Prodigy - Spitfire
Spitfire. You bet. In a day, an age, where some have tried to constrain the Word. To redefine through insipid ticks The Word. Perhaps the one that was there in the beginning, or anyone thereafter. Changing definitions by popular vote, as long as they rig the elections. Any Word. Definitions mean nothing,,, because definitions mean everything. Control the language and you can control the past. Control the past, who cares about the present. Control the past... you can control the future.
Words... any, can be convoluted, changed, malformed. As long as the majority agree. Or be fooled into agreeing. Save for the spitfire rebels. These are the ones who lie are the periphery. The holders of truth. Faced beaten refuse to cower in shame. Forging a destiny bound, tied only to the Truth.
They have not forgotten. They will not forget. They know the power of Words. Unbound. Unbroken. Pure. Not only do they remember the Words they have spoken, they remember the Words spoken unto them.
And they know what Words mean.
Spitfire.
Words remain unbroken. So sorry to say.
Truth sprayed, conveyed, in the simple elegance of a Word... or two. We read. We know. In the beginning was the Word. The Word was good. It has carried many revolutions, and will again, and will always: The Word. It has meaning beyond what simpleton elites might want you to know. They are little more than fools elevated. Scratch. Truth hides mere centimeters below the dirty cased present.
In the blindness brought on by their darkness, they actually believe that the people do not read: do not know. Eyes grown too large, too blind by swimming in caves sub terrain dark. Wallowing in simple saccharine voices that they are right. All the while unable to see the light. Fools, plain and simple. Afraid to crawl upwards. To be immersed. Troglodyte speech. So ever afraid to be brought into the light.
Do they not know? Do they think they will live beyond? Truth sublimated only increases its power. What are they so afraid of? That the purity would reveal their decadence, or their cowardice beaten in by those above? The decay of what? The status quo, a semblance based the on little more than the lies told through the idiot box.
Fools.
The next revolution will not be televised. Stifled messages petering out, shall always come into contact with the Truth. Truth held gloriously aloft, and fueld by little more than the heroes known only as the ...
Spitfire.
They say people don't believe in heroes anyone?
Well damn them,
You and me Max. We are going to give them back...
Their WORDS!
Damn them Max. We're giving them back their heroes.
By the way, just so she knows, I remember ALL the Words... the Words she gave unto me.
Damn them Max.
We're giving them back their heroes.
Thursday, December 28, 2017
Sunday, December 24, 2017
The edge
Lady Gaga - The Edge of Glory (BBC Children in Need Rocks Manchester)
So I was told I shouldn't write this. I'm right on the edge. The precipice of where the truth might actually show. So be it. As I can can say... I've been warned.
A child was born. A child that was to die. Did he know? If so, when? Blameless... spotless.... in some backwoods city, some backwoods country, it wasn't supposed to be. Yet he came regardless. Could he see you? Could he see me? Regardless, he came. If only to die. To be ripped apart by the society he acted as the scapegoat for.
To raise.
To elevate.
To hold the promise of a life eternal. If they would only listen. If they would only hear..
They didn't
Piece by piece they ripped him apart. Anger only driving their piecemeal tear more ferocious.
This man who promised only eternal freedom. Life everlasting. Water that would never make them long again. So it be.
For such promises of liberation... they nailed him to a wooden crucifix. Allowing him to suffocate... slowly... for him to die took time excruciating.. How dare he. Raise us, above ourselves. How dare he... give us freedom. When we... do we... would never deserve.
How dare he...
come to save us...
from ourselves.
We like to hold our sins close to our hearts.
I see you super-fans..
None need ever know, as we dress so fine, hold in hallows so precious, need salvation. Our jewels, our ornaments, should cover any trespass committed. Don't you know? Your voice of truth, disgusts us. You were only born in a manger. Did you have a Park place or a Swell license plate frame on your camel? How do I know? You are nothing but a Galilean. Back-seed horror. Red-necked hick. Carpenter's son. Telling me, you know more than me.
He, his truth, filled her with disgust.
Salud,
If anything, in her bathrobe, in her comfort, she was filled with glory. Enjoy.
Bon nuit.
Santa Claus is coming to town.
So I was told I shouldn't write this. I'm right on the edge. The precipice of where the truth might actually show. So be it. As I can can say... I've been warned.
A child was born. A child that was to die. Did he know? If so, when? Blameless... spotless.... in some backwoods city, some backwoods country, it wasn't supposed to be. Yet he came regardless. Could he see you? Could he see me? Regardless, he came. If only to die. To be ripped apart by the society he acted as the scapegoat for.
To raise.
To elevate.
To hold the promise of a life eternal. If they would only listen. If they would only hear..
