Lost in Lisbon,
just me and my addictions,
and when I say addictions,
I mostly mean my addiction to women,
caught in the same cliche,
but I can’t seem to get away,
like a dream that keeps repeating,
same place same case just a different day,
thinking that somehow *** can replace,
the actual act of acceptance,
thinking that regret can somehow set,
the pace for some sort of repentance,
but nothing changes,
except the weather and sometimes the faces,
found I’m still lost,
I’m a great shot but what’s the worth of a great shot that’s aimless?
No target,
no goals,
just a free market,
that’s completely uncontrolled.
There are no rules,
there’s no reality on which to base this face it,
we are all lost that is for sure,
only difference is most of us don’t want to admit it.
Addicted,
to the chaos it’s such a turn on,
even when I feel sick,
and my heart’s gone cold I’m still burnin’,
she’s turning,
her back on me,
says she doesn’t want to have ***,
and I understand her exactly,
sometimes I wish I wasn’t a man,
sometimes I wish we were all brilliant light,
want to leave my dull bland body so bad,
that if someone came to take my life I wouldn’t even fight.
I don’t fight her,
she says no so I sit up and ask her to leave,
it’s almost 4 o’clock in the afternoon already,
and she’s got a flight to catch that’s leaving for Italy,
and it is then that I see that she’s leaving me,
both figurative and literally,
which I guess I accept because one fact,
we all leave everyone and everything eventually,
even ourselves,
the cards we were dealt,
were bizarre as a guitar played like like a bagpipe by a Celt,
and even though we feel no more well hell at least there was a time we felt,
oh well,
I understand now that you’re timeless and your love is priceless,
fairwell,
we win some and we lose some I guess that’s what this Game of Life is,
blameless and shameless in Lisbon having a midlife crisis.
Living in cities of sin singing songs of wrong still trying to be righteous,
lost as a lark trying to parrot a song to carry us along and guide us,
flying through this civic blueprint climbing high we deny lies and define all aliveness,
and even though your iris is sublime and so is mine we can’t seem to see through our own blindness,
like trying to adjust to the distrust that we feel when we’re told that someone loves us,
and the ironic thing is that in your strangeness I see a similar likeness.
We lost us.
We lost us and our fondness for any sort of conscious conscience,
so now we’re in love with fervid thugs and hooligans that are heartless,
and when we’re asked why we’re in love with this life we say because we are artist,
which partially explains why I’m in Portugal in pain with a beauty that’s stunningly monstrous.
Lost in this,
constant concoction of consciousness,
lost in this,
city by the ocean caught in the North Atlantic drifts,
lost in Lisbon,
just me and my addictions,
and when I say addictions,
I mostly mean my addiction to women…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
20/08/16
*** is a drug...
