The Ghost She Is
Proof in echoes of light, Thru vaulted corridors of night, Sing like ambient pulse of soul, River thru weariest night does roll.
The treasure of the haunting, The ghost she is.
Billowing skirts of memory, What is and might not ever be, Rain on a silent summer's dawn, Whispers and murmurs we are drawn.
The treasure of the haunting, The ghost she is.
Face like a shadow's will, Nerve net for what the night does feel, Captured in dreams not born of sleep, Lost again in the darkness deep.
Flowing of rooms and atmospheres, She breaks light then just disappears.
Flowing of rooms and atmospheres, She breaks light then just disappears.
The treasure of the haunting, The ghost she is.
June 01
Dream of Seven Horses
In silhouette against the black curtain of stars, And a full moon that hangs like the history of dreams, And they are beautiful creatures with no trace of fear in the eye, I cannot comprehend my perspective; it’s like emotional mathematics, I see; feel; and hear them from every direction at once, Loosely gathered but tightly drawn in some synchronized prayer, Muscles taut with purpose and agenda, They seem to be waiting but I’m an acolyte and know not the sign.
Steam from the nostrils; the pace of a lifetime, Manes suspended like the locks of an angel, No sense of urgency; yet emanate danger beyond horizon, Am I the rider or just the witness of the going, And they take on the wonder and capacity of the night time sky, I feel immensely inferior and yet they look to me, Is it symbol; allegory; or is this just another life mocking dream, Or maybe they want to lead me to the dream waking dawn.
Dream of seven horses, And they are swallowing the night.
So peaceful as they start to slowly move across the haunted landscape, And I move with them; some unseen force propelled, Weightless and suffering-unknown; I am the eye of time, Lost in the fluidity of their intrinsic motion; the meaning is bated along, And I know everything; I see everything; yet there is only static motion, No destination is implied; no direction is emptied.
Suddenly at full gallop; they make the light catch up, And I am waken and left with only wonder and decay.
Suddenly at full gallop; they make the light catch up, And I am waken and left with only wonder and decay.
Aug. 01
Two Way Mirror
I am the prayer that passes for the god, But she doesn’t even know I exist, Lost in a sequence of shadow's milk, The gravity of the mirror is hard to resist, I saw her one morning shampooing her suicide, Her thoughts screaming; sick of this, We’re so much alike except I’m already dead, She just needs the life of a kiss.
I want to touch her because I can feel her, Pull me out of this sinking pain, I want to blind her because I can reveal her, Pull her mind into my brain.
The doctor of her eyes heals the panic of her flesh, I am just a dark corner in her house, She applies the lipstick language, And buttons up the tongue of her blouse.
But she won’t talk to me, She won't die for me.
She needs no witness fully clothed, Her seeing eyes once turned from the mirror's theft, Face a world that sees the mirror's work, And whatever the makeup of meaning has left.
I want to touch her because I can feel her, Pull me out of this sinking pain, I want to blind her because I can reveal her, Pull her mind into my brain.
I am just an afterthought she tried to un-think; like wine, And the water of her bathtub drain fertilizes the waste, She spends her life at the mirror waiting for a sign, And I wait on the other side for her to see thru her face.
Dec. 01
Matter
Fusion of flesh and future and the reason behind the rush of time, Armies of fashion march thru the physical memory of history’s mime, A seed within a seed; planted in a cosmetic garden favored to grow some heat, A need within a need; the cosmos on the string of this nuclear defeat, Fill the void with the ache of reason and the spiritual memory of the ghost of god, And then the weightless orbit of the ego’s feather worked by gravity’s brutal prod, Only the beast that feeds the mechanism of ethics in the logic of the rain, Is allowed to feel the birth of the bride and the honeymoon’s aptitude for pain.