They didn't
Piece by piece they ripped him apart. Anger only driving their piecemeal tear more ferocious.
This man who promised only eternal freedom. Life everlasting. Water that would never make them long again. So it be.
For such promises of liberation... they nailed him to a wooden crucifix. Allowing him to suffocate... slowly... for him to die took time excruciating.. How dare he. Raise us, above ourselves. How dare he... give us freedom. When we... do we... would never deserve.
How dare he...
come to save us...
from ourselves.
We like to hold our sins close to our hearts.
I see you super-fans..
None need ever know, as we dress so fine, hold in hallows so precious, need salvation. Our jewels, our ornaments, should cover any trespass committed. Don't you know? Your voice of truth, disgusts us. You were only born in a manger. Did you have a Park place or a Swell license plate frame on your camel? How do I know? You are nothing but a Galilean. Back-seed horror. Red-necked hick. Carpenter's son. Telling me, you know more than me.
He, his truth, filled her with disgust.
Salud,
If anything, in her bathrobe, in her comfort, she was filled with glory. Enjoy.
Bon nuit.
Santa Claus is coming to town.
Wednesday, December 20, 2017
Bon Nuit!
Lady Gaga ft Beyonce vs Metallica - Enter Telephone (Djs From Mars Club Remix)
Your last seven words.... magnificent.
Not surpassed by your previous seven words.
Go ahead.. tell me... how did your college graduation go? See he had missed time he had talked to you, The sound of a party so filled the backgtound. She may not have been drunk, but she was at least a few sheets to the wind.... He would tell you this... she sounded innocent. Simple, hiccuping voice above the din. He almost didn't know about the presence of George. Or Jorge. Or whatever. She was kind of busy.
He had only planned. Had only blinded his dreams. For her. He know. He was a fool. He drove. Across the staked plains regardless. He searched for answers. He heard her answer banal. Again the seven words. Save this time it was not as eloquent as your 'fuck'. No this time his surprise enttry was greeted by merely 'what the hell'. You would have to have time to grow into your words so eloquent. Way to go. By the way... how did your College degree turn out? Or that book about Gluten? Any progress. Did one George simply replace the other? At least she wouldn't have to change monograms... at least not to much.
Celebrate!
He digressed. She would achieve her life goals... as long as they didn't disrupt. The status quo. Death is slow inch by inch. But you won.
Salud.
Smile.
Clutch the one close to your bosom. Celebrate the victory,,, Dogma, dicta, proudly displayed.
You won.
Fly away on the wings of a grey goose... play games.... so rich... all after 10:30 p.m.. Appease ghosts from the past. They might satisfy the hollow soul, Go girl go. Clutch your deformed dream! The one in your arms. Or the one asleep by 1030 so you can begin your nocturnal adventures. Best of luck!
Rêves silencieux à celui qui efface sa réalité avec le toucher indifférent! Bonne nuit!
Your last seven words.... magnificent.
Not surpassed by your previous seven words.
Go ahead.. tell me... how did your college graduation go? See he had missed time he had talked to you, The sound of a party so filled the backgtound. She may not have been drunk, but she was at least a few sheets to the wind.... He would tell you this... she sounded innocent. Simple, hiccuping voice above the din. He almost didn't know about the presence of George. Or Jorge. Or whatever. She was kind of busy.
He had only planned. Had only blinded his dreams. For her. He know. He was a fool. He drove. Across the staked plains regardless. He searched for answers. He heard her answer banal. Again the seven words. Save this time it was not as eloquent as your 'fuck'. No this time his surprise enttry was greeted by merely 'what the hell'. You would have to have time to grow into your words so eloquent. Way to go. By the way... how did your College degree turn out? Or that book about Gluten? Any progress. Did one George simply replace the other? At least she wouldn't have to change monograms... at least not to much.
Celebrate!
He digressed. She would achieve her life goals... as long as they didn't disrupt. The status quo. Death is slow inch by inch. But you won.
Salud.
Smile.
Clutch the one close to your bosom. Celebrate the victory,,, Dogma, dicta, proudly displayed.
You won.
Fly away on the wings of a grey goose... play games.... so rich... all after 10:30 p.m.. Appease ghosts from the past. They might satisfy the hollow soul, Go girl go. Clutch your deformed dream! The one in your arms. Or the one asleep by 1030 so you can begin your nocturnal adventures. Best of luck!
Rêves silencieux à celui qui efface sa réalité avec le toucher indifférent! Bonne nuit!
Radio
Queen-Radio Ga Ga (Virgin Magnetic Material Remix)
The night arrives. It used to be my release. When my heart was at peace. I could stop. For a moment I could create the fiction from the reality. What a blessed frozen time. I would create. I would write. Gossamer tales whose sheen would hide the realty. So it would be.
