Bye-bye Butterflies C J Leon Say bye-bye to the butterflies. Tomorrow's the day that everything dies. X3 You never knew a morning in Hell till you drank that 40 of whiskey to yourself. Your cheating lover through you in his pickup. At the hospital they pumped your gut, pumped pills, pins, booze, an awful noise. The labcoat said it's not your choice. Say bye-bye to the buttercups. Planet earth's number's up. Say bye-bye to the sun and moon. Larks are gonna sing death metal soon. Say bye-bye to that stubborn wart. God's about to be a real poor sport. You lay weak and sore stretched on a bed while fluorescent light punched your head. Your lover is a lousy fuck; I'm sorry, honey, that's just your luck. He stroked your face and said Baby, this isn't about you; it's about me. Say bye-bye to universe. No menus, please, just desserts. Say bye-bye to the starry sky, like broken lovers it's gonna cry. Say bye-bye to the flowers and trees, and hello to the worms and fleas. Grandma baked cookies you ate when you were ten and stumbled in drunk on Listerine again. Dad put a twenty in your get-well card. Mom fiddled the name tag on your arm and said I'm thinking hard on what you've done, and before your gone I want a grandson. Say bye-bye to the butterflies. Tomorrow's the day that everything dies. Bye-bye, butterflies. Bye-bye, butterflies. Bye-bye.

Rising Sun C J Leon The Rising Sun is a riverboat that floats on a stream of flame; and I owe it my soul and the clothes that I wear, and it owns my life and my name. A lazy fool with some money and an itch in my heart, I fell in love with a dancing girl, and I waited for her on the gambling floor. My God, what a curse I found there! He was sitting sipping gin with a snarl on his lip, one black chip on his blackjack hand; and he doubled on 11 against a dealer's 6. He won - that's when I met the man. Like a gull of the sea, red-eyed and white-faced, he played at a villain's games, and he cut me the tips of his winningest lines. Lord, I've never been the same. I'd nod and I'd tap and I'd click through my stack, high for three days at a stetch; and I still had my soul, so I wagered my soul when there was nothing left to bet. The dice cracked like bones in a demon's chained grip, a prize-fighter, I threw my fist, and I closed my eyes, turned to the silence within, and cried, Salvation from the pit! There's no eating, no sleep, with the Devil's rush in your blood; so don't make meals and don't make my bed. You won't see me again alive in this life; and you won't when our bodies are dead; But Dear Mother, don't cry, you gave me Christ. You kept me safe from Hell's temptation, but I belong where the days are three days long, where there's no night, never a rising sun. 'Cause the Rising Sun is a rivership that sits on a steaming stream, and I owe it my soul and the clothes that I wear, and it owns my life and my dreams.

Cold Clay C J Leon Dark was the day. Cold was the clay. Love was the way she made me. Ash was the rain. In her last pain, cursed was the name she gave me. Guitars unstrung, singing unsung, lovers unwon, they blamed me. Mother exhumed, in her rotting womb, tomb within tomb they encaved me. * Wild was the wolf with fangs in her mouth, enchantment her howl, she raised me. Cruel were the crows perched black on grey stones. A cracked clever tongue they trained me. White was the witch, soft was her breast, dry scarlet the lips that tamed me. Flesh prey to beasts, tortured by priests, praying release, she betrayed me. * Wroth was their breath, thirsty for death. They torched the forest and came for me. Weird were their words, woven their cords, silver the swords that maimed me. Skin sliced, skull brained, puppeted by veins, night's invocations remade me. New was the moon, haunted the tune of the lake loon who sang to me.

The Language of Flowers CJ Leon Under the willow and by the stream, we speak the language of flowers. Our sighs pass on the minutes, our silence on the hours. And we bow our heads in mystery, not knowing what we are. And we fold our hands in misery, afraid of what we are. In a world that stands against you, I'm one more of the same. In a world filled with faces, I'm one who knows your name. Leaves of grass are weaving a tapestry of secrets between our toes; and I say I will be a tulip if you will be a rose. When we stand and walk together, each whispering a tune, while the day of sun is shining, the waning of the moon.

Crucifixes CJ Leon There was a crucifix above every door in Grandma's house, and on a couple of walls top-centre otherwise barren. She inherited that trick from generations of God-fearing home-owning Mr's who kept the livelong day their singing house-keeping Mrs's well-reminded of the plight of sons of men and the world out of doors. She decorated them with yellowing palm leaves acquired one per year on Palm Sundays at the Catholic service nearby. She used to say that 'anytime you have the mind is enough a time to pray; you could be sweeping the kitchen floor or riding your bicycle, bored in class or climbing trees; just turn to God and give.' But voices turn to God purveying misery, keeping their joys their own, because the least likely guy to be impressed by your jeweled sink taps is one in the throes of execution, compare lethal injection, hanging, the rack, impalement, disembowelment, exposure, starvation, and the electric chair; and the least likely man to dance drunk is the naked one publicly crucified wearing a dunce crown and a sign. So, somewhere along the line, I learned never to trust the man at the end of the whip. Either one. They're both preoccupied. After a season of hunger, I glutted blue-rare the Blood-Bodied Father and Son and their ascetic bravado, and I sucked the fruit nectars of Lovers' Communion. I learned to despise and war the misery of life, not to glorify, not hope for deliverance from it in death. It's pathological optimism, or the poet in me, but life is so much worthier; Life manifests Christ in its so many familiar faces, Christ who is the resurrecting body, the spirit of bread and wine and the urge, Christ of miracles, of accomplished whores, the good-loving Christ who always pulls rent out of a fish's mouth or at least finds a place to crash for a few days while the universe resolves the problem. My Christ plays guitar, gets shit-faced, gets laid, sings sauntering down the street, brings strings of Christmas lights to her lovers because their living spaces seem lacking a certain light these days. My Christ knows the crackheads on her street by name and jams with them to mutual everywhere musical delight. My Christ gives baked goods, her poems, dead flowers to perfect strangers and makes them perfect friends. My Christ gives licorice to the sore-throated, treats her starved neighboring artists to sex and breakfast with real maple syrup, freezer jam, and unlimited coffee, gets them stoned before noon, and sends them home to their art, because human spirits, Christ knows, will not survive on omelettess and toast alone.