.
MODERN ROMANCE
My feeble fingers trace the crack running through the hot green fuse
Of this flower which none can rend, our love which fills this room whose
Crack runs deep and wide and cold and black, all the way down to the bittersweet end
Of our melded bodies, ripe with booze. Floating in this room, we send
Salvation forth to softly attack any creature wearing shoes.
Light rays bend around our shack and penetrate this love we lend.
My feeble eardrums trace the click of your tongue as it polishes off each phrase.
Built upon a foundation of sand, our language possesses the strength to seize
The power and glory of our hearts, as we lie upon this auctioned land
We thought we owned and realize that those who own each hand and gland
Of us, each ditch and prick, have set us dancing to a sadder jazz
That’s left a crack through each lovelick on lip and hip and mind and sand.
You listen to my engine knock and ask me why I choose to lose.
I tune my brain to the tunes of Bach, ill-tempered bastards, bent on fending
Off old age, and so they choose instead to tread the darkness, Zenned
And drunk on bigoted blindness. Talk about drug problems! Look wh woos
Complacency! Let us unlock another universe, Dear Friend.
My feeble fingers trace the wick and light the flame and watch it freeze.
Beaten, robbed, raped, tortured, skinned, I lie in sun in plastic chaise
And ponder in the sky a slick of toxic waste. Our parents sinned
And put our teeth on edge to ease their cowardice and so we’re pinned
Beneath a bulldozer. And the hick at the controls is a bum who plays
Crap with our bones and leaves a crick from neck to toe, as we face the wind.
My feeble fingers trace the lack of newness in what we call “the news”.
What I feel for you is blended into my heart’s opposing views.
Floating in this room, we wrack Reality so as to amend
10,000 years of unsung blues.
We dance a world-weary day and spend our was on crap to please the pack.
I lick your cut; you lick my bruise, as hand-in-hand we try to hack
Meaning where these light rays bend.
Words and Music by Galen Green c 1986
.
Friday, June 6, 2008
"Here, Now, Always" by Galen Green (c. 1986)
.
HERE, NOW, ALWAYS
1.
Here, now, ends another summer, half a world from Mozambique.
Here I touch your tender cheek, you who are my love, my timer.
Here we make our carnival, spirit-filled and sexual.
Here, now, I’ll start thinking slimmer to the warm tones of autumn’s viola,
And the leaf hues of its orange crayola. Be here now, with me, calmer
Than the hands of summer’s embalmer, as autumn winds begin to hammer.
2.
Here, now, I’m the lucky winner of autumn’s merciless unloading.
And though I feel our time eroding, there’s still time for me to play the sinner
With you whenever we can sequester an hour or two, this fall semester.
Here, now, always, I taste the gin or bourbon of your flesh that’s dripping
Into touch with autumn, whipping at our backs and at our inner
Beings. I’ll be your beginner, here, now, always, until dinner.
3.
Always, you have been my honor, bubbly sweet as diet cola,
Nourishing as a bowl of granola. Now, though, I’ve become a gonner
Into this autumn wind, decoding impulses from our cells, corroding,
Humming like a piano tuner. Here, now, always, this antique
Oneness makes me play your geek, stumbling forward with your banner,
Here, now, always, in the manner of some lone long-distance runner.
4.
Be with me here, now, sooner than the sound of this unzipping,
Nearer than this autumn nipping at our heels as summer’s crooner
Fades into the mystical distance like a testicle.
Be with me here, as this nooner makes me your enraptured jester.
Autumn plays the ripe ancestor to our flesh, grown closer, vainer
Than what it was and all the saner than this wind, its entertainer.
5.
Here, now, always, we shall enter into touchings we can’t speak,
In English, Babytalk or Greek. Here, as in a Harold Pinter
Play, we move by autumn’s goading toward each other’s arms, foreboding,
Traveling toward some sucking center. Be with me as the Victrola
Of time runs down like the Enola’s gay propeller. We’re the inventor
Of our love, the experimenter, its fuel, its victims, its tormentor.
Words and Music by Galen Green c 1986
.
HERE, NOW, ALWAYS
1.
Here, now, ends another summer, half a world from Mozambique.
Here I touch your tender cheek, you who are my love, my timer.
Here we make our carnival, spirit-filled and sexual.
Here, now, I’ll start thinking slimmer to the warm tones of autumn’s viola,
And the leaf hues of its orange crayola. Be here now, with me, calmer
Than the hands of summer’s embalmer, as autumn winds begin to hammer.
2.
Here, now, I’m the lucky winner of autumn’s merciless unloading.
And though I feel our time eroding, there’s still time for me to play the sinner
With you whenever we can sequester an hour or two, this fall semester.
Here, now, always, I taste the gin or bourbon of your flesh that’s dripping
Into touch with autumn, whipping at our backs and at our inner
Beings. I’ll be your beginner, here, now, always, until dinner.
3.
Always, you have been my honor, bubbly sweet as diet cola,
Nourishing as a bowl of granola. Now, though, I’ve become a gonner
Into this autumn wind, decoding impulses from our cells, corroding,
Humming like a piano tuner. Here, now, always, this antique
Oneness makes me play your geek, stumbling forward with your banner,
Here, now, always, in the manner of some lone long-distance runner.
4.
Be with me here, now, sooner than the sound of this unzipping,
Nearer than this autumn nipping at our heels as summer’s crooner
Fades into the mystical distance like a testicle.
Be with me here, as this nooner makes me your enraptured jester.
