Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Lovesong of the Detached

("And if that is how it is...")

How to pry oneself away from these lyrics
Acting like substitutions that wish to 'put it mildly'
To seek and destroy the destroyed,
To tear the drought of the drought in two
To liberate the limbo of limbo
And fuck off the fucked fuck's that led me here.

("Under your cover of blue......")

The drive past midnight was my party
Alone and pounding out the quiet with decibels that attacked me
Night won, with her musky cigarettes and skin therapy
The blunt tomahawk was all the metaphor I needed,
To get the fuck away from there...
As incontinence broke free from another's domain.

("Do you give much-")
("Do you take more-")
("Do you know what's good...?")

Yes and no and all too well.
Give until the slate runs clean
Taking in enough days of without, in the hope that 'yearning' retires.
What a useless possession, clutching vacancies drawn up from the deep well
What is good is all relative and in that revelation, it is good to go down...

Down to the warm grove, below the fruit tree,
Where braided hair loosened itself, ("...and we lay, nocturnal...")
Amidst the trust of shy smiles and freckled flesh...
Down to that layer of enigma, where energies mix and consume ("...speculate what we feel...")
And vomit up, that last bite of Adam's apple.

("...move with confidence...")

Into the hate that sun-bleached meat abhors
Vital organs have sloughed off sincerity
Only the salted sea grants reprieve to these weightless bones
As the aging sun dies behind the horizon
I crave rain to accompany my soaking, dilapidated memories
Festering in the blistering nothingness of dismissal.

("I could go wild and free, but God forbid that you might envy me...")

Irascible erogenous zones would have me stoned had they possession of this cockpit I control
Philosophers, beware, you do not have within your prowess,
The answer to voids that double daily, the farther they walk
(...fly, seagull fly................) Away from me.
I've traveled too far to detour into complacency, yet the urge to 'fuck it' ensnares.

("Under your cover of blue...")

The truth is, I'm covered in sepia, burnt umber, parchment white and black
Trapped bristles in the pigment hang tight, seeking permanence
I promise nothing. ("...what I've done (s) not enough to hope you oughtta here...")
At best, I can entertain the idea of delirium reached, when left in a dark room of hinted undertones
Where, into the hands of another, I can lay my reins.

("Under your cover of blue....................")

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