The Song Remains the Same

Mumbling song lyrics like prayers
Ten “mercy seats”, ten “mr. jones”
Counting starlings on power line rosary
Taking wing into slate blue sky
Subtle chord changes lingering sustain
Accelerator pedal distortion
Echoing click heel working girl rhythm
Metronome hips keep strict time.

Sting quartet stringy hacking cough
Medallion hacks huddling around the cab stand
Grubby blue collar blues whine
Back broken, heart broken
Recepticals of midnight confessions
Shabby scarf surplices muffling
All the lonely heart hymnals
Saint Harry never got to write.

Night hawks flying the ragged edge of dawn
To roost in sweaty low rent flats
Neon angry buzzing lullabies
Johnny Walker harmonizing with Johnny Cash
Tears that taste like amber, or maybe Alison
The aim can still be true if a bit unsteady
One hand full of longing, the other spanking the monkey
Spirit and seed both spilled useless
On sheets of music crumpled in desperate fists.

Low down and dirty grumble
Thick tongued, tied up tightly twisted
Every golgotha tenement tower of song
Spilling Babel chaos harmonics
Babies crying mother’s hush
Lover’s legs play slow waltzing violin
Rising up into the purple bruise metropolitain sky
Choir seven million strong
Belting out the hooks buried deep in the flesh.

Everyone knows the words to this one
Singing along as soon as lungs met air
Making up the bits not known by heart
Maybe finding the harmonies, or maybe not
From cave mouths to cathedrals
Rushlit halls to smokey beer light gin joints
For all the changes, minor falls, major lift
The song remains the same.


4 Responses to “The Song Remains the Same”

  1. quarterAquartDraft Says:

    and impresses with every listening

  2. yantzy Says:

    This, on the other hand, is not cheapness.
    It is most sensual; evocative and “rightly” vintage.

  3. eggs benedict Says:

    Thought I had something clever to say but the cursed blackflies have returned in biblical numbers. Light one and blow some smoke up my ass. Can’t keep flapping like this much longer; they taste like chicken though.

  4. degree nineteen Says:

    Now know your secret. Pop-rock candy.
    Concentrated energy in tiny pieces.
    You knew instantly; joy cannot be disguised.

    Neat little tiles, ain’t they?

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