Arcade Fire - Everything now
He used to go through the rain. The storms. He thought of her.
Her soul.
A soul of sadness reaching out. No longer. Rather... now he wished she would hear the rolling thunder, streaks of lightning racing across the sky with power... so unlimited... so filled with rage... yet holding back with contacts contained, and think of him. The mind once enlightened can never again grow dark. That's what he wished.
But...
She wouldn't.
But such is life.
None of his comrades were there to support him. Save maybe Hemingway. At least he saw love for what it was... a temporary transient forever looking for a home. Society would look on disgusted as he held up his sign at the intersedtions... "Homeless please help." Each car that passed by would try to look away... Not me... Not know... he must be faking. Way to go love. Way to go Ernst.
He preferred you to the weak.. the submissive Neruda. Who somehow continued to elevate. Maybe he didn't see her pitiful form standing in the street in her bathrobe. Why? He was never sure. All he knew was that he had given his last full measure. To try perhaps the impossible... to open her eyes. Yet they remained so tightly closed. There was nothing he could do. But he refused to remain the fool.
But such is life.
She is happy. Or atleast she could pretend as much. Walking by houses, not as good as hers. She was better. If one could forget about the rotten foundation. Cracks in the wall that none could see. Save her. She would be blind. Blind to her own faults. She would smile. All was fine. As long as one backed off. From a distance all could appear fine. One would never have to consider her deformed dreams. Her porcelain face would appear perfect... from a distance. One would have to stand back. One would have to believe in the myth. One would have to believe... despite all evidence to the contrary. She had won. She was a winner. Weekly trips to the Tom Thumb made everything seem as if everything was normal.
So she....
Could stand...
In the middle of her street...
In her bathrobe...
Evicting that....
Which was the best she ever had....
Salud.
Enjoy you victory....
no matter how hollow....
You WON/...
Rejoice!
Wednesday, August 30, 2017
Tuesday, August 22, 2017
Chance coincidence
When you're falling-Playing for change/Sweden
Chance coincidence. Text terse typed. So long ago. Time had passed.
She was the most beautiful girl in town. That's what he would tell you. Her eyes... a piercing radiant sun that erupted from a storm tossed sea. The softness of her skin composed to the sharp beauty of her jaw. Her petite breasts jutting so proud, so firm, from her chest. All of her body was a comforting shelter that he had sought refuge in. A sturdy bastion against the storms of the world. She... and he... they were ready to challenge all. Her spirit so brave, yet at the same time so timid. She lived in the contradictions.
Time had passed.
Like a madman, it was in the boxes of memory that he had kept that which was precious of her. The laughter, the joy, the pensioned longing for release, and of course the rampant deluge of joy... with being, with becoming, with the unprecedented joy of the one. In body and spirit. Bodies acting in the longing to dance to the songs that souls sung.
Time had passed.
Reality was little more than a cold blooded and persistent hag softly cooed into his ear. Words he knew. Words he saw. Words he did't want to hear... but words that lingered in their latency... he knew. They stood in stark juxtaposition to all he longed for. Though he could hear it, he knew it, he hated it. But he knew... in the beginning was the word... and the Word was good.
She was a blackbird persistent that plagued his mind. Flying from one box of memory to another. Softly tapping, rapping, at the doors longing to be let in. To plague with persistence. She had a glorious box of tricks to refute to diffuse. One was gas lighting. Another was to advance in such brave denial that it couldn't have possibly have been her. He knew her games. Rather than confronting, he would let her believe her own story. Let her wallow in her excuses. Why did he receive them as he approached the truth? Maybe it was because he meant nothing, or maybe it was because he meant everything.
She didn't have many friends.
The first time break her words were "What the hell are you doing here?" Moons passed. Tides turned. Only to end with "What the fuck are you doing here?" She won, he thought as he drove away. She got the last word. Or hold on a second... maybe one who has the last word is the looser.
Yet she persisted.
He took refuge in the fact that as long as the blackbirds were not released they could fly inside the mind as much as they wanted to. Let them fly. Try to build them a nest. Calm their ferocious and piercing movement. So it goes.
Chance coincidence.
Til he saw her. Her hair was a little frayed. Her eyes hidden by sunglasses. The other gleefully believing all was well. The small rotund dog clipped by her feet. It could have made the chicken scratch. It could have. He didn't say anything. Leave it be. What would have been gained? Nothing. What would have been lost? Nothing. Let it go. It was never that he was not good enough for her. Rather, maybe it was she that was never...
Well...
The play goes on.
After all... Time had passed.
Chance coincidence.
Chance coincidence. Text terse typed. So long ago. Time had passed.
She was the most beautiful girl in town. That's what he would tell you. Her eyes... a piercing radiant sun that erupted from a storm tossed sea. The softness of her skin composed to the sharp beauty of her jaw. Her petite breasts jutting so proud, so firm, from her chest. All of her body was a comforting shelter that he had sought refuge in. A sturdy bastion against the storms of the world. She... and he... they were ready to challenge all. Her spirit so brave, yet at the same time so timid. She lived in the contradictions.
Time had passed.
Like a madman, it was in the boxes of memory that he had kept that which was precious of her. The laughter, the joy, the pensioned longing for release, and of course the rampant deluge of joy... with being, with becoming, with the unprecedented joy of the one. In body and spirit. Bodies acting in the longing to dance to the songs that souls sung.