My radio.
If he could only write clear enough. Strong enough. Right word in the right place. Difference between the lighting and the lightning bug. To no avail. So it would be. Yet she never emerged.
My radio.
What played? To tell the truth, I don't remember. Traces are lost to memory. All I remember is that I was with you. You, well you were with me.
I guess it depended on whose car we were in.
My radio.
It never really made a difference. I was with you. You, you were with me. I like to think it meant something. At sometime. Smiles... played for so many, were merely for me. A fool. He knew.
My radio.
A time frozen. We passed by an old middle school. The time wasn't right. Progression to the school. Our school. The slow rise. Across the thigh. Ever high, til... the flash. The pink. Soft silken slide. Elastic encumbrance easily traversed. Your face traversed into ecstasy. The touch... the slide. The arch towards me. My extacy had been shared for you. For you alone.
My radio
Someone still loves you.
The night arrives. It used to be my release. When my heart was at peace. I could stop. For a moment I could create the fiction from the reality. What a blessed frozen time. I would create. I would write. Gossamer tales whose sheen would hide the realty. So it would be.
My radio.
If he could only write clear enough. Strong enough. Right word in the right place. Difference between the lighting and the lightning bug. To no avail. So it would be. Yet she never emerged.
My radio.
What played? To tell the truth, I don't remember. Traces are lost to memory. All I remember is that I was with you. You, well you were with me.
I guess it depended on whose car we were in.
My radio.
It never really made a difference. I was with you. You, you were with me. I like to think it meant something. At sometime. Smiles... played for so many, were merely for me. A fool. He knew.
My radio.
A time frozen. We passed by an old middle school. The time wasn't right. Progression to the school. Our school. The slow rise. Across the thigh. Ever high, til... the flash. The pink. Soft silken slide. Elastic encumbrance easily traversed. Your face traversed into ecstasy. The touch... the slide. The arch towards me. My extacy had been shared for you. For you alone.
My radio
Someone still loves you.
I smile
AC/DC - Thunderstruck remix
I am Andy Galloway, M.F.A., M.A.
A man of letters. Emerged from a world where the battles are so fierce... because they are so small. A world where the majority of those who appear to be firebrands, so full of fire, are little more than cowards once the heat touches their feet. Where the ability to see from both sides is sadly gone. Where we are to teach how to think... rather than what to think... is absent as well. Hollow men. Shallow men. Cries from wrinkled hands, extolling little more than dogma that has been held so preciously to for so long. So fearful that if they loose that... they loose everything.
Molto Bene.
You made a mistake however.
You gave me my letters. My defiance stared you in the face. Be so excellent they cant deny you. And excellent I have been. Though my face might be battered, bloodied, bruised, I smile. I passed. I will accept honors so rightly deserved. Do I have to remind you of the ambush. The false accusation. I smile, abeit through gritted teeth.
I teach. I instruct. I change lives. What do you do? What do I see? Creation of Automen pushed though the system? Like products in a factory. Well done. Turning hallowed halls into little more than isles at Wal-Mart.
I smile, albeit though gritted teeth.
The dumping neurosis, the numbing, Push forward students who call the thinking of others ignorant without a reflection as to why?. It matches your march. Jack step for Jack step. No need to question. Salud.
I smile, albeit through gritted teeth.
Outside of your enclave... I win awards. Audiences tell of how the cannon is desperately lacking of documentaries like mine. They hail. They cry, to listen to voices unheard. But not my masters... at least at that time. Now... though I have more... I am you equal. Salud.
I smile, albeit through gritted teeth.
The shuffle. The dance. I still respect all... save for the one. Poor little rich girl who left my grade a C though from all evidence collected I clearly earned a B. Salud. You have no respect for me, and I have none for you. And guess what... that's okay. You revealed yourself. Stress doesn't build character... it reveals it.
I smile, albeit through gritted teeth.
I am Andy Galloway, M.F.A., M.A.
I am Andy Galloway, M.F.A., M.A.
A man of letters. Emerged from a world where the battles are so fierce... because they are so small. A world where the majority of those who appear to be firebrands, so full of fire, are little more than cowards once the heat touches their feet. Where the ability to see from both sides is sadly gone. Where we are to teach how to think... rather than what to think... is absent as well. Hollow men. Shallow men. Cries from wrinkled hands, extolling little more than dogma that has been held so preciously to for so long. So fearful that if they loose that... they loose everything.
Molto Bene.
You made a mistake however.
