THE LOST TAPES Vol.49: ruination in foreign terror

plucked rose petals
laid in a little glass coffin
a trapped soul forced to nature's course
the soft aroma of a beautiful flower 

***

marriage on sight
expected pregnancy
lulling her days
rolling on the couch
whore by nature
but for what? 

***

   In a small, protestant little church
   Five congregants and a minimal band
   Dad’s on guitar, she plays the drums set
   Black hair, black eyes, black nails
   Thin, black sweater under a pentagram charm
   Her black lips sigh, begging for a smoke
   It’s a cold, depressing Sunday night
   But at least she’s getting paid 

Tourists don’t come around here
Smoking pot, sitting on dead leaves
We’ve broken all the lamps
It’s been two months, nobody noticed
The new piercing, tattoos, scars
A black eye waiting to happen
Half a bible, rolling joints
Throwing rocks at the sewer creek
Not a sound in the streets downtown
but the winds whistling through empty alleys
and an occasional small splash
because there are no big rocks left 

You don’t want to go back home
No problem
There’s a clearing on the cloudy sky
Let’s watch the stars
The sun will rise late today
It’s a night of werewolves 

***

drinking hard liquor
on a school night
no kids up
at the skate park 

***

little red seed
put in my pocket
might be a skittle 

***

4 in the morning
a child cries in the ER
it quiets down
a car arrives
it departs 

***

lamp head crybaby
sorrowful nights
forceful solitude
carefree love
warm companion 

***

chilling with the cat
bumping domi & jd beck
late afternoon cloudy sky
outside, faint light through the window
drum on a furry belly
my foot goes tap, tap, tap
not hungry, not at all
looking at my bass standing there
wondering if I'll ever go back to jazz
//
you're the one putting yourself in dilemmas
beauty in life is what you see
I'll drop everything and play drums
vow of silence, no one will hear of me again
if simplicity is all I need
to achieve this happiness I seek
should I live for the rhythm
will I ever go back to jazz? 

***

Sauce stains on the sweatshirt
Gray beanie and pajama pants
Socks and sandals
Somebody’s aunt wishes not to be here
Awaiting the uncaring niece
who wishes only to see rid of boredom
But a boy comes out the bus
Tall and strong, curly hair
Auntie fixes up her glasses
Dusts off her clothes
Blushes a little when he spots her
She’s so short in comparison to him
The hug is such an awkward scene
Her face is completely red
Shiny eyes, stumbling her words
He smiles handsomely
They walk away

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