Time had passed.
Reality was little more than a cold blooded and persistent hag softly cooed into his ear. Words he knew. Words he saw. Words he did't want to hear... but words that lingered in their latency... he knew. They stood in stark juxtaposition to all he longed for. Though he could hear it, he knew it, he hated it. But he knew... in the beginning was the word... and the Word was good.
She was a blackbird persistent that plagued his mind. Flying from one box of memory to another. Softly tapping, rapping, at the doors longing to be let in. To plague with persistence. She had a glorious box of tricks to refute to diffuse. One was gas lighting. Another was to advance in such brave denial that it couldn't have possibly have been her. He knew her games. Rather than confronting, he would let her believe her own story. Let her wallow in her excuses. Why did he receive them as he approached the truth? Maybe it was because he meant nothing, or maybe it was because he meant everything.
She didn't have many friends.
The first time break her words were "What the hell are you doing here?" Moons passed. Tides turned. Only to end with "What the fuck are you doing here?" She won, he thought as he drove away. She got the last word. Or hold on a second... maybe one who has the last word is the looser.
Yet she persisted.
He took refuge in the fact that as long as the blackbirds were not released they could fly inside the mind as much as they wanted to. Let them fly. Try to build them a nest. Calm their ferocious and piercing movement. So it goes.
Chance coincidence.
Til he saw her. Her hair was a little frayed. Her eyes hidden by sunglasses. The other gleefully believing all was well. The small rotund dog clipped by her feet. It could have made the chicken scratch. It could have. He didn't say anything. Leave it be. What would have been gained? Nothing. What would have been lost? Nothing. Let it go. It was never that he was not good enough for her. Rather, maybe it was she that was never...
Well...
The play goes on.
After all... Time had passed.
Chance coincidence.
Saturday, August 12, 2017
Dreaming is free
Blondie: Dreaming--remix by Utah Saints
He opened his eyes to a glorious sight. There she was. Her head snuggled in the crook of his arm with her head reclining softly positioned on his chest. Her body pressed against his. He had fallen asleep holding her and she... she had apparently only moved closer in her slumber. She longed to pull to him, even in her sleep. The press of the bodies reflecting the desires of the soul: to become one. The golden sunrise colored her skin and shot highlights though her hair. He wanted this moment to last forever. He was amazed at the simple pure sight before him. His hand went to softly grace her hair. Not to wake, only to feel. To reassure him of that this was reality. You can tell you are truly in love, for it is little more than living in dreams awake.
He thought back to the day before. Her missed connection followed by his sudden decision. If she could not come to me I would go to her. It was madness. A midnight race across the staked plane with only the single light of his motorcycle to guide him. Well, that and the single flame that burned in his heart. A love that burned as fierce as it burned bright. No sacrifice was too great, no price too dear. He would charge hell with only a bucket of water for her. Just as she, she would have done for him. Or so he thought. That is one of the desperate side effects of love. It forces you to be vulnerable. To take off the mask that you can live within and you dare not live without. A small price to pay for living in a dream awake. For dreams cost nothing... save everything.
There is nothing more powerful when two are joined in the same dream. She sifted. The slight scent of the grace of sweat born from the passion play of the night before clung to our bodies. It didn't matter. It was real. She woke. That was real. He watched the tiny movements accompanying her stirring to life. As her eyes slowly opened and looked for his. Without hesitation, a smile graced her lips. The prize he so desperately had sought. A reality that reinforced the rebirth of the dream. With a kiss the dawn had broken, and for a moment the two entered into their dream awake. Even if by this time, he was the only one lost in the dream, such is love.
He opened his eyes to a glorious sight. There she was. Her head snuggled in the crook of his arm with her head reclining softly positioned on his chest. Her body pressed against his. He had fallen asleep holding her and she... she had apparently only moved closer in her slumber. She longed to pull to him, even in her sleep. The press of the bodies reflecting the desires of the soul: to become one. The golden sunrise colored her skin and shot highlights though her hair. He wanted this moment to last forever. He was amazed at the simple pure sight before him. His hand went to softly grace her hair. Not to wake, only to feel. To reassure him of that this was reality. You can tell you are truly in love, for it is little more than living in dreams awake.
He thought back to the day before. Her missed connection followed by his sudden decision. If she could not come to me I would go to her. It was madness. A midnight race across the staked plane with only the single light of his motorcycle to guide him. Well, that and the single flame that burned in his heart. A love that burned as fierce as it burned bright. No sacrifice was too great, no price too dear. He would charge hell with only a bucket of water for her. Just as she, she would have done for him. Or so he thought. That is one of the desperate side effects of love. It forces you to be vulnerable. To take off the mask that you can live within and you dare not live without. A small price to pay for living in a dream awake. For dreams cost nothing... save everything.
There is nothing more powerful when two are joined in the same dream. She sifted. The slight scent of the grace of sweat born from the passion play of the night before clung to our bodies. It didn't matter. It was real. She woke. That was real. He watched the tiny movements accompanying her stirring to life. As her eyes slowly opened and looked for his. Without hesitation, a smile graced her lips. The prize he so desperately had sought. A reality that reinforced the rebirth of the dream. With a kiss the dawn had broken, and for a moment the two entered into their dream awake. Even if by this time, he was the only one lost in the dream, such is love.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)