Flipping OverThis black-on-scarlet-on-"Hail Jesus, lord, save him" landscape is etching its sour stench into an EMT whose time is being taken on an asphalt stain. Yeah, procedure's a bitch as much as is being drunk, but at least when you were drowning in Corona Light, you could still breathe.
Writer or Pianist?Who are you?Writer or pianist,Etching timeless words to wordless times,Does the hammer waver and buckleFar away from your fingertips orClose?Does ink run through your veins,Or music through your heart,Or does the dissonance of the twoThreaten to tear you apart?Who are you, writer,Whose serifs fancy a feeling,But couldn't feel beyond the edgeOf a neverending ballpoint,Doomed to search but never get soClose?Perhaps your fountain etches awayAt both your paper and soul,But what of when the ink runs dry,And you're no longer whole?Who are you, pianist,Whose dulcet, dapper, doldrum keysBlow away a peck of piteous hate,And only an ounce of sympathyTo bring your dirge, finally, to aClose?Perhaps your ivory scars could bringOne touch of the regret you hold;Before you break down on a charcoal throneDoomed to die minor and old?Who are you?Writer or pianist?Does ink run through your veins,Or music through your heart, Or does the worthlessness of
CellistThe song begins;She glides deeply into his mahogany frame,Gingerly plucking emotion from her fingertips,Not hearing the faintest air thatSomeone wishes they could be touchedThe way she does to his stiff neck.His shoulders glide in time to the lilt of her bow,Pressing a dulcet tone from his heartstrings.He could end now.(Applause)The song begins;She flows into yet another movement,Caressing the tangible harmony while stillNot hearing the slightest ofSomeone wishing they could be heldThe way she does his firm body.He helps her to exude raw emotion and grace,With the power to calm hearts at war.He could end now.(Applause)
Recollection of a Shower IIGrasp for the scalding, wet beating,Feeling the air grow thick aroundA rubicund face.Let the wave drench an iron grieving,Bask, burn, kneel carefully downIn a different fate.pluck, pluck, pluck...Clench to ten thousand rusty histories,Pretend they're the only memoirOf the old life.Fight away the fiery memories;Melt them away in aqueous fireAnd a dreamless night.pluck, pluck, pluck...The rain will fall through the storm.Wash away the pain.Wash away the fear.Wash away the regret, the sorrow, the scorn.Wash away everything.pluck, pluck, pluck...!Burning white, ignore the salt water,Ignore the ivory walls coated with rust;Memories estranged.Do everything to forget the taste of her,Wipe away every speck of recollective dust.Change.pluck...