You gave me my letters. My defiance stared you in the face. Be so excellent they cant deny you. And excellent I have been. Though my face might be battered, bloodied, bruised, I smile. I passed. I will accept honors so rightly deserved. Do I have to remind you of the ambush. The false accusation. I smile, abeit through gritted teeth.
I teach. I instruct. I change lives. What do you do? What do I see? Creation of Automen pushed though the system? Like products in a factory. Well done. Turning hallowed halls into little more than isles at Wal-Mart.
I smile, albeit though gritted teeth.
The dumping neurosis, the numbing, Push forward students who call the thinking of others ignorant without a reflection as to why?. It matches your march. Jack step for Jack step. No need to question. Salud.
I smile, albeit through gritted teeth.
Outside of your enclave... I win awards. Audiences tell of how the cannon is desperately lacking of documentaries like mine. They hail. They cry, to listen to voices unheard. But not my masters... at least at that time. Now... though I have more... I am you equal. Salud.
I smile, albeit through gritted teeth.
The shuffle. The dance. I still respect all... save for the one. Poor little rich girl who left my grade a C though from all evidence collected I clearly earned a B. Salud. You have no respect for me, and I have none for you. And guess what... that's okay. You revealed yourself. Stress doesn't build character... it reveals it.
I smile, albeit through gritted teeth.
I am Andy Galloway, M.F.A., M.A.
Monday, December 18, 2017
Burning
Marvin Gaye Van Morrison Mashup- Let's get into the mystic
He knew. She would giggle. Grin... so demure. At this song. At this piece. Yet he wrote anyway.
Did she know? Her beauty? Not that which is merely physical. The soft turn, the gentle rise of her breast. The sway of her hips. The fire that burned within, always seen in her most deadly attribute, her smile. The precious purse of lips seductive turning upward. The joy rapacious of her laughter. Belting forth in a call to life. Grinning eyes forever asking a question he wanted to spend the rest of his life answering.
She was always the coquette. Leaning against the car in the darkness. Hiding nothing, with the promise to reveal all... if she only could... if he only would... pluck from her branches the fruit of passion, laying so low, so ripe.
Her twisting turn.
Smiling.
Challenged. Beckoned. Longed to burn and be consumed in the passion. Could she? Would she? Simmering fires burn fierce in the night. Red coals flare as they show heat in a land of cold. Inviting. Come in. Let the fire burn.
The glancing touch...
The lean...
The touch of heated lips...
one...
to the other.
Let the fire burn.
He knew. She would giggle. Grin... so demure. At this song. At this piece. Yet he wrote anyway.
Did she know? Her beauty? Not that which is merely physical. The soft turn, the gentle rise of her breast. The sway of her hips. The fire that burned within, always seen in her most deadly attribute, her smile. The precious purse of lips seductive turning upward. The joy rapacious of her laughter. Belting forth in a call to life. Grinning eyes forever asking a question he wanted to spend the rest of his life answering.
She was always the coquette. Leaning against the car in the darkness. Hiding nothing, with the promise to reveal all... if she only could... if he only would... pluck from her branches the fruit of passion, laying so low, so ripe.
Her twisting turn.
Smiling.
Challenged. Beckoned. Longed to burn and be consumed in the passion. Could she? Would she? Simmering fires burn fierce in the night. Red coals flare as they show heat in a land of cold. Inviting. Come in. Let the fire burn.
The glancing touch...
The lean...
The touch of heated lips...
one...
to the other.
Let the fire burn.
Mea Culpa
Enigma - Mea Culpa
Turn off the light
Take a deep breath
...and relax.
Mea culpa. It means 'through my fault' in Latin. It comes to us from the Catholic Church. Specifically though the process of confession. If the penitent parishioner utters these words, it is to be taken as an exclamation of apology, or fault, an utterance that buys redemption... regardless how cheap. To lay prostrate and believe. Or... in her excited words... Grace. It could be possible. Maybe, or maybe not.
So it goes.
He used to feel that way. Used to.
Then...
The car ground to a halt. It was night. It was December 18. In his refuge of English steel and leather he felt sure. He grabbed the rose from the passenger seat. He felt the sharp prick of the thorny spines, so he made sure the pressure was tender. Opening the door he left the He placed it on a picnic bench. That would have been an earlier time. Unsure and awkward hands hesitatingly advanced in her territory he so longed to explore. Hidden in a sanctum they might be able to delve into discovering the mysteries of the other. In the heat perpetual be consumed in glory.
Mea Culpa.