Autumn plays the ripe ancestor to our flesh, grown closer, vainer
Than what it was and all the saner than this wind, its entertainer.
5.
Here, now, always, we shall enter into touchings we can’t speak,
In English, Babytalk or Greek. Here, as in a Harold Pinter
Play, we move by autumn’s goading toward each other’s arms, foreboding,
Traveling toward some sucking center. Be with me as the Victrola
Of time runs down like the Enola’s gay propeller. We’re the inventor
Of our love, the experimenter, its fuel, its victims, its tormentor.
Words and Music by Galen Green c 1986
.
"There's A Worm In My Future" by Galen Green (c. 1989)
.
THERE’S A WORM IN MY FUTURE
There’s a worm in my future, you sexy creature,
And that’s why, tonight I’ll worship the moist
Folds of your presence before it goes
The way of all flesh, the way which Great Nature
Has programmed us both to go. Who knows
With what foul virus these hours be laced?
There’s a worm in my future. So tonight I’ll hoist
What’s left of me to drink in each feature
Of you, my goddess, my purple rose.
There’s a worm in my future. And when I’m deceased,
It’s not going to matter which position we chose
Tonight, as we feel the wings of that vulture
Who’ll pick clean our beautiful folds which have voiced
Love’s lame complaints. Let’s forget that stretcher
Which will tote us away to where we can’t expose
Nature for the monster She is, who’d bulldoze
A love like this one we share in the creased
Darkness, which swallows us up like our culture.
There’s a worm in my future. And that’s why I pose
Here with you, so the children of the future
Can see what we were, me with my greased
Back smile and you with that cute little nose.
There’s a worm in my future.
And that’s why love’s boisterous
Tunes flow out of my fingers to torture
Nature’s foul program, that this darkness might suture
Our souls, that here, where brief love glows,
Your flesh might prove my flesh’s Christ.
Words and Music by Galen Green c 1989
.
THERE’S A WORM IN MY FUTURE
There’s a worm in my future, you sexy creature,
And that’s why, tonight I’ll worship the moist
Folds of your presence before it goes
The way of all flesh, the way which Great Nature
Has programmed us both to go. Who knows
With what foul virus these hours be laced?
There’s a worm in my future. So tonight I’ll hoist
What’s left of me to drink in each feature
Of you, my goddess, my purple rose.
There’s a worm in my future. And when I’m deceased,
It’s not going to matter which position we chose
Tonight, as we feel the wings of that vulture
Who’ll pick clean our beautiful folds which have voiced
Love’s lame complaints. Let’s forget that stretcher
Which will tote us away to where we can’t expose
Nature for the monster She is, who’d bulldoze
A love like this one we share in the creased
Darkness, which swallows us up like our culture.
There’s a worm in my future. And that’s why I pose
Here with you, so the children of the future
Can see what we were, me with my greased
Back smile and you with that cute little nose.
There’s a worm in my future.
And that’s why love’s boisterous
Tunes flow out of my fingers to torture
Nature’s foul program, that this darkness might suture
Our souls, that here, where brief love glows,
Your flesh might prove my flesh’s Christ.
Words and Music by Galen Green c 1989
.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
"If I'm To Be Led" by Galen Green (1989)
IF I’M TO BE LED
If I’m to be led by my heart’s little handle,
If I’m to be enslaved to Love’s fondle, then
Let it be you who leads my soul rushing
Headlong, heartlong into Love’s hair.
Let it be you who seduces my fear
With those lips of which I shall never tire
And those arms which enfold me like a bundle
Of boyish desire and neurotic gnashing.
Let it be you who caresses my wishing.
If I’m to be led by my heart’s primal wire
Into Love’s circus like some dancing bear, then
Let it be you who gives me the needle
That stupors my soul and leads it dashing
Breathless and brainless as a river rushing.
If I’m to be bewitched by blushing nuzzles
To drown in ecstasy’s tear,
Let it be you whose wise fingers fiddle me
Forward to open and drown in Love’s middle.
If I’m to be led by my heart through this slashing
Night by a pinhole of light that’s flashing
At the end of Love’s vision, then let me dare
To let it be you whose movements addle my
Breathless brains and teach me to straddle
Love’s galloping mare or at least to peddle
This tandem tantrum in all its fishing forward.
Let it be you who draws near from
Out of this darkness to fondle my fire.
Words and Music by Galen Green c 1989
If I’m to be led by my heart’s little handle,
If I’m to be enslaved to Love’s fondle, then
Let it be you who leads my soul rushing
Headlong, heartlong into Love’s hair.
Let it be you who seduces my fear
With those lips of which I shall never tire
And those arms which enfold me like a bundle
Of boyish desire and neurotic gnashing.
Let it be you who caresses my wishing.
If I’m to be led by my heart’s primal wire
Into Love’s circus like some dancing bear, then
Let it be you who gives me the needle
That stupors my soul and leads it dashing
Breathless and brainless as a river rushing.
If I’m to be bewitched by blushing nuzzles
To drown in ecstasy’s tear,
Let it be you whose wise fingers fiddle me
Forward to open and drown in Love’s middle.
If I’m to be led by my heart through this slashing
Night by a pinhole of light that’s flashing
At the end of Love’s vision, then let me dare
To let it be you whose movements addle my
Breathless brains and teach me to straddle
Love’s galloping mare or at least to peddle
This tandem tantrum in all its fishing forward.
Let it be you who draws near from
Out of this darkness to fondle my fire.
Words and Music by Galen Green c 1989
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