wall,

in the words so frail that they crumble in

mouths like too much flesh, rotted and rancid;

 

in the eye of a needle you can see it.

 

A land where all is just and equal, where women

pass freely, their words on their breasts

 

and where toil has been abolished in favor of truth and good fortune.

 

In this field all is free,

 

no black bodies with hair like mine

and eyes like mine face down before

the twisted fingers of the beast,

 

ready to cage all dreams and abandon faith with hands

that are not it's own. The world played

with strings of steel, no,

 

forget the white eyes of sorrow.

 

Forget all that should be remembered;

on New Years dance the night away

 

with spirits high with wine and pheromones,

lust and heartbreak,

 

you cannot take those with you.

 

The women will be free,

the animals will take flight,

the cages shall release the

orphans of a dream

 

to dawning's light,

a golden morning.

 

The bells ring foolish, blistering,

earsplitting but they can hear

you too.

 

When fools run the world the bells shall weep

and in the armaggedon of our days, they will

triumph.

 

Until then we must march;

 

 

 

 

until the women lose their girdles and

their hair is wild and new,

 

until the animals have found new homes in ancestral

forests, caves and trees untouched by man,

 

until my people have left this world and found

a hallway of kings, well above the foolish clouds

at the throne of a weeping nebula, tears

of joy throwing star showers for

an ebullient throng.

 

We must march: let the bells chime glory in our way.

In the golden dawn of a twilight age, we must

march until all mankind marches together.

the ambrosia of fools

The Ambrosia of Fools

 

A heartsick giant, the truest hand;

a scion of hatred, awful night;

 

in sickness and in health the stalker wraiths,

his own shadow an ailment before him.

 

Lest he fall, fall with him. Lest

the pillars of men crash loudly in the

abandonments of natural mysticism,

 

lest your soul be lifted to the cloudless sky,

the stars in love with the mirrored lakes

a haze of fog, smog and death.

 

A heartsick piriah, no; forget him not.

 

The birds cast shadows on their line,

the birds cannot see but meals of gnashing

spiders; the birds cannot love

 

with arms flailing to embrace a brokenhearted

someone in the coming of the dawn.

 

The empty abyss is staring, waiting for it's prey.

 

What will you say when the last poet dies?

When the music has left on the black moon

sunset dancing over wicked peaks of sky scratching

masouleoms in the belly of the heartless city?

 

What will you say when your fathers fall from the

heavens with the weight of murder? They will leave

an imprint of a white hand marking ties that have

unthreaded under the microscope of the opaque moon.

 

When you will lust, you will find a beautiful damnation,

the withering taste of nectar, the ambrosia of fools;

 

when the satelites of men crash from the sky like meteors of

love, only you will count the bodies that you

have left behind in age and only you

can twine the threads of fraying reason;

 

the world is more than love,

a timeless, wicked thing.

Who Loves the Sun

Who Loves the Sun

 

Who loves the sun?

 

The hungry shade of a mist glowed dawn,

who told the tales of timid hills,

who chained the beast with thousand eyes,

who brought the light of evening on?

 

Who loves the sun?

 

Who brought the feast of all the Saints,

who spread the waves across the beach

who tamed the fury fingered sky,

and rang the message through the streets?

 

Who loves the sun?

Who loves the sun?

 

No one can love a mother true, all things will return to the sea.

No one loves the sun.

The Geniuses and I

The Geniuses and I

 

In the mist of noontime tide, the prayers that greatest lovers make

Soon bore they're way through life shaped holes in branchless trees to break

No lovers mourn the listless clouds, no lovers mourn the sky

No lovers mourn the handsome liars, the Geniuses and I

 

The deathly waltz beneath glare of candy windowed shame

The truthless call of hungry winds, the beast without a name

No mourners wailed, no true assualt on fiery handed lies

No mourners grieve as we depart, the Geniuses and I

 

The Geniuses and I one day went for a walk to stroll

When starry eyed young lovers balked upon the freezing cold

The Geniuses and I one day soon halted into prayer

No one can love the Geniuses, they only reap despair

 

Time

Time

 

If words should keep my name on tongues

and always sharp to mind

I'd build a ship of gentle psalm, if I only had the time

A prayer of day to guide the night

as smoky clouds subside

I'd laugh the tune to restless friends

I'd return to the sky

 

Look forward to the break of dawn

Look forward to the sky

I'll laugh away and face the floor

I'd return to the sky

 

Stay Awake

Stay Awake

Inside the heart of darkness lies the blinding spirit light 
Beneath the wires and cables running deep
Inside my heart still pumping blood up to my falling head
My love is dying, I'm falling fast asleep
The fields of verdant pleasure, bound magnificence of God
The oceans kissing shorelines on the beach 
To push away the innocent, to stay a quaking hand 
My heart beats slow, I'm falling fast asleep

But wait for the dreamland muse of slumber soft repose
Her poisoned primp of perjury and plush
The hushing low of innocence, now floating on the bay
Into the fiery clutches of the dusk

Please don't fall asleep


Don't call me on my bullshit, I'm a loser and a liar
No words can match the frailty of my trust 
Beneath the guise of chickenwire and candy coated angst
lies broken bottle bliss and haunted lust
Don't wake me from this dreamtime howl of nighttime cloaked in black 
Don't listen for the words to make me blush
I've seen the serpent prowling in the grazing fields of home 
I've watched the world and shuddered in disgust