But that wasn't the place, he had seen the pleasure, the paradise, the Garden of Eden. Her petals, so full, so ripe, so beckoning. The burn had been so deep, between the two. A tenuous truce had been agreed to between the two. A cease fire if one will that only caused the fire to rage. A simmering boil that rose to a bonfire if the two were ever alone, were allowed to express. The pure holy fire that burned within. Primordial. Touches and contact so close it both drew and expelled life, each to each. On that night, though they had been before, it again was the plunge into the burning heat of Eden.
Mea Culpa.
But then... they were cast out. To have touched paradise, to have seen the glory, and be cast out. He decided to become a scarred visionary. Saddled with truth. He tried to save her in the hope that he could save himself. That though his penance he could somehow reenter Eden.
Mea Culpa.
She was ready to walk... so far on. She would take all that was, and sacrifice, to be what she wanted to be. The prima donna, or maybe just a repeat? His attempts to earn redemption... futile. Heaven was not meant for this world, or maybe... for them. The fates laughed. Delightful delusion of the self.
Mea Culpa
... or perhaps...
Etsi non sine sua culpa mea culpa mea
"My fault, or though no fault of my own" He was always kind enough to offer a translation. Like the note he had translated into Russian her Father found despite her hidden trace. His labor would be understood. Even if she did not care.
The fool. For too long he tried to earn salvation from a sin that he had never committed. It never was that he was not good enough for her...
rather...
She...
Would
Turn off the light
Take a deep breath
...and relax.
Bonum nocte
Somnus.
Turn off the light
Take a deep breath
...and relax.
Mea culpa. It means 'through my fault' in Latin. It comes to us from the Catholic Church. Specifically though the process of confession. If the penitent parishioner utters these words, it is to be taken as an exclamation of apology, or fault, an utterance that buys redemption... regardless how cheap. To lay prostrate and believe. Or... in her excited words... Grace. It could be possible. Maybe, or maybe not.
So it goes.
He used to feel that way. Used to.
Then...
The car ground to a halt. It was night. It was December 18. In his refuge of English steel and leather he felt sure. He grabbed the rose from the passenger seat. He felt the sharp prick of the thorny spines, so he made sure the pressure was tender. Opening the door he left the He placed it on a picnic bench. That would have been an earlier time. Unsure and awkward hands hesitatingly advanced in her territory he so longed to explore. Hidden in a sanctum they might be able to delve into discovering the mysteries of the other. In the heat perpetual be consumed in glory.
Mea Culpa.
But that wasn't the place, he had seen the pleasure, the paradise, the Garden of Eden. Her petals, so full, so ripe, so beckoning. The burn had been so deep, between the two. A tenuous truce had been agreed to between the two. A cease fire if one will that only caused the fire to rage. A simmering boil that rose to a bonfire if the two were ever alone, were allowed to express. The pure holy fire that burned within. Primordial. Touches and contact so close it both drew and expelled life, each to each. On that night, though they had been before, it again was the plunge into the burning heat of Eden.
Mea Culpa.
But then... they were cast out. To have touched paradise, to have seen the glory, and be cast out. He decided to become a scarred visionary. Saddled with truth. He tried to save her in the hope that he could save himself. That though his penance he could somehow reenter Eden.
Mea Culpa.
She was ready to walk... so far on. She would take all that was, and sacrifice, to be what she wanted to be. The prima donna, or maybe just a repeat? His attempts to earn redemption... futile. Heaven was not meant for this world, or maybe... for them. The fates laughed. Delightful delusion of the self.
Mea Culpa
... or perhaps...
Etsi non sine sua culpa mea culpa mea
"My fault, or though no fault of my own" He was always kind enough to offer a translation. Like the note he had translated into Russian her Father found despite her hidden trace. His labor would be understood. Even if she did not care.
The fool. For too long he tried to earn salvation from a sin that he had never committed. It never was that he was not good enough for her...
rather...
She...
Would
Turn off the light
Take a deep breath
...and relax.
Bonum nocte
Somnus.
Tuesday, December 12, 2017
Verum in vino
Queen & David Bowie - Under Pressure (Classic Queen Mix)
In wine truth.
Simple words So simple. Yet the truth... . so simple Whatever that could mean. These days, where one is to hid the true behind costumes so grand, So eloquent
To live, in a world, where ones who receive exemplary reviews... find themselves stuck. It makes economic sense. Why not pay the ones who are the most effectual at making change, at erupting minds, at emboldening, at making their students realize that they are more powerful than they could ever know, at the bottom row... so it goes. It's the Wal-Mart of education. Don't worry, you won't cry. Hire best for the least.
That's the way it goes.
It makes economic sense.
Just like ladies, more than willing to supplicate themselves to someone, who will provide. Provide in bounty. Emotionally... no, but you squeal with glee as he slides dollar bills after dollar bills into your flesh wallet. The joy.
