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.
Saturday, July 8, 2017
Poetic Truth
Dave Grohl - Times like these acoustic
The shock had gone, at least the initial. The news. The absence sudden shocking. The crush. It made no sense. Not to her. Not to anyone. The lingering loss that seared her. Each time a pause. Each time a question why. It made no sense, the passing. It wasn't supposed to be. No hallmark after-school special ever addressed. Slight whispers never passed moments when parents tucked her in as a child, The promise of a new day waiting expectantly on the horizon. This was not supposed to be.
That is when she reached out to a rogue cavalier from the past. A simple move, perhaps he would notice, perhaps not. But he did sending a reply simple. Words, perhaps raw, perhaps eloquent, or maybe something more... by being less: Poetic Truth.
Should he remind her? The simmering beautiful confidence he saw in her whiplash smile every time he saw her. The greetings she passed with the mischievous look in her eye that beckoned one to join... just for fun. It would be fun, subtle reminder in her smile that never died. The shaded shock of blonde that stuck out beneath the sandy strains. The pink pursed lips that never failed to hold a smile for him, some nights making him believe that they were for him only.
Did she know what she needed to know? She was precious. Her trait, her persona, that called to life all that surrounded her? She may bear new scars from a pain unbelievable. But she will survive. Scar tissue is stronger than regular tissue. Not only that, but it is proof that she survived. She is a survivor. He would never forget the moments of escape when they were merely one. One with the other. Dangerously speaking truths each to each. To live in defiance of a world sedated in its slumbering half truths. All the while the pull, the undertow drew and danced each dangerously close to each.
Perhaps she forgot. When he had heard the news he kept his words to himself. She had gotten a job in an industry where the extension of only a promise was held as somehow more real than reality itself. Paper men and plastic women would cross, would remain resistant to her exuberance for life. They would not know. Or worse they would not care. They only longed for the saccharine. They longed to be fed only by daydreams of neverworlds. If their sight was clouded, they wouldn't have to see the reality. He had lost one to such a world. He could not bear to loose another.
But where it was? Where she was, he knew not. Where should he guide? Where should he console? Did he reveal too much in his shirtsleeve diplomacy? Did it matter? In the end... no.
She needed to know her strength. She needed to know the life that erupted in her eyes. She needed to know the truth she cried out stood forth as a beacon that shattered back the encroaching darkness. She was bold, she was beautiful, she simply was. And that was, and would always be...
more than enough.
Poetic Truth.
The shock had gone, at least the initial. The news. The absence sudden shocking. The crush. It made no sense. Not to her. Not to anyone. The lingering loss that seared her. Each time a pause. Each time a question why. It made no sense, the passing. It wasn't supposed to be. No hallmark after-school special ever addressed. Slight whispers never passed moments when parents tucked her in as a child, The promise of a new day waiting expectantly on the horizon. This was not supposed to be.
That is when she reached out to a rogue cavalier from the past. A simple move, perhaps he would notice, perhaps not. But he did sending a reply simple. Words, perhaps raw, perhaps eloquent, or maybe something more... by being less: Poetic Truth.
Should he remind her? The simmering beautiful confidence he saw in her whiplash smile every time he saw her. The greetings she passed with the mischievous look in her eye that beckoned one to join... just for fun. It would be fun, subtle reminder in her smile that never died. The shaded shock of blonde that stuck out beneath the sandy strains. The pink pursed lips that never failed to hold a smile for him, some nights making him believe that they were for him only.
Did she know what she needed to know? She was precious. Her trait, her persona, that called to life all that surrounded her? She may bear new scars from a pain unbelievable. But she will survive. Scar tissue is stronger than regular tissue. Not only that, but it is proof that she survived. She is a survivor. He would never forget the moments of escape when they were merely one. One with the other. Dangerously speaking truths each to each. To live in defiance of a world sedated in its slumbering half truths. All the while the pull, the undertow drew and danced each dangerously close to each.
