Sunday, December 9, 2012

Boxcar (Cover)

You're not punk, and I'm telling everyone.




Save your breath, I never was one.
You don't know what I'm all about.
Like killing cops and reading Kerouac.

My enemies are all too familiar.
They're the ones who used to call me friend.
I'm coloring outside your guidelines.
I was passing out when you were passing our your rules.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Who's punk what's the score?

Got a friend. Her name is Boxcar.
Cigarettes and beer in El Sob.
Her hair was blue, now it's green.
I like her mind. She hates the scene.

My enemies are all too familiar.
They're the ones who used to call me friend.
I'm coloring outside your guidelines.
I was passing out when you were passing our your rules.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Who's punk what's the score?

You're on your own.
You're all alone.


--- JAWBREAKER

Monday, September 17, 2012

The World on Fire

The world on fire...
taxi from Africa...
the grand hotel...
He was drunk a big party last night 
back going back In all directions 
sleeping these insane hours 
I"ll never wake up In a good mood again 
I"m sick of these stinky boots

- Jim Morrison

Saturday, June 9, 2012

The Reason I Write

The reason I write

is to make something

as beautiful as you are

When I’m with you

I want to be the kind of hero

I wanted to be

when I was seven years old

a perfect man

who kills

-L. Cohen

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Looting The Tomb





Looting The Tomb
Was it instinct or addiction
that led me back to this creekbed
to walk upon it’s mossy rocks?
What is this compulsion
to feel winter’s frigid whip
of wind crack against my cheek,
to camouflage my hands
with fragrant mud?
The blackthorn cane I bought in Dublin
dug up bones of an animal
that had forgotten it’s name and structure,
this Humpty Dumpty’s time-stained shellbits
laid there deconstructed and jumbled
among the acorns, twigs, and deadsoggy leaves.
I collected the remains
of the body’s collapsed frame
and put them in my jacket --
there was a feeling of weird power
when I stuck those fleshless bits
of death into my nervous pocket --
a scalpel blade of clarity sliced through
mind’s skin and I split-second glimpsed
into the open wound:
I learned that I’ve lived through each forever
and will never cease to be;
that nothing has ever died;
that death cannot destroy,
only rearrange the shapes --
it’s unbending metal hangers
to unlock the bedroom door.

copyright 2003 eric d. meyer