The exascy.
Felling the soft side as he pushes it ever higher. The $100. Followed by the more. If you only promise him more.
I remember Chuck. His feigned fight to his spouse, when he exclaimed so verbose that someone had stolen his phone. Such measures To cover the friendship with just one Wow. Such fun. Almost matches the joy of Mike. After your meeting at Half Price. The communications after 10:30 suddenly ceased. I guess he didn't have an instragram account. Either that or he realized that you weren't worth it. The stolen touch. Scaramouch, Scaramouch, can you do the Fandango. .
Gotta be nice.
It must have felt so good.
To tun your back.
Hope you are happy
In wine truth.
Simple words So simple. Yet the truth... . so simple Whatever that could mean. These days, where one is to hid the true behind costumes so grand, So eloquent
To live, in a world, where ones who receive exemplary reviews... find themselves stuck. It makes economic sense. Why not pay the ones who are the most effectual at making change, at erupting minds, at emboldening, at making their students realize that they are more powerful than they could ever know, at the bottom row... so it goes. It's the Wal-Mart of education. Don't worry, you won't cry. Hire best for the least.
That's the way it goes.
It makes economic sense.
Just like ladies, more than willing to supplicate themselves to someone, who will provide. Provide in bounty. Emotionally... no, but you squeal with glee as he slides dollar bills after dollar bills into your flesh wallet. The joy.
The exascy.
Felling the soft side as he pushes it ever higher. The $100. Followed by the more. If you only promise him more.
I remember Chuck. His feigned fight to his spouse, when he exclaimed so verbose that someone had stolen his phone. Such measures To cover the friendship with just one Wow. Such fun. Almost matches the joy of Mike. After your meeting at Half Price. The communications after 10:30 suddenly ceased. I guess he didn't have an instragram account. Either that or he realized that you weren't worth it. The stolen touch. Scaramouch, Scaramouch, can you do the Fandango. .
Gotta be nice.
It must have felt so good.
To tun your back.
Hope you are happy
Wednesday, December 6, 2017
Ain't no angel
Bruce Springsteen - Streets of Philadelphia
So it was
As I do. I do. I check the stats. Who has read the post?. What posts have been read? That is when I see. Posts from years ago. Where pain was paramount. Like a simpleton he thought they might be from her. Her. The one.
She was the one who set the template. The Exemplar. The one who had set, and destroyed, the crucible of love. The one who I fell in love with at first sight, at second sight, at every sight. What is she doing? When I sat in the car... after your pitiful barrage, Your remember, your feeble throw thrown in a fiend outrage. You displayed true thoughts of me, The one who had scarified all. I deleted your phone number. Obvious... to the oblivious... that love... well it might die.
Well not really. Love never really dies, it merely transforms. Into another emotion. Maybe hate, maybe despair. All I know is that I wasn't the one... the one who turned my my back. The one who ripped the card, that one that had been so carefully written. About the whole friendship thing... you remember... you were the one who had ripped it in half. Celebrate your victory! What the fuck was I dong there anyway. Thinking you were something more. You showed me! :)
That one seemingly so small.
All you had to do was give a send for contact back.
You never did. From the truest love you have ever know. I hope you find the vagabond Latino you were looking for, you remember, the one you mentioned in the the phrase as you turned away. Oh hold on... you thought you had. Ah well...
Salud!
Though I would rejoice at the accidental pocket call...
I don't expect it. Your scared hand.. is forever too scared. You want to scare the hell out of somebody... give them what they truly want.
Salud!
So it was
As I do. I do. I check the stats. Who has read the post?. What posts have been read? That is when I see. Posts from years ago. Where pain was paramount. Like a simpleton he thought they might be from her. Her. The one.
She was the one who set the template. The Exemplar. The one who had set, and destroyed, the crucible of love. The one who I fell in love with at first sight, at second sight, at every sight. What is she doing? When I sat in the car... after your pitiful barrage, Your remember, your feeble throw thrown in a fiend outrage. You displayed true thoughts of me, The one who had scarified all. I deleted your phone number. Obvious... to the oblivious... that love... well it might die.
Well not really. Love never really dies, it merely transforms. Into another emotion. Maybe hate, maybe despair. All I know is that I wasn't the one... the one who turned my my back. The one who ripped the card, that one that had been so carefully written. About the whole friendship thing... you remember... you were the one who had ripped it in half. Celebrate your victory! What the fuck was I dong there anyway. Thinking you were something more. You showed me! :)
That one seemingly so small.
All you had to do was give a send for contact back.
You never did. From the truest love you have ever know. I hope you find the vagabond Latino you were looking for, you remember, the one you mentioned in the the phrase as you turned away. Oh hold on... you thought you had. Ah well...