Within the boundary of the bone and the burden of the thought's unbound, A dream is a document and the wasteland qualifies as sacred ground, The child gave birth to a mother; now the sense of habit is made, In the trance of atomic motion numbness; the martyr is paid, Beauty is leaking from the eye of the beholder as he makes a witness of the meaning’s chance, Unseen shadow draws all light to the core and cancer of the linear romance, Time is the bait that will draw the matter into the peerless construction of the wall, And faith is the is the instrument that will measure the path of the fall.
There is a ghost that moves thru the silent places of stone and star, The real rain and ruin and divine sex feed of why we only appear to be what we are, And this waterlogged logic makes mathematical slurs in division of direction, The subtlety of cloud in sky puts the weather obscure in this casual connection, It all hangs so heavy on the canvas the artist is put to trail for the weight of the paint, Put to death by the genius of the hours and by the slack of ages made saint, A trick of focus and a talent of apathy flesh the body of the matter, And words of the book of worlds spell the sadness even sadder.
Jan. 02
River With No Name
Mornings bathed in suicidal showers, Adrift upon the bone-bending hours, Mirror cast an impersonation of me, Even I don’t know what I’m supposed to see.
My life is a river with no name.
Meaning in function and flow, Rhetorical death-rattle whines the little know, Is the appetite reconstruction or ruin, We just feed the void with this habit of doing.
My life is a river with no name.
In silent cathedrals of hope I lay my sacred pain, Travel skies of many days; the river pushed by the rain, Eternity is just god blinking and the machine goes soft, And the cell of a dream and a ghost in the flight of an angel aloft.
Deliverance of static motion, The dead end of the unknown ocean, Fathoms in this god guessing game, Drowning in a river with no name.
Jan. 02
Myth of a Man
No one ever remembered him being born, He was just there one day; a rose seeking his thorn, No purpose was he seeking; no god was in his call, As lonely as a full moon as perfect as the fall.
There is nowhere to be lost but here in this life field, Time is the stone of any fortress you can build, Driven by the weather of hunger and hot blood, Forecast in the silent bloom of this cold bud, This mystery cannot even fathom its own heartbeat, Stares into the blank logic blur; when two ghosts meet, Trimmed in this transitory and humbling-bulk-frame, Defined by parameters of absolute end game.
When a man is gone.
There is no truth; his eyes had no color, He’s a bucket of stars; he died of killer instincts, He once killed a lover with his embrace, He disappeared for eleven years one time; to this day we still don’t know where, When he came home from the war he had a god for breakfast, He had four hundred babies; every one of them were fathers, He built a house in one night and moved out the next morning, He breeds in the memory of mankind.
July 01
Schopenhauer's Will
And the ghost is the thing in itself, Not to be undone by the seeing eye, Unknown and unknowable bride, Song of the cosmos; the suffering sigh.
A mortal mind lights upon god’s diary, Finds the world is a toy made of words, The sky is the decoy of heaven, The flight path of automatic birds.
The wolf must revel in hunger, Man must negotiate the beast, Eve the gravity’s steward; tugging on the apple, But the fall will mock up the feast.
I will take that walk, I will take that walk.
And the moon is the voice of the howl, She is the tragedy’s persona-profound, Time is the wake of the ghost, The savage equation of the truth abound.
Grounded ethics of bone and being, Yet the blood stained tooth and claw, Heretic to the dogma of sense, Deconstruction and division though one is all.
Motion sans motivation winds the clock, Meaning an investor's point of view, A bleak landscape bleeds the vision, Forged in the forgery of all you do.
I will take that walk, I will take that walk.
Capricious clockwork unwinds the mystery’s sham, Just a cold epicenter of apathy, Can’t be so wrong yet so wise, Find a season’s cure in a symphony.
Calculated passion drives the day-maker, Let knowledge of the way purify the will, The world is no bigger than the keep of your skull, The turning away is the key of the kill.
And the mind-charging energy of numberless worlds, With truth beyond what we can know, Cast the shadows on the cave walls of the liar’s tomb, In the rage of the inexplicable go.
March 02
The Sirens of Hypothalamus
Over and across oceans and egos, They will lure any man from shore to sea, A song with a shiny hook of sacrifice, Bated with the taste of what might be.
