Night was coming and the wind was sweet as a woman’s breath.
Earlier in the evening, he had fallen -subtle word, for
the roar that dwells inside of it ; quiet word, for the tempest it
harvests-, he had fallen in love.
Earlier in the afternoon, the summer sun was beating upon
molting trees and broken crops, humming his haunting hymn in the fleshes. The
fire, yet, was not lit. And desire was stirred, shaken like water kept in a
volcano.
A heart. A heart. A heart.
Beat.
Earlier in life, the road had seemed long, like a doubt
unspoken ; tedious as an argument with a woman ; empty as a a
drunkless hour.
Earlier in life, he was wrong.
Earlier in life, there was no life.
Earlier, there used to be some ‘shimmering’ dreams.
In those earlier dreams, the future laid bare, The future
used to say : Tomorrow, shall be yesterday’
I couldn’t believe it.
So I tied my ears to my shoes, in an attempt, fruitless
attempt –for you know Man- to cover up for my songs and joy.
Now, I’ve burnt down my guitar,
But my fingers are still bleeding
As I type, as I write
As I remember.
‘Give me you
fruitless blood, before midnights cross our eyes !’
‘Shed on me, white
queen, your lost echoes, of lost paradises !’
But the craving man is a liar
Lea, she told him you know,
‘All the drifters lie finally in jail
The ones with clouds on their eyes
Are those who want what they’ll fail’
Could have Bob Dylan been left-handed
Or shaved his eyebrows:
Ezra Pound’s style.
A lie is a joke, a joke is a lie.
Every joker will tell you;
Every liar will, if you ask him
Politely.
‘Won’t you come see
me, white queen !’
‘Won’t you come
ease me, white queen !’
‘Come, take my pain
away !’
Dead men cross no islands,
Or betray no shine ;
Of golden tears and deserted columns,
Dead men are better off
Than living like the folks of here. .
For the road is cold
As disdain
And disdain again,
In the shameless eyes
Of beautiful women. .
But let us not escape from our memories and from their
haunting chill ; Our hearts are full now, and our voices warm of
whispering goodbyes, so let us empty it, in a appalling flow, in fear that soon,
awaking, we discover it hollow.
It shall be heard. It shall be heard. It shall be heard.
And I put a ‘e’ to be polite. .
There are a few things, a decent writer must tell, before
engaging with your minds, the fight, between you and he,where the winner decides which one is to
repaint with his colors, the useless convolutions of your brain.
When midnight crosses our eyes, with lavish manners and
crimson tricks, with deceitful glimpses, in the den of deserting intellect,
and senses, we take our guitar to sing. .
A guitar is a sound,
(In the night)
No wooden piece, no iron stings.
A guitar is a voice,
And its flight;
No decadent tree,
No artistic pride.
A guitar is a wife,
A guitar is a life;
We have so many.
‘In the hour of my
deepest need… ‘
‘I shall measure
out the ingratitude of men with matchsticks’
‘And toilet papers…
rolling, rolling, rolling… under the door’
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Reviews: 364
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