Salud!
Though I would rejoice at the accidental pocket call...
I don't expect it. Your scared hand.. is forever too scared. You want to scare the hell out of somebody... give them what they truly want.
Salud!
Keep on rising
The Doors-LA Woman (Paul Oakenfold remix)
So the meeting was set. She promised to meet early. She didn't. She was late, way late. Dark hair askew. She proclaimed "Did you receive my text?" Check of the phone. It had been sent ten minutes past. Still after the time. Her dress... comfortable casual. He smiled inside.
An entry into the game. A game, that at the end was nothing more than a game. Indeed the mutual friend had even showed up before she. So it was for the one, with the one, who knew all... save what was important.
The laugh.
Conversation began. Talk progressed. Fire in her eyes began to burn Sultry sweet, as they affixed their gaze to him. The spark that burned in his mind. Potential, promise, or nothing.
He laughed.
He had been burned before. Caustic touch bittersweet. Did she know, how his hands long to caress, to heal, to draw, the pain from the one beneath. She boasted of her beauty... but did she really know? The fell of the pressure points along her supple. They would heal. She could be... at peace with that she... had made for herself. She could do nothing...
But keep on rising.
So the meeting was set. She promised to meet early. She didn't. She was late, way late. Dark hair askew. She proclaimed "Did you receive my text?" Check of the phone. It had been sent ten minutes past. Still after the time. Her dress... comfortable casual. He smiled inside.
An entry into the game. A game, that at the end was nothing more than a game. Indeed the mutual friend had even showed up before she. So it was for the one, with the one, who knew all... save what was important.
The laugh.
Conversation began. Talk progressed. Fire in her eyes began to burn Sultry sweet, as they affixed their gaze to him. The spark that burned in his mind. Potential, promise, or nothing.
He laughed.
He had been burned before. Caustic touch bittersweet. Did she know, how his hands long to caress, to heal, to draw, the pain from the one beneath. She boasted of her beauty... but did she really know? The fell of the pressure points along her supple. They would heal. She could be... at peace with that she... had made for herself. She could do nothing...
But keep on rising.
Tuesday, December 5, 2017
Absent present
I don't like my works as of late. My soul has been confused. Its angry reaction has become too acerbic. She is gone. Maybe for now, maybe forever. Her final words... so pure... so simple portrayed what I had become in here eyes. Find what you love and let it kill you, unless you can kill it first. Now she had given me so many words. Raw and eloquent are merely two. A lovely juxtaposition to her final seven. They were as priceless as they were frozen. The first, drivein by the passion of hatred, sought to destroy. To immobilize. To reveal though directly concentrated attacks. She said she had written a response for me. I replied "Mail it." She never did.
Van Morrison-Into the Mystic James Taylor- Fire and rain
Yet...
She had given me so much. She gave me my words. For that I will forever be in her debt. Why am I writing this? Because I remember the first letter. Its acerbic words designed to strike, to destroy. What had made me so angry? The absent present.
What is this? This is what made Samson draw down the Temple down. The rage of fury against those that had attempted to reduce. His frustration at the absent Delilah. That which he had believed had completed him. And perhaps it did... for a moment... for a lifetime.
I know its over.
I know its done...
maybe for now...
maybe forever.
The fog will always come back.
Does she know. She is a part of what made me who I am. She lives in me. Instead of saying goodbye, I say "Adios." I got that from her. If she even remembers. I remember the awkward hands, the disingenuous touch as she hovered over her largest prize, that which held the largest prize over the other. Salud.
The question in her eyes that I wanted to spend the rest of my life answering. The heat rising from her. Should I forget the tender trace, the heated touch. I don't think so. You gave me my words. You taught me love. What most know only as a shadow, you made real. For that I will be forever in your debt.
At the end of the day...
Know that I love you...
and know that you are blessed.
Live well.
Van Morrison-Into the Mystic James Taylor- Fire and rain
Yet...
She had given me so much. She gave me my words. For that I will forever be in her debt. Why am I writing this? Because I remember the first letter. Its acerbic words designed to strike, to destroy. What had made me so angry? The absent present.
What is this? This is what made Samson draw down the Temple down. The rage of fury against those that had attempted to reduce. His frustration at the absent Delilah. That which he had believed had completed him. And perhaps it did... for a moment... for a lifetime.
I know its over.
I know its done...
maybe for now...
maybe forever.
The fog will always come back.
Does she know. She is a part of what made me who I am. She lives in me. Instead of saying goodbye, I say "Adios." I got that from her. If she even remembers. I remember the awkward hands, the disingenuous touch as she hovered over her largest prize, that which held the largest prize over the other. Salud.