Perhaps she forgot. When he had heard the news he kept his words to himself. She had gotten a job in an industry where the extension of only a promise was held as somehow more real than reality itself. Paper men and plastic women would cross, would remain resistant to her exuberance for life. They would not know. Or worse they would not care. They only longed for the saccharine. They longed to be fed only by daydreams of neverworlds. If their sight was clouded, they wouldn't have to see the reality. He had lost one to such a world. He could not bear to loose another.
But where it was? Where she was, he knew not. Where should he guide? Where should he console? Did he reveal too much in his shirtsleeve diplomacy? Did it matter? In the end... no.
She needed to know her strength. She needed to know the life that erupted in her eyes. She needed to know the truth she cried out stood forth as a beacon that shattered back the encroaching darkness. She was bold, she was beautiful, she simply was. And that was, and would always be...
more than enough.
Poetic Truth.
Tuesday, June 27, 2017
Two simple rules
Elvis Costello & The Attractions - Beyond Belief (Early Version) (by the way if the song bleeds into Elvis Costello's You Little Fool... that's okay)
So what is to be said in the vulgar age that desperately searches for heroes if only to rip them down. Especially at this hour. Almost after 10:30. The magic twilight that has replaced the water cooler. Where fine and happily married Christian men and women post pics of family, or of the day. Perhaps in honesty, or maybe a silent subterfuge calling out to another out in the darkness for one flirt, a doge, a smile, to feel young again. To escape the mortal coil, if only for a moment. To go from the known, to what might have been. To be wanted... if only in an illusory manner. As long as all can imagine and agree, it works. If only for a moment.
So what can I say. Two things. First: Everything changes. The ones you know, sorry to say, they can change. They might change. Pressure doesn't make character, it reveals it. The petty, the base, that which lies underneath... its all there. Charged vows made in a moment of passion go the way of the dodo. Can they change back? Perhaps. All moves. All twists. Some value their words, others... well let's just say not so much. Perhaps eternal love is too much to ask for this mortal coil. After all... They need new jeans. Or perhaps they must go to buy leather boots. You know the designer names. They are so important. More than that, they got a deal on it. Post.... brag... the acquisition of goods trumps all, n'est pas? Much more so than being one of character, than standing upright, than remaining outstanding when the rest of the world so desperately tries to make you fit in. It is so much easier. Everything changes.
The second rule is much more simple... everything is eternal.
Welcome to humanity.
Just never forget my two simple rules.
So what is to be said in the vulgar age that desperately searches for heroes if only to rip them down. Especially at this hour. Almost after 10:30. The magic twilight that has replaced the water cooler. Where fine and happily married Christian men and women post pics of family, or of the day. Perhaps in honesty, or maybe a silent subterfuge calling out to another out in the darkness for one flirt, a doge, a smile, to feel young again. To escape the mortal coil, if only for a moment. To go from the known, to what might have been. To be wanted... if only in an illusory manner. As long as all can imagine and agree, it works. If only for a moment.
So what can I say. Two things. First: Everything changes. The ones you know, sorry to say, they can change. They might change. Pressure doesn't make character, it reveals it. The petty, the base, that which lies underneath... its all there. Charged vows made in a moment of passion go the way of the dodo. Can they change back? Perhaps. All moves. All twists. Some value their words, others... well let's just say not so much. Perhaps eternal love is too much to ask for this mortal coil. After all... They need new jeans. Or perhaps they must go to buy leather boots. You know the designer names. They are so important. More than that, they got a deal on it. Post.... brag... the acquisition of goods trumps all, n'est pas? Much more so than being one of character, than standing upright, than remaining outstanding when the rest of the world so desperately tries to make you fit in. It is so much easier. Everything changes.
The second rule is much more simple... everything is eternal.
Welcome to humanity.
Just never forget my two simple rules.
