Music draws a line
And sometimes it leaves trails, Sometimes it explodes And sometimes it fades. We remember it for what it is, What it becomes and what it leaves, And that is the burning in our hearts That lights the flame in our souls.
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Young lady under the lampshade, Will light my way. Move a dance for me this night. Pretty faded dress rounds your twirl, Ribbon on back. So delicate with daises amiss. Angry man shouts but still you smile, Will light my way, Full of form, in step and in time I hear you sing under your breath When all is quiet, When no one is watching your twirls. But the silent night hears so much No one escapes. It preys upon we who sleep well. Why is life so good I ask you? Is life, so great You dance on despite all of this? I imagined your life one night Lonely I was, Of nights lit only by the moon. In a bed by your side I dreamed Of men on floors Dancing and singing at your side. Your life filled with songs of joy In the daylight, Mem’ries keep you warm in the dark night. I too want dances at your side, Gently pleasing. Call out and wave the world goodbye. What else is there to claim for me, When you look out Happy and content from your shade? The mem’ry of people I knew? Blue eyed, rose cheeks, Shoulders so delicate and smooth. You a fiery explosive To light my way, Dreamy girl who twirls the night away.
General prologue:
My teacher is looking sexy today. Maybe it’s her hair, Maybe it’s her smile, Maybe it’s the caffeine Charging like adrenaline through my veins. Black dress tight and straight From shoulder to shins, Setting alight the fiery halo on her head. Talk of fornication, Summoning of joys; Leaves falling in a heap Over this body I so whimsically Contain my fascination within. Her brazen flush, Her lips so pursed; Her recoil of laughter as my silent reproach Of exam misdemeanour is acknowledged. Ln 669: Her dishevelling of that fiery halo! Hands waving about In love with tales of corruption descriptive.
To write about a tree branching overhead,
bark thickly clumped beating resistance from summer heat, To take these words and make them more than what was seen. To write about table and seats in the sun, city planning failed to place them in the afternoon shade, To take these words and make them more than what was seen. To write about something that made me feel alive, To bring death upon the boredom of continued existence. . . Was it a jam of notes scaling a fretboard, harmonising and clashing with equal temperaments; Rushing for release to fill the void that was once a flurry of activity fingers are now too eager to forget? Was it words flowing from a radiant face, delighted and enthusiastic at this chance to speak; Rushing for release to spill the dreams of a life hanging further and further out of reach? Was it powder shooting up rolled notes so clean, accurate and hitting the nasal cavity instantly; Rushing for release from the crystal prison deep inside where expectations are forgotten absently? Was it all these things that didn’t want to end, trailed the rain to find new shelter overhead, found seats so comfortable they couldn’t be traded, for whisky, for wine, for more notes filling the air. Was it all these things that didn’t want to end, with morning light came the reminder again, the chase was up and time was spent, for whisky, for wine, for more notes filling the air.
As I fall again into Depression, This weight is something more than I can stand. And again, Gravity will play the robber, again and again and again. The thief persuading me to fight against it like I had a chance. I’m sorry for the bruises I inflicted upon you, I never meant harm only to have you with me. Just in case. Creases and folds of your pages, Slight tears to the edges, Shoved into my bag with my shoes So I can walk the beach an observational disaster, Lucky for the reprints, Barber Here I sit 7km out to do some writing, But I can barely hold this pen. Dribbling across the page 38 on an infant stage If the strength of my calves, Could be transferred to these fingers, If some kind of inspiration Could ravish my brain Instead of the sunken skin across my face Pulling at my bones, dragging down my crown Threatening to reveal the tears sidling under the balls of my white eyes. If there was another way, Marlowe To survive the death, And still be remembered Would the pseudonym fit the words? Or would they bleed another lie from the quill, Like all half-truths when distilled? Begging for more explanations As though rational deductions Could change the outcomes. I was a summer squall Crashing waves upon the shore, Ignoring the heat of the beating sun Exiting my return with a plumb A life in verse Remember the lines, remember the lines, Avoid the curse, It was all for naught.
