Blue Light Congregation

heads bowed, stamping feet to hectic beats.
Hands out stretched in Ecstasy, raised voices and flaming passion.
Sunday morning congregation, here's the real meaning of religion.
The DJ leads the morning mass, choirs of sub-bass angels screaming their four hundred decibel message to the masses.
Holy icons hanging from hands, clutched to chests to further the experience.
Round, like communion wafers, bubbling on tongues. Dissolving, Drop at the drop.
Multicoloured wine, blood of the saviour. Fruit flavours and sweet nectar.

Welcome to the Rise. My church.

The lights flash and whirl, green and gold and sharp stark white and I see three hundred people all crammed together. Their hands are raised, their throats are hoarse from screaming their approval. The DJ throws his head back in laughter, chest inflated as his hand punches the air in time with the beat. He can see the crowd like one moving organic mass, responding to his every command. Suddenly the sound drops down, the leaping whirling stops and heavenly choirs fill the air, slowly the mass begins to sway in time to the music.

Then THUMP

The bass drops in again and the madness starts a fresh.

I feel so at home in this place, I love every person who passes through these doors. Are they having a good night? I hope so, my friends deserve that much this Sunday morning. Big smiles and laughing comments, we are like the Shepperd's guiding our wayward flock.

With the bass thumping in my chest, the choir filling my head and a drink in my hand I am at my happiest here, in this place.

;-)

new

Lips, sugar coated by your sweet sentiments,
my whole being yearns to taste them.
My morsel still taunts me so, dancing her way just past the tips of my fingers and I cannot reach her yet.
This is the challenge, this is the chase and the hunt.

I will succeed.


I will have her.

A lack of funds.

This has got to be my biggest bane in life. A luck of simple numbers. If I could juggle the numbers so many of my problems would skip, skip, trip away.
I'd manage this social anchor of a phone so the wolves would stop howling at me over "payments outstanding". This strip of plastic burning holes in my designer jeans, I could put it away in a drawer and leave it there to stagnate in a pool of interest.
It's not even a lack of funds per se, more a failure on the part of others to be managed. I could juggle these numbers, move them from one hiding hole to the next and constantly be in pocket and ahead of the pack.
If only they would let me.
It's times like these that I think "fuck it". I'll run the banks for all they're worth, mortgages to the hilt and a loan big enough to buy the state of Nebraska.
Then I'll max out my credit card on a brand new fuckin' beast of a Harley, jump on, hit the kick start and with my entire savings in my back pocket and a cigar in my teeth hit the west coast highway and run those fuckers ragged chasing the debt that's their problem now, not mine.

God fucking damn, I'd kill someone to have a motorbike again.

Your knife is useless baby, when you're missing the point.

Shrill laughter, flashing feet.
Colours, square and garish, whipping past.
Jingled bells down darkened alleys.
Fun, fleeting,
lurid and Lured.
Oh Harlequin, taunt me so.

Light beams through smoke screens,
solid substance, without touch.
It's all smoke and mirrors baby.

How I treasure these rapid changes of tune. Life player on shuffle and the volume turned up full blast. Like a change of taste this is but a fast, fleeting infatuation. New sounds couple new excitements. Old favourites draw dust on forgotten shelves whilst I wear you down with constant replays.

But hey, new song brings new smiles.

an unhealthy addiction

Drama shots in to the vein of life.
Electric hot to remind you that you're still alive.
Anger makes your heart beat hard-
and heart beats are the base of life.
Same reason why we fuck we fight.
Harsh words and harsh breaths, I'm not shortening my life span.
I'm just living more now than later.

Has it been long enough? The silence and the stillness?
Has the lack of movement let the vulture eyes wander from this,
My dramatic, verbally bloated metaphorical corpse.
The hands chase each other around the face,
Across the darkness as in, when hands chased each other along your skin.
But as the revolutions roll past,
The tiny hand beating with the pulse beneath it,
The finger tips forget the feel, the eyes forget the sight.
Memory clouds and I'm left wondering what you really look like.

I'm angered by some around me now-
Their lies are so clear you could sell them as window panes.
Its not the lying so much that makes me angry, more the fact that they aren't good at it.
It's a lack of respect I guess.
If you're going to take me, make the ride a good one.
Guess I'll have to chase, to get whats mine.

I find myself preparing now as for a surgery,
white rooms and fasting. Avoid the things that put me here.
I've got my special plans for when I come out.
A change of diet, my own particular appetite was hurting me.
I'll keep consuming, but in the future only the more healthy morsels.
And oh me oh my I feel I've found one.

This is just a catch up, a taste of what I'm doing now.
But just to brag, let's say I might be able to make myself happy soon.
And oh, from the most unlikely source.

;-)

Need

It's there when you need it,
poets skin blisters on cracked fingers,
ink bubbles, pop and splash,
evaporate hot on white pages

Teeth bared, lips pulled,
revealing bleeding gums
quills snapped, pens cracked,
and still it's pouring forth.

razor curls,
fast loops and slow strokes,
bleed black,
and what an emotive passage.

Written notes to self,
reminding of the times past.
pink on white and how these words are raised.
Let's not read it again, ok?

unchained

Little bird, sitting on the window sill.
You came down to please me with your beautiful song,
your eyes see right through me little bird.
I kept you here with little things,
sweet words and warm hands.
Softly whispered promises that everything was going to be alright.
But I see your eyes looking out now.
Fly away little bird.
There's other prisoners to delight with your pretty sounds.
Fly away little bird.
I'll still smile when I hear you singing from the trees.
Smile to know you're happy out there.

We can pause for now little bird.
You can't experience the trees from my window sill.
I'll still be here, when you want to play again.

XX