Random ramblings number one
Headphones are nice. They let the music play straight into my soul. If I keep my eyes closed and concentrate I can almost feel the inspiration seeping into my head in drips and drabs. Seeking the low spaces and puddling into pools of creativity. Those pools are deep and mysterious. The light reflects off of the surface like iridescent butterfly wings, casting inkblot shadows on the walls of imagination. All the while I can feel the story welling up inside of my subconscious. Pulsing, slowly, rising to the surface from some dark and ancient place. The well haunted by my muse. She hides from the light. She cowers from the call. She beckons to her own whimsy. I can no more control her than I can control the wind, the attention of a cat, or the nature of love. The music. Ah the music is everywhere now. Loud inside my head. Growing stronger and spilling over through the recesses of my dry tome of sad and surreal lives. I can't help who I am any better than I can type without looking at the keyboard. And yet I can try to search the depths of these pools. These pools of long untapped creative wells. It has been too long. Too long to revive the beast, or are you just saying that to avoid reawakening something greater than yourself? The narcissist would say that nothing is greater than the self. Whitman might agree, wouldn't he? I think that Whitman would say that the self is the greatest basest thing to ever walk with complete knowledge of it's existence and fear of it's impermanence. Always running away from it's potential ever closer to it's own demise. The self. Who does truly realize the self? Self realization. Self actualization.
What ever can I do that is good? What ever can I do that is right? What ever can I do that is pure? Masturbate. Masturbation is pure. Self gratification, unadulterated hedonism. Not unlike that which crawls in the night unafraid. Not unlike the experiences of the Vegetable King in the garden of Eaten. Yes, to be slowly consumed by the warm lips of passion, the moist tongue of desire, and finally swallowed by the throat of lascivious hunger. A more kingly reception I could not image.
Bottled water feeds my fire unlike water feeds a real fire. Saturates it with life and imbues me with energy.
Beautiful. Because you're beautiful. You are always beautiful. Reckless, dangerous beauty careening through life like an errant arrow of Cupid, never hitting home, just glancing and ricocheting off of every wandering soul you encounter. Spreading temporary bliss like a plague without a cure. A bliss that grows quickly and dies soon, leaving the feeling of something unrealized and dead. Like an amusement park in winter. A hint of what could be, more sorry than nothing at all.
Goodnight Moon. You have been loved, worshipped, and now swept off to bed. To sleep until you re-appear anew. Slowly growing, waxing in the hearts of all the innocent lovers. Until you ripen , a beautiful fruit to be beheld, hanging full from the deep branch of night, tempting all mortal souls with your alabaster glow. Rich and deep the mythology runs in your pocked face. Michelangelo, try as he might, could never capture your essence in any Earthly rock or stone. And indeed only the poets know your secrets.
The sickness that has my head a throbbing has sent my heart a sobbing. I can't help the way I feel inside. Like a fruit fallen far from the vine. My heart's gone from delight to sanguine. Nothing in my life could have prepared me for this. My world has been shattered by one tempting little kiss. Like a thief in the night you came, and made of with my heart just the same. Leave me to die in peace, alone except for the crickets in the night. The end is near and I've no will left to fight.
Thump, thump thump, thump thump thump. Rat a tat tat. The Devil comes a knocking in the night and you can't deny entry. The smile glares back at you through the peep-hole in the door. Glasses darker than night, and a suit of no-color, deeper than black could ever hope to be. Blacker than a Halloween cat on a moonless night. He adjusts his tie and rings again. The sweat breaks out on your forehead as your reach for the handle.
Searching in the depths. You hear them coming. Slowly. You can feel the warmth wash over you. Suspended in your hope you call out for forgiveness. You miss the warm muffins of happiness. Dripping with the butter of desire and running with the honey of life. The sticky substance of longing, smiles, caring, and desperation. Smart people are born, not made.
Drifting on towards the dawn. I'll be drifting on towards the dawn. One way or another, I'll get along. I'll keep singing the wordless song. Humming the tune in a soundless valley, the tune reverberating down the length of the alley. The cats all join in the chorus and we'll dance the night away as the bluebirds sing for us.
