Glam


“I always had the repulsive need to be something more than human”. – David Bowie

Isn’t it time, you stopped looking through the eyes, where you can’t see, tore that mask, that hides your beauty, let your love be glam and free!

Upon a night, such as this one, when the dragon came to me. Opened its own mysteries, and it said its time to see. That the way you identify a problem is the issue you can’t see, for the answers in the glitter of what you want to be. All my life I’ve heard voices, from both inside and outside of me. Each with their own hypnotic trances, order and in tranquility, order, based on my consumption of what they would have me be. But tonight, while there is something, that flies backwards across the moon, I will take a small discretion, and my mask will slip into its eternity.

This old world has maps and orders, closet trans genders in board rooms, good people who die for a little money, that prostitutes them to their doom, behind each mask there is a glory, a rhyme that has a truth or two, and now the devils in the details, but my real face is coming through. I say hello Mr. Bolan, Alice Cooper, eyeliner darker than most, Ziggy Stardust up in heaven, whose moves G_D loves the most. Those who say you’re just hiding are the ones who just are never free. Isn’t it time you loved your beauty, fly the dragon, unmask with me.

Ever since I was a little boy there’s been something wanting to escape me. What a joy it was to discover, it was the death mask that I could not see. For the artist that rest upon you is not a candle, a small flame that most can’t see, it’s a wild fire surging, most times uncontrollably. In glam I write a wild fervor, that comes and takes your soul, isn’t it time you came to truth and let yourself go!

Isn’t it time, you stopped looking through the eyes, where you can’t see, tore that mask, that hides your beauty, let your love be glam and free!

For keeping a promise to Mr. Waite, whom I admire his glam the most! – 07.07.2017 – דָּנִיֵּאל

Chaowai (Shades)

In Chaowai, there are shades, sweet spices, voices, California expressions in Beijing walls, women on women, ghost from past social registers that come to call.

Maryanne in lurid beauty comes to call in 29, milky skin she’s a cutie, a parasol that turns a dime. Like a doctor to see a lawyer, eyes slanted in their mist, Ruan leaves her hands on her breast, and some say their cocaine prints. There was a time in San Francisco, Maryanne would walk on, not fall in jades of darkness, wet love, no not at all.   But the shades, in old Peking, that entice her, the sliding body on the bed, it’s the haunting of past kingdoms, it’s the lust in her head.  Greetings tea, libraries, dynasties, tombs, and all seduction, a passion on a nationalist fray, shades of sixty-nine, such fun, while soldiers walk by such an ordinary day.

Ruan turns her parasol, eyes brown, maybe gray, instantly haunted, while the California woman shades her body, she’s a flapper, she sashays. The year of the snake, shadows on the wall, erotica, haunted, together, come to California with me, there in wine, and cocaine with Maryanne, more than a Chinese shade to me. Ruan takes her cigarette, her long, unbroken smoke, and turns to write epithets on the papered wall.

Liang watches his smoke curdle, he’s a solider, with broken dreams, dead inside with all the opium, oh his spirit how it screams.  And at night while in Xiang, bloody and ruined in war, he taste and sees, shades in Chaowai, woman on woman, such rumors he can’t ignore.  He waits his mind on providence, his soul ground to the bone.  His knifes of his negotiation, letters of promises, the facts that he has known, and he waits, in shades, so long in shades.

The night it falls, in baritone, neither heavy nor deep, in cocaine, in skin, like cotton, while torches light the keep, and the music of love, the music of sex, and the moans that haunts us all. A horsemen he comes riding his anger will not stall.  That officer in brown and green striding, his opium, those eyes that gleam. A matter of time worth taking, the matter of the seam.

Oh Liang, home from yellow rage, the fevers and blood, the bedroom door is open, there the making of the lust. Through terrible music and passionate screams their bodies unfolding, while his knife sings, the bloody illusion in ole Peking, of Ruan and Maryanne dead while echoes ring.

