Such Stuff as Dreams...

We had fostered a feeling of light,
I thought.
We had tried to make a claim.
I’m still finding myself wallowing,
Everyday feels the same.
It’s a brutish uphill fight.
Fire roaring in the edge of endless night,
With no one there to comfort you,
With no one waiting at home.

A day late,
A dollar short.
I’m drunk again,
But it’s good sport

I felt the sea was for you and me,
You and me.
I felt the sea was for you and me,
But it could only be
For one.
So I let you drift away,
Away from me.
Your fingers slipped through mine,
Away from me.
More I feel the sea is calling me,
Calling me,
To die alone.
A curse only a sailor can truly know,
To die in the dark, cold sea.
But then we care all sailors,
Aren’t we?
I felt the sea was for you and me,
But that was just a dream.

Nights Lament, BD Starling.

When you thought you were done,
That red light turns you on.
We’re just pawns.
Making moves in space.
Waiting for dawn.
Saving face.
And then the bottle brings
You back.
Chilled and salacious,
Maybe I could hold my tongue tonight.
I’ve been taught to speak my mind,
Not hit the road.
We’re shitkickers
On spacerock.
You figure it out.

BD Starling

By every definition,
They must collect.
It is not by their choice,
And they are thrown to the sands of
Waiting to implode,
As power cannot sustain itself.
Lonely star,
Glowing brightly….

Who was that black whistle for?
My neck has not stuck up from fear in Quite a while.
We count out friends.
Tabs paid.
Quite a while…
We waited in the lobby for names to be Called.
Not nobody wasn’t called.
Black tambourine.

-All Souls Day, 1972, Des Places, Macabre, Canary Islands.


I’ve thought about a lot of things.
That Indian ochre paints the horizon
And that dead cat hollered for a while before giving up.
It seems like life was a silly attempt.
We’re always trying to make something out of nothing,
You know.
I was almost totally, nearly, completely burnt out.
Yellow gazing.
A really swell way to pass along the time,
Thinking about things all the while
Until that day my mind stopped hollering and I’d become mere maggot sport,
Buried out in the backyard in a bag.

- Correspondence of the patron, Hebert Alemus Jones, to B. D. Starling circa 1849, Peru, Indiana.

If things are forgotten,
It is as if they never existed.

Work and toil,
But keep eyes on your spoil.
All we want is to lay fine pipes in the Kitchens of Queens.

-bd starling

Does all my life settle down,
The trip has subsided and
Mine eyes,
You shit cad…
I was smacked out of my mind
Prior to this moment.
It’s funny.
I’m a shitty guy. Get out.
Leguish. Leftish.
Both tits.
Act as if the time is for us.
Hearts and minds.
Shitty bitches.
Smiles are lies for cheap, white folks.
Loved you once.