what album?
roxette's joyride,
esp., given the song
watercolours in the rain...
the song comes up
and i could stay up for the rest
of the night, and end up groggy
hang-over the next day,
pretending vampiric eyes
behind sun-glasses...
like when i ****** her
beyond the seven
seas and the seven mountains
during a summer month
in st. petersburg's
white nights of near
alaskan 6 month period
of perpetual daylight...
asking her:
are you satisfied?
ah... but to have made
that memory an oyster,
and kept it inside
an oyster shell,
inside a niqab
of my own eyes peering
into it...
and had said:
with this deed:
the world will crumble
into english digestive biscuits
served at 5p.m. -
and the dust of the ancients'
temple ruins...
while shiva took my hand
into a ******* dance
for me to see his
beauty, beyond engaging
in his dance with the feminine
aspect, known
as shiva's "twin": kali...
there, the feline's paw
treads softly, translated
as the sound of a volcano
errupting, with the sight of
mt. etna...
the butterfly
and the hurricane to be matched.
no, there's no love
to be matched -
ideal, it wasn't -
but in my idea of thinking,
it became an ideal -
that could never be replenished
with something worth
a parallel grandeur -
only that of my hedonism
succumbing to supra-man
tastes for the loss of writing
inhibition upon inhibition...
what could ever await me with
another,
if not another claustrophobia?
not even a death among
loved ones leaves you
sharing a grave by simply
being surrounded
by "loved" ones, upon one's final
breath, and sight of light...
we live as many men
(influences) - yet die as
solely invited architects of
fate... and toward our end,
lie, in the solid cold of
singled out epitaphs,
even if these be as simple as:
b. 15th may 1986
d. 22nd april 2023...
and that, being the simplest
of all possible epitaphs,
ah... but there are simpler
ones: the unmarked grave...
of how a man's unmarked grave
could have toppled empires...
e.g. the graves of those
under the banner of
an empire,
e.g. the austro-hungarian.
of those bound to live and
die in the 20th century,
leaving behind the pomp & circumstance
and discomfort of music prior
to the classics...
too many genres are
at our disposal these days
to appreciate the classics...
too many genres are at out
disposal...
to try and return
to the classics, or having
the tenacity to shoe-box
but one genre and join a cult
of punk, indie, or metal, or rap...
the beatniks had their "jazzy"
infatuation...
what do we have?
a flea-market of choice...
a penny-market,
the attention span of
a 3 minute fluster, or 10 seconds
of an agitated butterfly...
the spoilt brats that
we are...
if only to catch the drift
of what prog rock was...
entire albums, rather than
compilations...
to seek the diamond in the rough -
a song by whole album's consent,
slightly akin to extracting
a maxim from a 600+ page book...
rather than the horrid "ask"
of regurgitating maxim upon maxim
until the maxim in its origin
becomes a taj mahal for moths.