It’s true just now, as I walk through this house, this craven reminder of 1929, at 21 Chaowai, two woman wait, to be released from a maddening fate, that accompli with knives that Liang spelled, blessed by a spirit by the opium wells. I feel them, their bodies, in shades not new, waiting in this house for someone to let them loose.

In Chaowai, there are shades, sweet spices, voices, California expressions in Beijing walls, women on women, ghost from past social registers that come to call.

In Beijing in Chaowai (SoHo) 21 to be exact, among the glass and plastic stands an old house. If you go inside, you will find shades of a story. Shades of Maryanne of California and Ruan from Peking. It is 1929. Liang the Nationalist Officer is there too. The jealous husband with his knives. – 06.24.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל


American Rubber (Anybody There) – 1983


She wants to go, ride, and ride hard, with me along this white sandy sheet. Shakespeare’s crashed, and all my dramas bled into a sleeve, and washed into latex swirling in that gulf so deep. We can listen to Blackmore, and party in a ‘Stone Cold” sea, go to kiss so wet along this silent beach. American rubber, and a Moosehead cold, lights in the wilderness, allow us to become so bold. And while I swim in pleasure, and lose my heart, perhaps I want an answer on why did we start. Anybody there to guide me, a man perhaps to tell me, in soft skin she climbs up on me, and my eyes won’t close, no they won’t close.

Twenty-two, I’m crazy, looking at the hazy sky, so low, wishing I was alone, just alone to wonder why. Questions in the dark along a darkened sea, rolling in the tide, just like her body grabs me. Anybody there to guide me, feeling my self-release in her below, American rubber you come and hold my soul, my fallen soul. Tasting her neck, I hear the sea roll, I turn my eyes see the horizon glow, her skin flavored salt dripping from the water I suppose, just another element I know.

I thought this so easy, this ride, slipping in, another Moosehead, and she wants us to try again. England Dan and Mr. John Ford Coley pull all the “Falling Stars” in a hurry, for twice in a row, her face seems so blurry. Can anybody tell me, her breast closing in, is this just by instinct, or is love a sin. American rubber, two for a note, my love for a dollar, her tongue near my throat. For far up above us a spirit looks down, swirling in wonder, at what it has found, a boy and his questions of now fallen youth, descended from passion, his heart now forsook. Anybody there to guide me, a man perhaps to tell me, in soft skin she climbs up on me, and my eyes won’t close, no they won’t close. – 5.25.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

 

“My head is saying, “No”
But my heart keeps giving in
So hard to let it go
When it’s there under my skin
Well, if this is the face of a sinner
And if heaven is only for winners
Well, I don’t care
‘Cause I won’t know anybody there
Thought that I’d let it slide
But it’s me that’s slipping in
Thought that I’d go for a ride
Before this crash I’m dying in
Well, if I’m judged on the life I’ve been living
And if heaven is not so forgiving
Well, I don’t care
‘Cause I won’t know anybody there
I don’t care
‘Cause I won’t know anybody there
My head is saying, “No”
But my heart keeps giving in
So hard to let it go
When it’s there under my skin
Well, if I’m judged on the life I’ve been living
And if heaven is not so forgiving
Well, I don’t care
‘Cause I won’t know anybody there
I don’t care
‘Cause I won’t know anybody there
I don’t care,
‘Cause I won’t know anybody there
Is there anybody there?
Is there anybody there?
Is there anybody there?”
Songwriters
O’DONOGHUE, DANIEL JOHN / SHEEHAN, MARK ANTHONY
Published by
Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group


The Time Traveler (Into the Night)

Command me art by many names, know me young lover who often came, know me by feeling not reason or part. Into the garden my spirit departs. Know me through vale of that not seen, I crossed over to take you in all of your dreams.