Wednesday, June 21, 2017
Nonetheless
Robyn Hitchcock - The Ghost In You
In the night
The tune began to play
As his
Words long to betray
Describing the tantalizing pirouettes
of a glorious shade
In the half light
forever beckoned
yet remained
just a touch
out of reach
He would pursue
Driven
Til
The lights came on
and the shade vanished
It was a beautiful song
Nonetheless
In the night
The tune began to play
As his
Words long to betray
Describing the tantalizing pirouettes
of a glorious shade
In the half light
forever beckoned
yet remained
just a touch
out of reach
He would pursue
Driven
Til
The lights came on
and the shade vanished
It was a beautiful song
Nonetheless
Tuesday, June 13, 2017
Lingering Hesitation
It was the laughter in her eyes. He never wanted to hear them dim. Maybe that's why it was. Her sudden pause. The lingering hesitation. He turned to face.
They had pulled off to a side. A boundary. They stood, each to each, in a world of shadow, save one distant light. Perhaps that was the only place that was safe. A point just distant from the harshness of reality. It was here that she softly stuttered.
It was said, almost in a hush. Three little words.
That was it. It was nothing. It was everything. He was shocked. It had always been there. Those words. The elephant in the room that if by speaking its name both were afraid it would rip the environs asunder. Yet... by saying she had brought the hidden to life. To many they may just be words, but not to him. They marked a moment. An unspoken pledge hidden behind. Accept me. Embrace me. I devote myself to you... if only for a moment... deeper. Live with me, be with me, join with me... love me. Within those three little words was a simple destruction if their was no response.
Her laughing eyes were momentarily silenced by a shadow of fear. Those three words. Even though she had been the first to utter, he questioned if could be held so venerable. He knew the gravity, their seriousness. Indeed they held a power so bold that even though she had said them, could he be held so fragile. Could it be true? Those words. They were for him. She longed for return. He longed for her. He longed to say, to speak, to give life.
He pulled her close. The three words were returned. The shadow of fear that plagued her eyes suddenly dissipated. They pulled one to another. Bodies began to speak in words unspoken. Heated kisses filled with desire aced at times as verbs, at other times as definite nouns. Each touch, each caress, acted as a delightful adverb. The tracing caress drawing the bodies one into the other. The crash of the two, the hard into the soft. The push, the pull, the trace along all boundaries, while tongues consumed furious. All actions repeating the words simple three that both had been so hesitant to say. Words that their bodies had spoken unabashedly in hidden maneuvers long before the lips, the souls were able to catch up.
For at the end...
...the desire, the primal pull...
... had very little time, for any lingering hesitation.
They had pulled off to a side. A boundary. They stood, each to each, in a world of shadow, save one distant light. Perhaps that was the only place that was safe. A point just distant from the harshness of reality. It was here that she softly stuttered.
It was said, almost in a hush. Three little words.
That was it. It was nothing. It was everything. He was shocked. It had always been there. Those words. The elephant in the room that if by speaking its name both were afraid it would rip the environs asunder. Yet... by saying she had brought the hidden to life. To many they may just be words, but not to him. They marked a moment. An unspoken pledge hidden behind. Accept me. Embrace me. I devote myself to you... if only for a moment... deeper. Live with me, be with me, join with me... love me. Within those three little words was a simple destruction if their was no response.
Her laughing eyes were momentarily silenced by a shadow of fear. Those three words. Even though she had been the first to utter, he questioned if could be held so venerable. He knew the gravity, their seriousness. Indeed they held a power so bold that even though she had said them, could he be held so fragile. Could it be true? Those words. They were for him. She longed for return. He longed for her. He longed to say, to speak, to give life.
He pulled her close. The three words were returned. The shadow of fear that plagued her eyes suddenly dissipated. They pulled one to another. Bodies began to speak in words unspoken. Heated kisses filled with desire aced at times as verbs, at other times as definite nouns. Each touch, each caress, acted as a delightful adverb. The tracing caress drawing the bodies one into the other. The crash of the two, the hard into the soft. The push, the pull, the trace along all boundaries, while tongues consumed furious. All actions repeating the words simple three that both had been so hesitant to say. Words that their bodies had spoken unabashedly in hidden maneuvers long before the lips, the souls were able to catch up.
For at the end...
...the desire, the primal pull...
... had very little time, for any lingering hesitation.
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