Gypsy Time

Every breath like fire liquored up on dream time bellows from within,
your Dragon - the Chinese dragon, not the medieval kind.
The flame and filth of life wins out over that which guards all that you fight.
Yet still in the mud your western boots sinking
you to the Earth, to the ways of others;
you fight the Wind - carrier of 1000 evils -
stagnations, deficiencies become
your strengths.

You once felt lonely,
you grew to love the golden light shards
of mirrors birthed from every bad time --
pain, rejection, childhood ingrained in blood are some...
some you cannot rise above, so
dance to their beat, when fire of Dragon
screams from your inner molten core;
In the anger is feast, not domination
revolt with your humility, strength in numbers
beats inside the taunt skin of a drum.

Celtic campfires breed from their
original Eastern shore,
the one you are taught to forget.
They teaching you it’s not to be trusted-
inner defenses, those of mind
try to manipulate you out of your right
to be Gypsy.

Too many colours in your passions…
ain’t No such thing
under the million shades of rust
in the setting sun,
telling you it’s time to come home.
Sip the flicker of electric candles:
new fire is old footsteps
warm meat in your belly and the taste
of leaves burning fantasies through the rot,
which the modern life tries
to strip from you.

The more of their wordy-neurotic
hard–biting worms they supplant you with,
the more you pile on noisy bells,
jangling verses in harvest
on your family’s land.

There is no crime.
Each colour bleeds into a brand new vision.
What you lose every day
in vitality, is gained
every night:::they click
their heels into the sky,
stars fuck them silly
the constellations pour wine down their throats
into their minds, sailing on red waters
of blood, fluid and time.

Construct with each layer of colour,
build, re-build every self loathing lie
into Gypsy.
The dirt is clean, my father always said.
Pure – impure
The fact that you are not wrong makes it ok
that nothing has to remain profane
if you revel, stomp, will and transfigure
you own freedom.

The prison bars are made of sugar cane,
slide down and around as you gyrate
governments into disaster,
the peasant kings drown your neuroses
in a self made moat of your own
bureaucratic shit!

Flushed away 'til it returns to you
in thunder – clap
your veins popping from the madness
of all sides Now.
Which happens to be the same as
an empty mind made into a mirrorball,
that the trees rent to you…

In the solitary voice lamenting
over lost love,
they find her, ravage every sadness
and reignite her fire;
One hundred virgins replete
bathed in grain alcohol,
through their eyes, the pores of their skin,
their original plans and their deathbeds-
each string in their battered Gypsy guitar:

-------- circumstance
-------- familial branding smelling of cheap barbecue
-----------------stopping yourself before you see too deep
into their ritual embers,
you cannot write them off

The next string breaks, falling
flailing, uncontrollable
the song keeps going…the tall grasses tie you down,
leather maidens repay the raping scoundrels
of their innocence,
the broken string whips back to your face, across
the malar flush of your cheeks.

They’re just kidding.
They start cackling, some low like smokers
some shriek like banshees falling through trees-
then you realize their wounds are carrying You
and you – Theirs.
There is no machine.
We are playing this song with our frightened,
broken strings, fashioning every obstacle
along the way.
Viscous wine gushes down the streams like velvet
curtains swimming in the excitement at showtime.

Rip some flowers from between the maidens’ legs –
they just keep them there so you’ll remember
to pull them down from the trapeze of heaven.
They see it too clearly. Everything
is a sign – the strings of the instrument disintegrate
as you yourself let them go-
their nonsense story telling you what you believe;
burn down like cathedrals on fire – chariots
of Gypsies drive them homeward
down your spine, in and up inside you and along
every bloody vein named for what you could have been.

The girls shake wildly,
their dresses doused in mud and abandon
fling up – naked asses
smiling in a unison of lockdown,
for all the onlookers to see.
The masses:
insects,
presidents,
housewives &
thieves
to take pleasure from.

This is the Buddha in his natural state.
This is emptiness in every single spine and pallor
undone – you
writhing to be free…
Beat-beat-shake
it goes on, and on,
your best instincts desire to strike
pounding, pulsing
the ground of Earth to her core.
She will show her smiling ass,
shake her skirt in unison with all the planets
we’ve deemed ourselves allowed to see.

Witness hell after closing,
the morning behind memory, as
weddings neverending in the rain clouds.
Gypsy protects,
murders everything in waste and recycles you
in dress, wine and eternity.
You have been re-born, striking waters with
drumsticks in primal time.
This goes on, on, on, on
more is lost
loss; loss; loss
death is your friend, finally.

Raise your glass made from the
sinew and bones of the modern and the weak.
As high as you can fly, soar to every possible
sky you could imagine.
This song has no end………………..
their skirts twist and turn,
the circle churns,
Burns,
and…And…AND!
All at Once.
This is Gypsy.

~ M. Lucia