i. Tom Erica

And now I’m sittin behind bars
just seeing from the edge
couse I was reachin for the stars
a wild bit of the law
smokin a cigar
not caring but staring

I do like to judge yes, some times
fun as crimes and wars
with heroin and whores
riding a horse yeepeeing
not really seeing nor caring
what I run over…
you won’t meet me sober…

So I’m serious but playful
if you come to my neck I try to stay cool
fooling around and make new sounds
never heard before
but now I get hurt so easily
and feared too
and I do feel blue
beating black
I gave a blank check to my self

well I do like to shoot, ya know,
I do like to shoot.

And now I sit behind bars
couse apparently I was reaching too high
waiting in line
for a pack of sugar
carrying a beverage, smoking.
wearin a smokin
pokin around
when I fell accedentely out of the law.
I guess….
nothing to confess….

Well I used to spit in my hands and rubbed them together
feeling more freedom than a feather
feeling more freedom than a feather
I got kind of a suppresser…
I guess….

My name is Tom and Bill and Shawn and Erica and Wendy
and I still come torn and stay handy

My art used to be outrageous
my power out of league
Where was the peak, I wonder, where was the peak?
You know I used to be a wild pioneer
wanted to safe the world with my own ideas
that weren’t even mine
so I am still stumbling on the line
but still
all I do is justified.

ii. easy fowl

Aren’t we not the new beat?
the ongoing stroll of wildness and reality
of beauty in misery in beauty?
Indeed with you I do feel more poetical
in certain ways
even though maybe just intensity combines us.

We are more spat into the world
We are the beautiful rats of a loo’s swirl
We are the laughing eyes of a crying child
We are the farewell fairytale of joy
surfing on an abstract thought and an abstract speech
We are the already cooked stuff that enters your veins
more hot than blood
We are the bitterness of death
We are the sweetness of a peach.
We are the happiness of dust, rotten
We are the filthy beauty
and most likely to be
soon forgotten.

So all there is
is poppy seeds
poppy seeds
poppy seeds
poppy seeds
poppy seeds
poppy seeds
poppy seeds
poppy seeds
on the floor, on the sink
on the table, the bath tub
the bodies and maybe even the souls
of us fowls.

A continuous howl
we went with
and there will be
more time to spend, waste
and kill.