Within a context.
I burn like fire
In a fish-tank.
I make music in England.
In America, I make a business.
It's always positive,
Especially after plurals and apostrophes.
Next to the philosophy of catastrophe
Indifference melts...
In wine, mineral spirits and other spirits,
Like clear guitar,
And memories,
Carried by a windy sun.
In anger,
I possessed no one.
In fact, the anger
Possessed me.
In the fuel
Of pre-paid for decisions,
I had a clue.
It matched up with never-land,
And characters arose
From all my suppressed emotion.
From Egyptian mummies
To Olympic Pheonixes,
I had a chance
To share with you a peice of me––
The real me.
The magician.
The mage.
The wand he held.
He handed it to me.
I put it in my quiver,
And, it's supplements, I placed
In my tool-box.
Attachments for war,
And additions for peace.
Arrow-heads for lust,
And paint bristles to provoke.
I painted targets,
Then removed the brush
From the head,
Screwed on a pointed blade,
And sprung a bulls-eye.
An inside thing.
An inspiration.
A fire.
A stirring
Of something.
A lead.
An own-stand.
A connection
Through independence.
Rubble can't be betrayed.
It's the foundation
For new vision
From where both
The undead and
The Pheonix arise.
eVan––May 2010
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