I've waited for a lifetime for this endless crown of fire 
I've longed to see the seagulls in the air
The zephyrs catch my face and my life has been a waste 
Don't fall asleep for ages of despair

Please don't fall asleep

A Song for Freedom

A Song for Freedom

It's not right to eat spring chickens when they're born inside a cage
with clipped wings in their alleys while we sing the grapes of rage
Every city lost its soul when the hoisted rag was rung
Every suburb, every countryside where freedom songs are sung

For every senator with power, apple pie to feed the poor
Every judge that never read a book that hasn't mentioned war
Every countryman with polished guns that's seen but never known
Every child must plant a quiet dream in fields where poppy's flown

Light creeps over gentle fields still wet with silver hope
and falls to warm a quiet child, of whom poets have spoke
Never in the days of man has life meant so much more
and never has the word of mouth had proverbs in it's lore

All the children in the alleys making light in dim railyards
aren't the villains jailers victimize in tales told with stale cigars
The only criminal is age, bleeding wisdom in it's trail
as the vulgar birds flap dirty wings and haunt the blackened sails


The heartland never saw it's shade, only the borderline;
the farmers, workers, artisans with freedom on their minds
Cast away like looseleaf because of scribble on a page
forsaken from the promise of the trail our fathers made

David slung a quiet stone with decibles of weight
that flew into the head of wrath and helmet it did break
Every president and congressman is doomed to keep a vow
To every little speck of life in every quiet town

I am just a city boy, Brooklyn born and bred
I'll never learn the etiquette of English figureheads
But to the fields of freedom by the seat of an accord
I'll roll til dawning haunts the land and grapes no longer stored

I just wanted so much more but never should I take
I'll learn to eat the words I spew, the promises I make
The world is smaller than we think but greater than we know
It holds a mass of dignity that flags can never show

Morning stalks the black of night that hollows on the trees 
to laugh into the hold of dawn and golden every leaf
What will make you burst in tears will make you love your life 
Every city, every countryside is blessed with freedom's light 

 

Dan Goldman

Dan Goldman ,		in a beat up, water 
worn old peacoat, parlie perched on rip-skin
 lip chap, asking for his meaning;
never had less than twenty but was always broke,


		[stop tosmoke with the old
shit and sodom at thewishing stone.]

no one, no thing looking.


saw him looking all drench mouthed,laughing like a
razor-blade,
 iheld him up and he held me down,
clovescradled by the dead-skin fingernailson a run
down the decrepit banister,never looking away.

so impeccably vagrant and caught up in a 
homelessdervish,smiling through
 	the scene.


stole some stoli,butas a man of gods
he:
	smoked the sacrament of the bible with the great Sidharrtha
choked under the willow treethatwhined about its lover,

never seen an anthill living undersireable.

Dan Goldman,
 wholicked the bowl cleanand asked for seconds always
 finding gold in acold arctic
		lockbox, dreaming in the noon.
Construction Site Columbus,lookingfora 
 	
	late-light comrade and he found a
 summertimeredeemer
 way in the dark in the cornerin the back
out on frontstreet, witha
big blue ribbonand a 
 riddledtongue.



wejust wanderedthrough the avenues, all 
 ambush and 
			aimless.
 "the world is a whirl wind sometimes,"
 jones joked with his three dollar smokes
and a jackal under his tongue.
 i,all long mouthedmashed a five in my pocket
bum-box basking in his fifteen.


Damn, rotterthat jones
rolls raising in the pockets
 andi, all leaf-turned and bowing.

"if i shouldfall from grace;"
 mock englishgentlemen, strolling stupid
 stooping stmarks ave, back fromprospect.
40 and hashish ona rooftopbeaming
 dreaming ofa better
yesterdaywhen the chains of tomorrow reach fruition.


nostalgia:

i'm better these days;
i was a force of nature
with hands red fromglass made by
aholocaust-father:
the great fire of '07.
Never leftwhen i'mgone,
justdip downthe roadway
 withthe ghosts and the gust,
Jackson Cooper to the rescue,
andi rise.


Atthe apex,the lowestdip,
th e slowest trip,
 trippingballs in the rec-room.


	lilylaughed.
i always hatedthat
dumb-face angel,ha'sand ho's
 dripping off arolling,wettongue.
 shit always had a knifein his pocket;
 he described it as love.
got caught up in a sonnet
pullingcigarettes from an ashtray
 wondering where he left his smile.
we just gurgledpleadinglyand caught a whiff
 of American Pie and Big Mac,
	the American Hero


[How do you think that's cool?
Cause it's all i got.] ,
my world crumbles insometimes
 like old papyruswith too much pressure
 spilling an impossibly black
void of ink in my sky, but
 praise, reminisce repeated
 for guilt is the twin sister of laughter,
 and all roads lead tolife with a sigh and a shudder.

Dan Goldman, the epithetscrawler
 racked withritcher scalecognition
wants to write me a love note only
blood-brothers can understand.
 inthe bloody fingereddawn
gripping swollen cloudsof chicken grease 
and grossness,your worldis just a bottle of wine.


Pour lightly, myfriend.
Let this dark shade cool your tempers, or do nothing at all.