I left a girl for you
- be thankful. I left a girl standing amidst breadbaskets croissants & sandwiches, And tingles through her body From the sweet taste of my lips. I left a girl who smiles - thankfully. I left her wondering what happened just then in that moment of brightness when, Life turned one of those corners And no one is the same again. So I was dragged to you - unwillingly. I departed from her warm embrace at my waist holding tight, to run and chase, Some dream that dragged me away As it kindly walked past. I left a girl for you - remember that. I left a provider and lover when you claim what we have is not so great, That ours is no more than leaves Blowing on an autumn wind. What rubbish you speak - dilettante. How can you talk of fate so lightly, put it down to chances crossing each other? I demolished the pull of reality To live what we all dream. I left a girl for you - unromantic? An empty space held in her arms, a bright sun slipping away out the door... So what betrayed us my dear? Was romance too much to ask for?
Shadows rise over the lay of the land,
A hole is filled where emptiness began, A smile brings warmth; A shattering thought, A deception when kindness goes forth. A long cold rain falling through tired veins Breaking down the will to transform hate, Enemy of fate; Love's forgotten plaint, Buried in its own shallow grave.
Down in the hollow what was this meant to be?
It was meant to be an escape where dreams are leased for free. Down in the hollow what was this meant to be? It was meant to be chastity without recourse for agreeing. Down in the dreary what was sleep meant to be? It was meant to be an island where dreams wash the salty seas. Down in the dreary what was sleep meant to be? It was meant to be a chase scene living the cost of fantasy. Down in the morrow what was this meant to be? It was meant to be a rising where eyes search the scene. Down in the morrow what was this meant to be? It was meant to be a shadow without remorse for seeing. Down in the merry have you heard what’s to be? It was meant to be coming like a penniless thief in retreat. Down in the merry have you heard what’s to be? It was meant to be sorted long ago without the struggle for peace. Up on the landing where guides the bitter breeze, Were you not a loner asking for more than what you teased? Up on the landing where guides the bitter breeze, Were you not a sinner in praise of the faintest river reed? Up on the fairway where sleeps the bitter breeze, Were you not awaiting the longest day to set the harrowing scene? Up on the fairway where sleeps the bitter breeze, Were you not a scholar immersed in his own incompetent screeds? Up on the tanning where guides the bitter breeze, Were you not a merchant on the harbour affixed to treaties? Up on the tanning where guides the bitter breeze, Were you not a sailor hands on rope in his time of need? Up on the staircase where creeps the fetching breeze, Are you not hounded for the past mistakes you try to appease? Up on the staircase where creeps the fetching breeze, Are you not astounded for the disaster that was this day’s lease?
They call me a musician,
But all I do is philosophise on ideas. They call me a painter, But all I do is rape the canvas. I burn the body to raise up new standards. I wanted to create, to make, to build. But it was all destruction, a seasoned professional turning into a fool. I sympathised with losers like it was a winner’s game, but nothing was so perceptive as the hours disintegrating. They call me a saviour, But all I do is retrace old footsteps. They call me a delinquent, But all I do is summarise my feelings. I burn the temple to heighten the senses. I wanted to share, compare, and fill. But it was all emptiness, a burdened excuse for realising the truth. I distinguished the difference when all of it was the same, and nothing was so deceptive as the hours disintegrating.
Temptation does not belong here
Love is not a kite, nor a floater, Love does not beat to a rhythm. Frustration does not long for her Love is not a fight, nor a driver, Love does not preach for a mission. Attention does not beg for her Love is not the game, nor the dealer, Love will not gamble the whole hand. Addiction does not lie for her Love is not the pain, nor the healer Love will not finalise the plan. Starvation will not be the face Smiling within hate, nor admirer Smiling with cloak and dagger feints. Redemption does but walk away Smiling outward grace, shrugging off claims that love has no right to forsake. Sensation will not fall apart With nowhere to go, no trodden path With no one’s feelings to dig up. Retention will not hold out hope With silent discourse, nor bated breath that love will remember the past. Affection has no right of way Love is not the door, nor the turner Love will only stall the engine. Cassations do not sing for her Love is not the bard, nor the list’ner, Love will not harmonise the spheres. Causations do not collide here Love is not a stage, nor messenger Love’s arrow does not belong here. Gestation will not wait for her Love is not a friend, nor companion Love begins a new day alone.
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