What Are Words?

What are words really? The dawn of a new day, smoke filled room with dirty underwear, I, eye, goose and gander, love, hate, good and bad, up and down, pink flowers, strawberry jam. God, my head hurts and my ears are ringing.

What are words really? running late, I'm to early, I can hardly breath I took a a big breath, red licorice and apple juice with red lipstick. Got milk, have a V8, ring the bell, don't knock, knock don't ring the bell, to many words, not enough words.

What are words really? Bag of beans, son of a gun, and Lay's potato chips, oh oh yes please. Religion, losing it, freedom of what? what's free? Advertise here, no soliciting, no loitering, hang out,
I need a cigarette. Bounce the ball, bat the ball, God I need a nap.

What are words really? Take your pick say them all, say none of them it matters not it is just vibrations that clang and knock each other around until the right sound and word come tumbling out.

What?

Dress Rehersal...

The "GIG" every nerve inside screaming with pleasure..it is that raw primal no hold back let her rip..The sweat lies still wet, and slight musty smell lingers, towel in hand whispers "stop". In this moment right now, the canvases are waiting for the hanging, like a noose around my neck..Is it right? Two shadows battling for the prize..one who reeks of "the show must go on", the other heckles why? You are no-body..The two meld into the background, damn abyss..24 hrs from a high or low but nothing in between. All Or Nothing!!!

Perfection and Seduction dressed(perfect outfit lies tight to the body every curve draws the eye) to muse or amuse..The art giggles, we are not the show, The ARt-Tist plays the role. All this in DRESS REHEARSAL ,  Imagine the show!!!!

Twelve hours..illusions take over, will I rise?

Whiter Shade of Pale

Alive, not really- as ARt-Tist grabs the pack of cigs loads one to the mouth , t-shirt filled with a lifetime of memories the smell wafts up. Visions and thoughts clouded and boggy. Messes, yes messes, "where's the fricken lighter" falling to the center of the studio lost in dreams of of shows gone by my hands show the time in the wrinkles they lay. Canvases everywhere the story lays out,

It is a Whiter Shade of Pale, lights the cigarette watching the smoke dance against the shadow of the street lamp.