"New Dusty Road"

in a fractured state of disrepair
in beautiful intoxication by jake kilroy.

New dusty road,
where are your rocks of graves and your steady pace of wooden churches?
See, we all have is a melody,
and your beer doesn't serve our bodies well,
for we cherish these moments of typewriter gin.

Yes, yes, surely a new beat, a cobblestone street,
play that piano like demon bones and let us hear your coattails sail.
A question for the younger man; a round of disgrace,
as we should be mellower men?
Of consciousness, I have ready right to strike!

For these nerves beat my guts into a songbird's last hum!
Hear the Bible wage, that wonderful sound of drums,
terror or timid, we're quick with jokes, faster with women!
I believe this is killing me, disaster among, a grin to wrong...
shall we hear you again beatnik maestro of divine cigarette cartons?

A prison man, of prisms, man; I can hear you again.
This patron of the sea, this call to me, I won't ever see your heart again.
Where is the broken melody of spinning newspapers, a last truthful character,
not I, not you, not her, and never Him.
You've got us feeling all right.
I stole lines from a gyspy musician here and there.
Ripped and trite, this isn't the poem I set out to right.
Or write.

I mean, Jesus, I'm stoned out my goddamn mind.