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Poem

Dreams of tropical beaches
The dead won't let me sleep
Money got me always on my feet
A certain gift a contempt behind closed doors
The sweetness of life illusions spelled out in a dream
The dead won't let me weep
Never ashamed but rather in awe
Some kind of wonder that deulification 
To match your hypnotic blame
Just you be certain
I become a cowboy when all around me is shame
I carry a gun to keep your demons away
This pen won't kill me in my sleep
Obscure songs trap me in a theatre with hand puppets and magic wands
To always bring me back to a time without a clock
Just an old cabin a squeaky door and a dog laying on the floor
The dead makes me remember
To wake up early when the sun brings life to its feet
Riding into the edge of dawn
Flying with grace how she wore swan song feathers
When I was 7 I could have been 9
But back then it was the life of a band.
So here I sit
Just waiting for the man
Dedicated to John Cale and Jim Morrison
And 1969

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