May 2020
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 moulting 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 drunkless hour.
Earlier in life, he was wrong.
Earlier in life, there was no life.
Earlier in life, 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 an 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 an ‘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 colours, the useless circonvolutions of your brain.
When midnight crosses our eyes, with lavish manners and crimson tricks, with deceitful glimpses, in the anter of deserting intellect, and senses, we take our guitar to sing.
A guitar is a sound,
(In the night)
No wooden piece, no iron strings
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’
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 moulting 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 drunkless hour.
Earlier in life, he was wrong.
Earlier in life, there was no life.
Earlier in life, 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 an 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 an ‘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 colours, the useless circonvolutions of your brain.
When midnight crosses our eyes, with lavish manners and crimson tricks, with deceitful glimpses, in the anter of deserting intellect, and senses, we take our guitar to sing.
A guitar is a sound,
(In the night)
No wooden piece, no iron strings
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’