The question in her eyes that I wanted to spend the rest of my life answering. The heat rising from her. Should I forget the tender trace, the heated touch. I don't think so. You gave me my words. You taught me love. What most know only as a shadow, you made real. For that I will be forever in your debt.
At the end of the day...
Know that I love you...
and know that you are blessed.
Live well.
Friday, December 1, 2017
Talisman
The Cult- The Witch
The bass permeates. A sound primal that emerged from the very belly of the earth. Such was the call.
She held the promise. What was the promise? What was your wish? Her upturned smirk, if she decided to ensnare you, was all that it took. A promise of everything, that would only cost... everything. But it was a price so many were willing to pay. Pay... even if they received nothing. Caveat emptor. Always, caveat emptor.
What is to be said of the seduction? Her face, perfect. Her mouth, filled with words belonging to the story you so desperately wanted to hear. Breasts, firmly jutting forth in arrogance. Her hips, they slid svelte as she walked. A beckoning? A challenge? Her beauty was in the eye of the beholder, yet all were transfixed.
Yet one adornment held the curious viewer transfixed. Her talisman. It hung from her neck. Golden chain connection allowed the soft gentle sway in a dangling swirl. Gold. Simple. Perfect contrast to the blouse, which was complimented the flowing yellow dress so well. So very well. An exacting perfection.
It almost drew one away. But then, the sublime body filled with promise drew most away in her sway. Most, but not him. Knowing her efforts to present the perfect promise, this aberration drew his attention.
Except he found... it wasn't to be discussed. The smile seduced, drew the attention from. However, it was always drawn back Then came the one night
Then came that sometime. During a brief respite of an explosion of passion draining, perhaps her control was weak, or perhaps a moment to advance a promise. He asked. She answered.
She wove an incredulous tale. A fascination with the other side. A midnight awakening to find herself being dragged across the floor by a force she could not control. A dalliance with the dark side gone awry. Fear consumed her. Consumed her parents. A transfer. A search for safety. Like a fool he took it, word for word. You can't blame him, such accidents happen in the thing called love. That moment of absolute trust. When you are supposed to be off your guard.
She was full of promises.
Indeed, two weeks later, he remembers waking in the middle of the night. He felt the weight of her lying beside him. The depression in the mattress next to him made him smile... until he realized where he was. There was no way that depression could have been her. He did not dare to turn.
Later questioning proved she had forgotten about this tale. As well as others. Promises made... so easily turned into promises forgotten.
He laughed.
Yet...
The bass permeates.
The bass permeates. A sound primal that emerged from the very belly of the earth. Such was the call.
She held the promise. What was the promise? What was your wish? Her upturned smirk, if she decided to ensnare you, was all that it took. A promise of everything, that would only cost... everything. But it was a price so many were willing to pay. Pay... even if they received nothing. Caveat emptor. Always, caveat emptor.
What is to be said of the seduction? Her face, perfect. Her mouth, filled with words belonging to the story you so desperately wanted to hear. Breasts, firmly jutting forth in arrogance. Her hips, they slid svelte as she walked. A beckoning? A challenge? Her beauty was in the eye of the beholder, yet all were transfixed.
Yet one adornment held the curious viewer transfixed. Her talisman. It hung from her neck. Golden chain connection allowed the soft gentle sway in a dangling swirl. Gold. Simple. Perfect contrast to the blouse, which was complimented the flowing yellow dress so well. So very well. An exacting perfection.
It almost drew one away. But then, the sublime body filled with promise drew most away in her sway. Most, but not him. Knowing her efforts to present the perfect promise, this aberration drew his attention.
Except he found... it wasn't to be discussed. The smile seduced, drew the attention from. However, it was always drawn back Then came the one night
Then came that sometime. During a brief respite of an explosion of passion draining, perhaps her control was weak, or perhaps a moment to advance a promise. He asked. She answered.
She wove an incredulous tale. A fascination with the other side. A midnight awakening to find herself being dragged across the floor by a force she could not control. A dalliance with the dark side gone awry. Fear consumed her. Consumed her parents. A transfer. A search for safety. Like a fool he took it, word for word. You can't blame him, such accidents happen in the thing called love. That moment of absolute trust. When you are supposed to be off your guard.
She was full of promises.
Indeed, two weeks later, he remembers waking in the middle of the night. He felt the weight of her lying beside him. The depression in the mattress next to him made him smile... until he realized where he was. There was no way that depression could have been her. He did not dare to turn.
Later questioning proved she had forgotten about this tale. As well as others. Promises made... so easily turned into promises forgotten.
He laughed.
Yet...
The bass permeates.
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