I’m the voice
and not the song
I am the voice
now listen on
I’m the choice
and not the wrong
don’t linger
like a tantrum son
I’m the voice
and not the song
I call you all
with mantra gong
I’m the wind
that batters on
no crown of singers
ambling gone
I’m the voice
and not the song
and now rejoice
I have this voice
and I am
strong.
All hear the Bellowhead
Sucking us in - like fireflies
Circling end of summer sigh
From young bucks leap
O’er old man’s grimace grey.
Like madrigal birds at dusk -
On accordion breath that heaves,
With fiddling sentry’s hotfoot dance
To circus lights and roguery.
Let it blow like Bucovina brass
And let us show our red flamed hair,
Then know this copper breeze
That hails a bellowed call
Of grand traditions,
In the air.
Let me think …
Is it almonds, butterscotch?
or chocolate coated marzipan?
It could be caramel even,
but it’s duskier than that.
Powdery, like sun dried sheets
or bathwater patchouli.
And then there’s citrus too,
(but not too perky)
like mulled wine
or lemon grove dew
in the morning.
All are taste of you.
I believe in Brian Wilson
and the beauty of melancholia
and the things going on
between the notes.
There’s a conduit
we can’t quite hold
the sound of us
growing old.
So yeah,
I believe.
The neck of a cigarette
all shimmer and promise
straw dry in the stifle
of the hottest day.
It pretends, to shade
char of stone-dry bones
ripened under heat
from waring sun.
Mirage of sweetened air
and slow blood cooled,
the lead footed and weary
follow this shadow’s lure.
Today, I imagine this false wind
and curl up as old parchment
to stop myself inhaling
the tinderstick splinters
of its powdered air.