I went to the city of Angeles and kicked in crystal doors, but my friend the angel had already flown away, fleeing the demon pulling strange youth by their blistered heels into the void of oblivious hunger and thirst. I still look for feathers, like those shed by the claws and fangs of a cat with bottomless joy for torturing the frail and already tortured souls of abandoned sons never to become man. Because man it ain't right, but it ain’t left either, and Im still here grasping at feathers that are not there, never left behind, not a trace, just a trance and a burning coal of misery in the bottom of my eternal distaste for all that preys upon the purity of youth and eternal vision of burning bright. Soar high my friend the angel, high above that city that never deserved such grace nor a feather upon its pillow of stain. In time, my friend, in time, we return to purity, we return to bright.
With that slow stroll, you own the street, under your soles, lies the souls of broken hearted blues, wafting through the palm, the horns, the traffic, begging for attention, jealousy, silent rage, but eyes stare, right at you, at the back of your cocked head, causally taking a drag, if only we knew you stroll into oblivion, but maybe we do and we just can not stand to see our truth, that maybe, just maybe we always knew, and the coyote lurks, how could we forget, how could we forgive, the broken planes, the doors removed, the mind gone mad, the liquor pure, the night wasted with gold coins and dock side conversation about the cosmos and the divine, and the, the, nothing but pure honest self imposed grandeur under the stars of which you have been named, under the moon that sits with a blush, also in awe, in awe of the fairness and youth, the yearning, the pull, the tide, the silent screams pouring out from within, but its all but a flash and nuclear memory from which no Phoenix will rise, instead the sun will set on the Hollywood Hills, and off you will go to join the others whom wait for a bus that will never arrive, why wait, you stroll, and continue to stroll in the self assured fearless gaunt, taking a drag, as though you were sucking in god and exhaling as you let her go, because to hold onto to her is to die, but you will anyway, and we knew, and we watched as you casually walked away, we were afraid to follow, and you we afraid to stay.
At least, For us, For lust, because truth be told, there is no laughter, there are no tears, just a stained bed sheet, hearts that remain unbroken, love rises like smoke, and time whirls around the clock, everyone I have ever admired is dead, and what does it matter, time goes, they are history, but what is history if not the forgotten the lost the unachieved, the dreams of dreams and endless nooks, for we shall never know our fathers, or there fathers, fathers, no matter how noble how grand, i come down here to the south not in search of fathers, nor in search of mothers, i come for the contrast of life and death to find my place hidden in the nooks in-between where god lives, where we all live who are not quite certain what is living and what is the foul stench of death, in these cracks, in these times of lost souls, is where the gutter reins, in the trenches with the best, it is not the bourgeoisie, nor is it the pleading for mercy that sun casts upon its hope, the joyous illusion of grandeur of time and timelessness, it is the smoking log, the blade of grass never seen for all the other blades cut through the span of attention that is running dry, we force the words or rather like to think we have force, when in reality all there is, is grace and be with thy holy soul until the end, for the train can not and will not stop, and we must step aside like the toreador in our mind, pretending suggesting we have even the slightest tinge of hope to think to believe we guide this ship, we set this sail, we breath the breath of time that has blown many sailors to the oblivious mouth of deep outer oblivion, but inner we know and we can not lie to the peace of god within our own, we are here to lie, to cheat to steal and cry, and get high and low, and tell one another what a grand time we have and what pity we deserve, but in truth man as you know and i shall know the man behind is none other than the shadow one time come before which prowls all, the sun shine licks with the gracious pleasure of time, and here and there and no where but you and I shall ever dine again in the same place and time, so savor her, savor her, look deep into her eyes, and cry for her, cry for her. Cry, for her.