Life is filled with little crucifixions. An addiction, a child dies, profound regret. |
The Second Cross on the Hill As I feel the sweet heat race thru my syringe It’s Me I find Nailed to the Second Cross on the Hill Seems my angels all have amnesia Seems all blessings have been spilled Now wait a minute boy Said the Rebels of routine Just clean our sinful shoes of their dirty soles There are no carpetbaggers That followed Vietnam Just Apocalyptic angels On parole I have a heavy head filled with broken promises A backseat bolero built in my brain I have pieces of an old torn up Valentine A nightmare of falling...falling down a dirty drain There’s no innocence left from The slick and shifty 50’s Tangled and twisted Like an Appalachian still.. There are too many crows in the field today I see them all clearly from The Second Cross on the Hill Now balanced on the fault line and camouflage desire You can’t see as I do from that political windowsill I smell the burning sugar in your Apostle spoon Up high from The Second Cross on the Hill Now I’ve lost my shadows and my anesthesia’s gone Transient lovers leave my heartbeat Bruised and scraped.. It seems like my angels have all abandoned me There’s little left to salvage or now even to save Now I look down at my arm -- see a highway of veins Stretching from fragments poked and drilled If I could peel away my skin and step out as a ghost I’d do it like my father from The Second Cross on the Hill I scrape dreams off the floor of my memories Where roses and moonshine stipulate: That odor that you’re wearing must be from your lies It tries to use self-righteousness as bait So you wear a cloth of wrinkles to conceal hate n’ pride Time to clean the plate your mother always fills The way you hold your head may betray saintly eyes At home at last on The Second Cross On the Hill Next time you won’t taste the tainted hint of danger Oh no -- next time you won’t taste the bitter pill Daffodils bend as you walk with Anarchy Even summer blooms bright beneath The Second Cross on the Hill Now genuflecting hypocrites are always plenty Visiting on holidays like children of a poison vine Pantomime priests bless the silent majority And render all Hail Mary’s – void and benign Barking ushers pass a full plate of thorns Ravens perch on skeleton trees to await the kill Somewhere down below is an honest man Waiting for his turn on The Second Cross on the Hill Now wait a minute boy Said the Rebels in the street Just clean our sinful shoes of their dirty soles There are no devils and demons in Columbine Just a sad silent sunset for young lost souls There are a thousand downtown lives... Lying in the dust of a New York prayer... Restless in a room at the Survival Hotel Some day’s we wear our thorns close to our brow and It’s good – yes, it’s good It’s good to be scared Now pray for the broken ghosts of the penniless wilds Somewhere the sun sets on dreams unfulfilled Such is yours now to offer brave open palms For your own lonely turn on… The Second Cross on the Hill The Second Cross on the Hill WORDS: JOHN APICE C-Copyright- Registered House of Apice - April 21st 2002 – December 2nd 2009 |