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Kiss Me Kiss Me Angel
(c) natsukoarts 1996
Boy lazed back on summer night
/ Mouth spread wide for candy
Longing for a pulsing beat / To fill his shell up empty
Air curled round his lanky arms / Whispered to him psychic
Drifting toward oblivion / The boy he seemed to like it
Touching on his empty soul / Massaging him with lust
His heroine a pretty lass / Dressed in angel dust
She took him like a virgin pure / Slapped him till he cried
Never did he hesitate / Or from her try to hide
Until a slave he came to her / Hurt and crushed, destroyed
Longing always for her touch / The pretty lass in angel dust
Slowly, slowly falling / Desire always calling
Make love to every night / Taught him how to fly
On wings of dusting powder / Louder, louder, louder
Unending boy in lust / For angels dressed in dust
They mate for life like flys / Till death / and then he dies
Angel, angel lust / Angel draped in dust / Kiss me, kiss me, Angel
Blues de Vivre
(c) 1996 natsukoarts
got a sound in my head that jivin' me round
gain on rapture, distort-overdrive
which way to the blues my dark wild child?
got a rhythum is ringin' and spurrin' me on
down in the alley, runnin' me gone
got a bruise in my heart, head in my pocket
loose change in my wallet and a cup full of dimes
got a street corner venue, wired by my side
and my honey is singing' leadin' me on
got a blues in my pocket with my pick on her fret
and i'm feelin' her up
as good as it gets
an orgasm message in G7 curls
my bluebird, my baby, my les paul, my girl
Excerpts from Tight Street
(c)2003. natsukoarts
There are places in my mind that are no longer real
They trip fantastical in supple droplets of
pre-cognition and I like a spider
can see though key holes into your brian...
Excerpts from Nonchalence Vodka
(c)2003. natsukoarts
Night murdered day coming into reality with a sublime hesitation
unable to recover from the guilt
of his previous debauchery.
Ameliano threw himself down on the floor of his flat and proceeded
to re-induce his drunk with an unseemly nonchalence...
Ameliano on Writing
(c)2004. natsukoarts
I
am a writer. I type, I drink. I smoke. I puke. I inspire.
The words like fuel ring around my soul uncontrollable and I can
not move
without them spinning about my heart. They dig into my soul and
rip out
things I have never seen deep inside my psyche. They frighten and
wrench from me hurts i have not yet come to realize. And they sting me straight through.
They drive me and kill me and make me spill blood and bile and like
passion's sword uncontrollable I must answer to them, their exacting roles and I like a pawn can not escape their very essence
for they are me, and I am them and like the addiction of a spectre, they kill without discrimination and take me with them,
like bleeders and leeches on my spirit, contaminated by a risen dark behind my blacked out melecholic soul. Psychosis.
I hurt, and die in vain, droplets of adjectives and indirect
verbs stinging my eye balls like sutras chanted on rainy days, in doledrums over and over
unable to escape that which will be my ruin.
This is my body, this is my blood, do this in the rememberence of
we
the words...
"i need a drink!"
On New York
(c)2003. natsukoarts
the night sparkles twinkly lights in my city
a mess of bourgeois poseurs and run-red light lines
i can not abide by the doledrums that posess me
and long once more for my notorious underground
the N&R billowing down on my lifeforce, driving me forward
longing for the grime, the derelict soul that powers my city...
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