Adapted From Instagram

I am that left hook. I am that Bukowski number--maybe number three. I am Chandler in a fedora as black as a midnight alley. I am the last cry between a murdered soul and the morning dove's first cry. I am the singer of sorrow who plays to the cloudy smoke from a never rising. I am the slow credits of a film noir. I am the end. I am the alley.

 

 

Burning Leaves

I bought matches from a cigarette shop

Wooden with a sulphur tip

I took dry autumn leaves from a dark park

Gathered them together in a circle 

I lit them like dried tobacco, and danced

The flames warmed my cold skin

The smoke filled my eyes 

The smoke settled deeply in my soul

I danced till the flames fell to embers

Till the last of the smoke drifted into the night

I said a breathless good-bye, and left the matches behind

The midnight bus would come soon, take me cross-city to my home

An old radiator kept me warm,

I fell asleep in a feathered bed and dreamed of burning leaves inside my soul

Sleep

I met a crazy man way down a long street,

Where other crazy men live, 

Where mad woman live as homeless as the night, 

I met a crazy man way down a long street

Over the voices of disquieted stars and a blood red moon

I listened to him speak

All the words came out at once

Spinning stories of his forever kingdom, where he is always young

He ruled the cracks in the sidewalks, so he said

The poison in his drugged veins were his subjects

What is forever young to the mad king of the streets?

I promised his mother I would look for her boy

Bring him back from his kingdom, away from the long street

Where she could feed him a warm meal

Clean his clothes

Let him wash away the soil from his skin

Let him sleep in a long bed till the drug demons in his head are no more

But he said he knew no such mother

He cried his true mother was as mad as a homeless night