Never was a beauty more formalized, The soprano tongue of her temptation, And you feel like the wind chasing a star, No longer the dumb show of sublimation.
She stands dressed in your imagination's default, And you a connoisseur of melody, She has the moon on a chain of mornings, And you believe you could live off the scraps of this luxury.
Her price in detail un-calculated, The slope of her hips; perfection's grade, But it’s your desire that swims madly thru your blood, She just feeds off the meal you have made.
Will you swim to her island of you, Distorted by the phantom of the view, With rose-petal-sex and love in wine, With angels for lips and the devil’s spine, The milk of her myth to nourish newborn, And the shoulder of time when the build is shopworn, Poet of her muse; you write the song she sings, Only ashes delivered in the heat she brings.
Sleeping and Dreaming
Oiling the mechanics of the motion, Wasting the motion of machine, How many raindrops are in the ocean, How much sleep inside the dream, Vivid and vicious meaning stalk fresh prey, The renovated morning grooms in an unfocused mirror, Presents an unfinished night to the day, And in this neutral light has lost the star to steer her.
Lost inside uncertain mechanics of time and tragedy, Memories spent deeply and have not the worth of money, The virgin artic drift of pandemic egos; vying for market place affections, The ghost of Freud falls asleep trying to interpret this dream, Is there any mode of being that could defy this mode of seeming, It’s a war of one and the winner will mate with the loser, And the traffic is sanctified by the magnitude of the destination, But the art of possibilities is found obscene for lack of graphic substance, And nowhere is much to far away to be considered a place, And this dream is much to close to be a distinction.
No matter which way you turn you can feel the breath of the ghost behind you, You can let the sleep repair you or the dream unwind you, Life can not be proved only lived and we can only scatter the dust and drink the moon, It’s just a different way to get to the same place; one way late and one way soon.
Keeping the focused whisper of earth and animal, Buried in the axis of the middle-land, With an ambition that needs sleep and a will that needs a dream, Your life will finally collapse into a stand.
Nov. 01
Memento Mori
As I watch her sweet limbs unwind with only a hint of the bone underneath, All things seem to live in her being; eternally bound Heaven and Earth, I wonder how far away would you have to go to already be there, It’s easy to forget that every breath she takes is as light as air.
Staring into the sleepy face of the darkness; I am a sea unknown, And feelings are just the wounds of the sweeping second hand of the callous clock of doom, But I marvel the structure of her careless deliverance, And the way the gravity sustains the rebellion of the orbit's ambivalence.
I am the sensuous device of her throttled lust for vanity’s consummation of dust, Swept up in the overture of a Beethoven sky of storm, So this pearl of a moment is thrown back to the jaws of time; a worthless token of eternity, The infant cry; a battle call in this revolution of modernity.
And I see the dictionary of the sermon in the eyes of her memory, And the future is a kind of blindness with a cure for a cause, Looking to the inertia of her beauty; even time-almighty seems helpless to act upon, Yet my eyes fix the tribute of ghost and flesh and fabric one day gone.
Jan. 02
Haunted House
Memory is the tomb of days, The nowhere self-located map of time, Urgent giver of the divided parasite, Mirrors and lies and legal crime, A voice of no reference baits the tongue, Form; the blessing of substance lost, Cities of bone mutate the rapture, And every muted conscience is crossed.
Gathering symbols, Living by law, Gathering symbols, Breeding the raw.
Meaning is a lion you feed everyday, Till the food is gone then it eats you, The light of circumstance is bleeding shadows, The logic felt just like two is two, Divining the gist of this subconscious sermon, Pure being as insubstantial as a thought, We negotiate and navigate the real, By what touching the flame has taught.
Gathering symbols, Living by law, Gathering symbols, Breeding the raw.
The self that creates the ghost that haunts the world, But vision can't penetrate the surface of what it’s seeing, So If no one really sees you naked, How can you validate your being?
Sept. 01
All Songs Composed, Performed and Recorded by M.M..
