An ominous concerto
Chords of war
blow within
wind
‘cross green seas
of meadow grass
behind homes
blood
stored within
vessels flesh
fear
fresh
hiding from
shattered glass
and angry blasts
of cannon’s bark
and bomber’s will
to die and kill
and kill and kill
The siren’s fiddle warns in the middle
of our field
out back
in the year
of war
below blue skies
swirling black
An ominous concerto
In the middle of the stage, dressed in the breath of dry ice fog and laser laced face stitches; Frankenstein rose from the floor with a white Rickenbacker 360 in his right hand plugged up in his exposed heart beating faster than a Neal Peart string of acid laced triplets and all amped up to a pair of Fender ’65 Deluxe Reverbs dangling from his decaying ear lobes. Blood dripped from Frank’s fingers as he slashed chords. The “Stein” screamed lyrics that sliced his lips as the crowd of 25, 435 bald scientists in white lab coats, all snorting coke, and drinking strawberry Kool-Aid held lab burners in the air chanting FRANK – EN – STEIN, FRANK – EN – STEIN, FRANK – EN – STEIN.
Sud-den-ly to most, and in slow motion to the science nerds on quaaludes, Frankenstein collapsed and registered a 9.0 Richter Scale earthquake that preceded a Mount St. Helen resurrection on the stage that left nothing but the fading sound of sizzling crack pipes. Frankenstein was dead along with all of scientists who created him.
It was such a waste of a fine guitar and amps.
Damn the scientists!
A new voice
Was
A language hidden
In poverty
Of otic region echoes
Of mountainous streams
Gold reed’s rustling secret
Hushed beneath
Shadows
Inverted
Aside a crude cabin’s cello and cold hearth
Fibrillating near charred remains
Formerly known as – church bus –
In family circles –
And skeletal remains
Of a broken compass
Pointing north
Always north
Forever
North
Explózia n
Explosión
Dancing like twisted fused flying dynamite
Sparkling loudly
Feu d’artifice
De flores flor
Fleurs fleur
The bloom of such potent sky flowers
Rouge – červená
Blush passion –
Red – ROJO
Amarillo, žltá
Juane –
Yellow flashing
Streaks of lost caution
Hacen el amor en el público
De l’herbe verte
A modrá obloha
Making love in the public
Between green sheets of
Reality
And blue blanket’s fantasy
Explózia n
Explosión
Fireworks
De l’amour
Where is green grass
Why do I slip
And slide
And fall on my ass
In my winter days of shortened lengths of light
Where is my grip
Why do I smoke
And drink
And forget to sip
In my shortened lengths of lit winter days
Where is the joke
Why do I laugh
And snort
And trip like a bloke
In the light with my winter days short of length
Is there a path
Why do I ask
And hope
And act like an ass
In winter days of my short lengths of light
Says a voice in a song on a street corner downtown
In the winter
Alone
With a sound
I heard while passing by – slowly – as light dimmed to night – and flicked my cigarette into the street – and muttered –
Damn man – flipping up my coat collar – as I passed further by – and further by – and further by –
I was sitting in a rickshaw
I think it was last spring
Reminded me of Asia
But in a Euro kind of way
Was on Unter Den Linden
Stopped at the Bebelplatz
An underground memorial
Of empty bookshelves mute
I could still smell the ashes
Where burning books in flames
Died a silenced death of murder
While author’s spun in graves
Then onto Gendarmenmarkt
Where twin churches faced the other
Then along a cobbled road
Where a battered wall fell down
I could still hear some echoes
Of words I cannot say
I drank a lot of beer
though
But couldn’t shake the image
Of empty bookshelf shivers
Of forgotten words decay
I thought of that this mourning
When the news girl spoke to say
Subversive was misused
again
In a governmental way
So sat down by my river
In Montreal – Quebec
And I spat down on the water
That didn’t even splash
So I got back on my bike
And went and bought a book
And I’m reading it tonight
Sitting in my chair
It doesn’t make a difference
But its words will know I care
I live in a house of grout and tile
Not a square foot of carpet
Not a curtain or drape
Just blinds and shutters
Closed
Dolce Gabbana shades reflect forward
Protect what’s behind
And I cycle
Miles and miles and miles
One way
To another house
Of grout and tile
Call me Hanq 