~
The Umbrellas
of Cherbourg,
pastel-coloured,
rain-soaked,
bouncing
around the room,
blocking all of the exits,
in Doppler shifts
it all turns and returns,
indeed there's daggers
in a woman's smile,
from a grain of sand
to mushrooms in the sky,
say it in a letter—
a hostage crisis,
recitative,
and catlike,
load the cartridges
and let them fly,
(flutter of wings),
face the sun and
bargain with flowers,
(flutter of lashes),
grow as clingstone and
follow my warlight home,
(flutter of heartbeat),
just close your eyes
and make believe,
it all turns and returns,
Geneviève,
I will wait for you,
la petite amie,
I will wait for you,
anywhere you wander,
anywhere you go.
~

Never forget,
Neither your scale,
Nor your mirror,
Should ever, ever determine
Your self-worth.

In the absence of light
I will find another way
To see your captivation
Overtake and plunder
Mortal man

Bedroom eyes wide and clear
Will work their prey
Like a rifle scope
And there at the door
The evidence will lie dying

He kinetically arrived
with 1973.

Night is the longest day,
here come the warm jets,
served on a cold plate.

Play it back at half-speed
and you've got auditory wallpaper,

it must be as ignorable
as it is interesting.

His own world spins within a device:
cacophony of sound
mixed in a blender
and xeroxed;
a little snake guitar,
a little Leslie piano

— music to resign you
to the possibility of death.

Then came 1983
and beyond just him.

Tamper tantrum hotline,
amplifiers on the balcony,
secretly taping Edge
and Adam Clayton
on a 4th of July.

The numbered streets
and desert rain
add soul to this heartland,
it's the gospel truth
he wiped the deck clean.
(sort of and maybe).

His device spins within its own world:
manageable hums,
danceable drones,
welded into night;
daytime variations
held together
no better (and no worse)
than a cloud.

Then there's sfumato:
music without lines or borders,
in the manner of smoke
— theatrical fog
— a different kind of blue.

Densely layered,
so impossible to track,
this being lost in
the magnetic hush
of airports and
  other strange kiosks,
it all falls into a creative lull.

Guess it's time for
Oblique Strategies...

Raised on vaccine
Children of the thorny hedgerows
Lines blur
Minds stir
But lungs breathe in the bloom

Raised on old wives tales
Children of the wide open sea
Sights clear
Horizon blue
But brain dead in the surf

There's strength in numbers
Once immunity is lost
So is hope