Jesus is gonna rule the world!

Forget it....I'm just going to tell a story.

Skates to the ice
Our skates to the ice, we sailed across the candle lit hall, in wide circles while le gent, in their elegant evening gowns, walked about the middle of the room, indecisively, from one side to the other, as if they were trying to rock the ever larger dingy. I kept running into the furniture, and was asked to leave, for I had began to disrupt the art of staring walls.
I sat in a corner, among suits and collars, with my eyes piercing my shoes. Then I saw a pair of bare feet approaching, the left one had a bloody big toe as captain of the drifting boat, I looked up and an unharmed hand showed me to a bottle of the finest wine in the kingdom. Spirits up.
Ridin' across town, facin' the breeze. We had come to a small Parisian café. I sat across from a double-faced new acquaintance. He folded his hands over those crossed legs of his, after signaling the waiter to approach. The stiffness of the waiter swayed in closer while my friend placed a new unfamiliar mask upon his face. Alan and Bernie stood by our table now.
I felt hungry, and was eager to ask the waiter for some substantial aid. He presented a cigarette on a silver plate.
It poured down rain, and though our heads had a clear view of the sky, we did not feel the pinnin' of drops upon ourselves or know of our skin and hair being soaked in anything but air.
My now unfamiliar friend felt he needed to leave this state of mind. He ordered some coffee. I noticed he was now speaking of my old friend as if he were not there, a mask beneath.

Drivin' across town lookin' for the underground doll house. The lazy-eyed mistress and my little sister are expecting me. I'm weary, in the backseat, in my lazy topsyturvey. The road takes a turn upwards. The car is wanting to meet someone at the top of that rolling hill but it seems it can not make it.
Now, I watch from outside, as the car and myself in the back seat, twirl around the air. It's like the engine is trying to fly up into the sky but it can not bare the weight of the entire car and myself in the backseat. As a result of this, adding up to the running speed, the car went on rolling down the street, but every now and then jumped up and hurled itself into a back flip.

Crooked eye moon, the colour of a coffee stain, welcomes me home
Sister is drivin', but then she slips up in her thoughts and crashes into a light post
They sit at the remains of the crash, the 3 faces of sorrow. They call out ‘bring on the winds of death, whispers to room us away’, suicidal playful children.
It unnerves me, they are all so sorry. A spit of gall and alcohol into the flames, and is day again!
Someone asks me what has become of David? I say I don't know, and without hesitation I trip in a flower bed and fall into Yoko's Garden.
There is David, looking up at the heavens. I ask him what he sees, and he shows me the flocks and sparkles in golden and blue that paint forms in the sky.
Mother Mary's dress stirring in the night, hung over some star, twinkle and twilight. Here, I see the golden sparkles that spring from the image and come down, closer to earth
a slight touch in everything, the golden treads run across the streets, the buildings, the cars, the small out-house near the town square beneath a tree where the fowls no longer live, a service area in a dirty part of town where a young man sits in the washing machine smoking a cigarette and staring at the wall, a tidy little bedroom in a lodge in the upper-east side which is shared by two sisters, 4 years apart, one wall filled with writing, the other has a brand new coat of paint sittin' upon it.
The golden sparkles still race with the moonbeams, passing through farms in the country where old poets preach in barns and dark alleys, in steeples of rotten wood, to crowds of spider webs and broken rafters. Golden and blue, dive into the water.
Through sharp rocks that lie and hold on still, waitin' for the time to pierce the fisherman's soul. Broken cages and rivers over flown. Through dead wives and missin' children to former civil wars.
In inspiration. It's inspiration. It's literature, it’s Death. It's the absurd. It's the cowardness of avoiding the absurd. It's poetry and unspoken thoughts, it's not in words, but in the very brink of things. It's a pierce through the stomach, born from a lover’s breath. It's faith, its curse. Spirit that tends on mortal thoughts.
Music, slowly and gently creeps in, strides across the garden, through the gate where Walter used to lean against to smoke his cigarettes. Dances in empty spaces. A one man Waltz, uncoordinated tango of broken thoughts. That lit up this room, for a second, and a second longer, a second ago, and not anymore.