treemeat

I had no idea what me fucking around on Blip.fm would do to my LiveJournal. What a mess!

this is my favourite song. ever.

i am sweeping in the wind,
and you are a leaf!
you are golden, amber sun
dancing at my feet.
golden, lilac scented wind -
where is my broom?
i think of you,
i think of you.

let us drink of red wine sutras!
& baptize our naked bodies in flowing rivers,
offering up our verses to the ancient heathen gods of all first nations
& for the only truly divine mercy, we will drink.
let us offer up these pens & text messages
in hope of satori moments & sincerity
& we will drink for the truth
& the past, & friends could-been seperated by lives.
let us toast to tomorrow & cheers how little we know today!
and light candles for cummings & kerouac &
bodhisattvas unknownst to ye yet.

drink i say

the land of zed

in comic book colours you became cliches
with hedonist smiles your trendy mistake
and all in all at the end of the day
you've become what your songs screamed about
you vain scenester, vain


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the curse of the human condition is the inevitability of finding comfort in even the most fucked up of situations. the mind always seeks to become content. it is in these moments of calm that you must desperately, eagerly and passionately lash out. a change in scenery is only a step away and remember that clarity comes with crooked teeth. xox.

- jms/treemeat

full moon, glory moon
and me, sitting on street curbs
stoned, bored and tired
at ungodly hours! on street curbs

with eyes on park across the street
wet grass is cold on my bare feet -

in my mind
this isn't far from a place
i used to go at night

with the sun on
wrinkled bed sheets
your lips are satori

internal sun fires, shine on!
ignore this lack of confidence
and compounded doubt,
born of paper and pen
and wandered roads spread too thin.

bless'ed sacred mother
give me the strength to live again,
to be again,
to strike these matches - to ask of you in flames

cleanse me of these quiet sins
forever and a day

amen.

pretty girl
on picnic blanket
leans in

i want wind to blow -
o'er me.
please be over me,
consume me
pour over me.

i am the sacrifice,
& i've seen the light
and felt cold mud on my bare feet.
i've been delight,
and the sun beating upon you.

you are the tempo
the pulse, the beat -
you are grass stained knees,
yellow dandelion'd feet
while my hands are stained with ethiopian coffee
beans.

there's a bumble bee on,
my naked knee!
we stare each other down.

existential wanderings,
i am gone but not forgotten.
four years on a lightly treaded road have left me stale and uninviting -
the road is ever winding and truancy is the new messiah.
i will lace up my shoes and drink from our over flowing cup,
these first few steps will be my sacred vow.
until.,

i have a sour throat

thursday.
lost myself again today
so, sitting in a field
hiding under blue bucket hat
and a joint in my hand
i got high to phish
looking at a pink sky
and grown ups walking dogs.

fraturday.
the next day after eating delicious cheese cake with sweet cherries on top and drinking iced lemonade i watched blue jays and cardinals bathe before heading home. i stopped on my way to get high in a park and a rabbit sat next to me smelling the air for five minutes. and for five minutes i was the sixties incarnate. at that particular moment mr.davis blasts a trumpet in my ear and i notice all of the ants crawling on me and the little fly relaxing on my knee. a robin hopped up to very stoned me, my friend the rabbit, my little socialist buddies and a lazy fly on my knee, cocked his head and hopped away. it was at that moment i laughed and told disney to eat their hearts out. now i'm sitting here sipping my vodka in massive gulps in this god damn heat and i'm missing that rabbit and that shitfuck fly can go fuck himself.

and you showed me new york city in the dawn
and like two eyes required to see depth,
it takes two souls to see life.
in my foreign dialect ariane means wonder.
from mount olympus we drink tea in awe,
it's said that word play is the foreplay of the gods.

of jazz and slender cigarettes
of street lights and speeding cars
of dancing girls and hungry boys
of feeding souls, the night begins
the cadence rhythm takes control
there's sweaty palms and drunken kids
and pounding hearts, the air thickens
of one last breath before the dive
the city soars, the soul's alive

need a little sym.pathy
i wish i had a little permanence. god i want a little sta-bility. fuck i want the sun and leaves. i want to skinny-dip in my rivver. man, i want to make some tunes and make them dance. fuck, i just want a little sec-ur-ity. i want a hug. i want a warm coffee in my favorite. mug. i want to float on a calm lake. i want to be called by my full name. play some tunes with me. make me feel alright.

i want to jive.

fade away -
don't know about suicide
and cold days make me realize
hallowed youth and songs of rememberance
tripped on holidays and deceptions
mother, mother just one last time
one i'm sorry, one can die

and i cry, and i cry, and i cry.

silly train, clack clack clack
traveling down the track track track
clickity clack, i go with jack
breakity brack, i write for jack
kerouac

the tree is wise and ever watching; the rock is indifferent to all but those who roll; the earth is our mother and she loves us, her soil is a sponge for our bad deeds; the wind is a secret friend and the rain is forgiving. the ocean is to be respected because she drowns young men; the lake, well it just likes to play. the man is by nature self serving, the woman a dangerous creature (but i love her anyway). the mountains are veracious and born of feuding parents while the valley is simply boy crazy. the road goes on and on and while it is a child of what we call mankind, never the less leads me to my next thought.

jack holden was a good looking kid, ever popular and always got good grades. in highschool he was on the foot ball team and well liked amongst all the petty cliques. he graduated with honours and recieved a full scholarship to queens univerisity and graduated at the top of his class.

on a warm summer night august 27th 1972, two days before his twenty-fourth birthday jack put Catch Bull at Four, the new cat stevens album, on his record player and wrote in his journal. he ran himself a warm bath and poured himself a glass of wine. slipping into the tub, music still playing he wrote one last line in his journal and then delicately closed it and set it on the table next to him. taking a sip of wine he pressed his fountain pen down on his wrist with his thumb and forcefully jerked it back towards his forearm. 'ruins' continued to play in the background until the needle skipped, lifted and returned to its resting position.

that was the story of jack holdens life, and this song is for him.

[mp3 eventually goes here]

lyrics go a little something like this,

i am not this
i am not me,

past the roads and telephone poles,
you'll find me there

i am not free,
this is not me