She takes it careful, a step at a time, down the dark and narrow, to the screen door of time. She opened nervous, she opens wide, she opens the garden, that side of her mind. Those nerves waiting, nothing to lose, inside a woman, undone, no ruse. Arrows are flying across the open sky, July temperatures are making the heat high, and oh my, what’s a budding flower to do. So this side garden with black soil, nigh, some places it clashes with the tan of your thighs. Oh girl! What’s a time traveler to do, come down like magic, kisses and rhyme, lick all your sorrows, taste you so fine, and it’s true, magic comes to those who fall through. Oh it might be, a way of the moon, the heat of summer that scribes the rune, but oh my love, this time traveler is through. This time traveler is through.

Into the night, the thought and I, Polaroid hues, and you. One step than two until, I lay you down, shadows entwined moving with sound. Taste me, faster, feel like a spark, my back bent forward touching your dark. From way back then, archers seek, the sky, there in the garden, there we do meet. Let loose your arrows bring me down, down even lower, into the ground, touch you where you want me too. For such a lifetime you’ve thought I would. Breathe in your rapture, darkness sweet nectar now. Here in the garden the only sound. Our bodies different if you want it true, but oh my love, this time traveler is through. This time traveler is through.

Variable stars, July formation, physical track of my illumination. Come I through a dangerous pass, come into the garden, where we used to laugh, and turn, see the many colors of earth, my face above yours, then beneath your girth, all ages pass before now. All these dreams they ask for how. Let the garden hold you dear, hold you tight, into the night, your mind so clear. Unfold your creases, fill you sublime, move your hips faster, faster than mine. Walk you through your waist so wet, lay you down your tender back, and if you want me too, before were through, this time traveler will be me in you. There this garden beneath us lie, no false danger underneath light sky, and into the night I cum in you, but oh my love this time traveler is through. This time traveler is through.

Command me art by many names, know me young lover who often came, know me by feeling not reason or part. Into the garden my spirit departs. Know me through vale of that not seen, I crossed over to take you in all of your dreams. – 05.18.2015 – דָּנִיֵּאל

The Witxch (A Psalm of Eros)


She’s older, she’s younger, and she’s music of need, ethereal, keys moving, wishing relief. The path in the garden, the one she will choose, and loosen her garment, the witxch ere he moves.

My older legs against the wall, for if I tell you speak of all, that magic spell that’s in my side that erupts pleasure makes it nice. What turn I this a gift to you that comes, in sinew, through and through. While lovers gasp in air of last, my spirit takes you shoving fast. This witxch, this witxch that comes through me, that loves to love and sometimes leaves. This treasure in the night or day, spinning your hips, your moisture play, and then on top on down you come, your back in stars, and water sums. Hold me, hold me, upon the bridge between your sighs, while lovers breathe, and change the world where shadows play, into your longing, of foreplay.

Older a plain of running sieves, when we made pleasure in the leaves, when fall, came down, we could not last, joined in our bodies, fuming fast. Groaned on we, took the wind that blows and brings a hurricane to our bow, and shot our soul into the sea, did you not scream do me, do me. Anthology of all sexual past, of arms and breast and paths through past. To come together in the dark, sweet beat of organs, from first spark, that brings you, on me to call out, for tasting nether where passion starts. Where bodies writhe in wayward games, and breath so heavy in their stay. Oh beam of human that will not last join into spirits, free at last, for Eros flies in mind unseen, releases nerves all energy, and cums and cums, and licks away, what word of stillness that moans with play.

Have you sweet woman wished a witxch, that there shy lad, with dark eyes thick. Did you not know when ember flames, and moons cross meadows, high western plains? It is then he turns into rain. And, his hard sex, becomes the prose, that takes you under, as he goes. Beyond all era time of the past, be still the future, while you bed, and then until your stated still, your perspired body, has had its fill. No one will know, the screams you’ve had, in privacy, the night done past. Has this now made you want the spell of witxch’s garden, from the well?

She’s older, she’s younger, and she’s music of need, ethereal, keys moving, wishing relief. The path in the garden, the one she will choose, and loosen her garment, the witxch ere he moves. – 05.12.2015 –
דָּנִיֵּאל