Muses come again to me, leaving the gold house.
Do your cool thoughts and wanton heart
still weight upon your brow?
I felt it too on the hill of the muse
staring at the Aegean Sea.
What worries you, my tenth dark muse,
well, it worries me.
Phaedo laid his perfect head on the lap of Socrates.
He loved him then at the trials end
and he cried into his knees.
Old Socrates would still drink the tea
and twist Phaedo’s golden curls.
The last thing he said was to fix a debt
and then he died quiet for the world.
Oh, what love.
Lorca raised his heavy head to stare into the trees.
He didn’t know how but he held dark sound
in his small body.
They killed him then, you know they shot him dead,
scared of that true beauty.
More powerful than the cry of the war
was a love a lightning.
In a dream Johnny saw a picture of the new humans.
They were beautiful, blue skinned and bright,
they were soft and genderless.
And when they spoke, not through their throats
but through their golden eyes,
the whole of the world was a golden curl
sheered from the lamb of the sky.
And oh, what love.
When the pastor says God,
well I just replace it with Love.
Rilke said it can’t come until the end.
So don’t wait for a savior,
save your own savior,
because all of us will add up to one.
We are what makes it come,
when all us add up to one.
When I meditate your body enters mine.
I am blue and so are you
and we lie in the yellow light.
It is more than love it is a step above
see we are crosses on the sun.
You are more than you in electric blue
you’ve got the shine of a chosen one.