France calls from across the ocean deep. Promising sweet nothing across the depths of the cold forbidden sea. Calls out across the breadth of history and speaks in foreign tongues more sweet than honey and more seductive than chocolate. I can feel the ageless beauty of the land. The hills roll out beneath me, sparse vegetation and grape vines roll away on all directions, occasionally anchored to a splash of white homes glaring in the summer sun. The great muddy Mediterranean pulses on the rocky beaches. The waves wash away time. The women and wine flow more freely than alcohol at happy hour. Oh, I know you, France. The lover lying in wait.
The rain falls and the sidewalks are a stream of umbrellas flowing in all directions. A torrent of activity spilling into and out of buildings. All around the swell grows. Black umbrellas, and grey, bob along their way to some other place. Some better place free from the crying sky. In trickles and eddies they slowly swirl beneath the unhappy sky. The angry sky. The sad sky, crying for her love of the Earth. The ground she can never know. The ground she can never touch. The ground she breaths life into every time she cries. The ground who sits stolidly while she cries the tears of life that bring out the umbrellas. The umbrellas that flow along the damp sidewalks. The umbrellas that all find their way home despite the sorrow.
The animal sounds of sex are in the next room. Creeping through the walls. Banging into your mind. Moaning desires fill the air. There is no escape. There is no escape.
I can see the future. The future of life. The future of strife. The strife of life. Don't resist. You will be subsumed. You will be subsumed. You will all be absolved, dissolved, and resolved in to the masses, crying masses that litter the statistics of the world. The unattainable, unimaginable, untranscendent masses of the world.
In a café, in a small town, just out of sight, a woman is waiting for her love. He is speeding along the countryside in a train. She feels him drawing closer. He feels the ground pass beneath the wheels. She stirs time around in her glass, smooth and silky it feels, and sticks to her finger when she lifts it to her mouth to lick it clean. He bends his mind toward her but the train goes no faster. He longs for her touch. The touch that he feels in his dreams. The touch he's known in his waking hours, and in the long dawn hours before the sun graces the sky. She has felt his heat of passion, and has basked in his radiant love. Soon they will be together. And their longing will have died the slow death of the lovers reunited.
Rise up rise up, Desire. Creep from your hiding place and seek a new lover. Slink silent towards a new mark between the covers. Awake passion in the hearts who have none, a quiet burning in the soul, a fire to light the way and drive away the cool.
In sandy creeks I wait. In grassy fields I wander. From the mountaintops I fly, and in the valleys I hide. Mythology and legends grow in my veins. I exist out of Time biding my own and no other. I have been and forever will continue. Sailing on the wings of dreams. Slinking in the mists of love. I know you. I am you. I drive you forward. I drive you forward. Careening headlong toward your destiny. Heedless of dangers foolish lover though you be, I am with you still.
Sanguine nightmares drip from my mind. Weeds that grow in the cracks of your imagination. Love me. Love me for who I am not. Desire me. Desire me for who I have been. And always obey the feelings about the shadows that lurk in dark places.
Seven days until we meet. You and I, lover. How long we have waited. The clouds lift and the sun beats down upon my heart. Make your way to me. Our love will prevail in the face of all obstacles. And the wind that fills your sails of passion will forever blow through my mind as you beat back towards my welcome shores like Odysseus returning from your quest. I await you my love, with open arms and open heart, I await you. The fires of homecoming burn for your return. I can wait another day.
Johnnie come lately, they called you. I called your bluff and you broke my heart, and now you're back and I've nowhere to go. Pull my heartstrings, I am the puppet of your love. I dance across the room at your beckoned call. Your laugh fills the room, my heart, and your ego overshadows all. Dance, dance for me my love. Dance your way out of my heart and close the door behind you. Take away the strings and see if I can dance on my own. Follow your lead or lead myself away. Will you take the risk? Will you take away the strings from round my heart? Will you cut me loose so that I may follow?
And now the end has come. Time to put away the writing machine that grinds and tears at my mind. An uncomfortable reunion it has been, and yet I feel that we will soon be reunited, you and I. We should see more of each other, and feel out the playing field of our codependence. You will be the inspiration from which I draw, and I will be your vehicle of expression. Driven to write despite myself. Driven to produce and reproduce the thoughts flooding my mind. Trying to squeeze it dry as though it were passion fruit and you were a bored lover. Until next we meet.