The Poetry Of.
Paul Lutton...............................................
Strawberry Fields Again
I continued the thousand-tears-behind-my-eyes tour
On the comedy network channel contained only in my brain
And no one saw or heard not even myself
I had told them not to edit, not to edit
But edit they did
Right up until the closing hour
When the light show distracted them enough to let through the truth
Finally
And it was this:
Nothing is real (and there's nothing to get hung about)
ORANGE GREEN MIND
Wow, that came out of nowhere and zipped my cream right off the top
And what did it matter much in the orange green sky future?
I was identified with mind fuck America at the time
Worse than being drunk
The bizz toy scratched my scalp right off the top
I learned to use it, but it burnt me each time
I learned to laugh at the burnt orange-green skin
In the future gentler kinder America
In which everyone is black eventually
Wow, jizz cop Franny frapped my coffee right off the top
And I paid Starbucks World Bank prices
Before being downsized in the orange green district
Of film noire New York bowery slums
Pinball wizard Who boys in Soho doorways
Waken me to orange green illusion of thought
Overrated, overrated is this thought tool
I'm coming back, and I will be calmer next time
But now, I must hate before I can love
Protest before I can surrender
Sleep in the orange green night
Misted over soft
Like pretzel logic with Steely Dan
At C.W. Post in the fall
Wanting only to get a ride to the town
To buy a bottle of orange-green Seagrams 7
But stuck in some Rathskellar with a head
Full of lustful need exacerbated by tai-stick ganja
But 100s of miles from any possible female intervention
Or so it seemed - how blind I was in the orange green purple haze
Harry Chapin was dynamite! I knew it then and I know it now
Anything was possible but I could not grasp it with my shoebox mind
His death came sudden to those around him
But he was calm in the orange green as he was ferried
From Philadelphia to Bristol over the modern day Styx
He wanted to go, I know it now, I know it now
Harry Chapin will be there with him
As guide and confidante
But what consolation is it ever to mothers?
They are the strongest among us to bear so great a pain
Who can conceive of it?
We pray for those who are lost as they guide us
The night is orange and green out my dorm room window
It is 1979
It is 2009
The Poem Was Good
The poem was good, it slid off my mind
like tablets off a tongue
I scraped my skin for vestiges of
Harmonic cellular memories
In prehistoric conciousness
I flew high, babe, really, really high
And so did you
You just don't remember
We could travel anywhere
And never leave
We could have it all
And did
And now we're enjoying the hell out of this
Often frustrating game
But don't know it
The poem was good
It made a picture for me and I threw away my DVD
The tablets slid down my throat
Strengthening cells, I hoped
Cause they told me on tv
I threw away my tv but kept the message
I searched the data banks for evidence
Of prior magic
And found a treasure trove
But ignored it
The poem was good, man, it slid out the window
Cause my car was going too fast
I threw my car away but kept the fossil fuel
The message slid down my throat but I found it hard to swallow
On a whole nuther level
Where maids empty ash trays of shame in Baltimore hotels
And I realized
It's too ridiculous to be anything other than God
The poem was good, don't you think?
It slid off my computer screen
Dropping bits and bytes along the way
Where digital cats lapped them up
Before being chased away by bulldog barks
The poem was good and I had it with some fava beans
and a nice kianti from 1984
The Orwellian year which began so hopefully with David Bowie
And a New Year's party at 4412
But ended in unemployed alcoholic despair
Even then, the poems were good
They slid behind my eyes playing movies until sunrise
Though sometimes scaring the bejesus out of me
With Stephen Kinglike pronouns from the basement
Did you believe then that we would ever fly again?
Did you think the poems had lost their rhythm?
Like Paul Simon's straining tearing lyrics?
I didn't think so as I lay down on the damp pavement
Ready to die just as long as they had beer in heaven
Oh those poems were good, just like now
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