ghosted

So listless, so dead, so gone.
And coffee like hot black love
won't do it anymore.
Sex like summertime,
words like candy-kisses
won't stun us anymore.

So just lick the lid, wet the edge
cuz this biting appetite is dry.
so dry.
Emotion, fixation, creation
all of them, all kinds -- dry.

Empty vessles sailing on empty streets
of a ghosted-down Jerusalem,
of a widowed-out Galilee.

Now don't get me wrong-
this isn't dead religion,
isn't dead icons and idols and sacrilege
To be sure.

This is dead spirit, dead space, dead soul.
This is the Kalahari in a sandstorm.
This is the rain forests all chopped down.

Global warming and green house incubation
of a hundred million molten infant ants
that still look like little children.
Nuclear wars with ourselves
because we don't feel it,
can't breathe yet,
don't know it,
can't see it.

So do you see?
This is the sort of piled-up,
backed-up bullshit that comes out of me;
comes out of all of us
when we try to inspire,
when we try to create.
This is the sort of fucked-up rubbish
that dead limbs come up with
when we try to get up,
when we still try to danse

...at least on occasion...
oh god save me, God save me, god save me


Or, if she won't, I'll just lie here
until the wind blows all my dust away from her.

-RLL (c)2005