Behind the mirrors
Our visage casts shadows
On beauty whispering
Loosely knit circles
About the thick surface
Cruelly crushing my soul
With those eyes;
Deep and inviting.
They’ve already taken
Large bites out,
Chewing amorously while
Licking perfectly plump lips
If you can’t handle my soul, baby,
If it urks you to look,
Like a ‘cuda lookin’ to cuddle
I’ll wrap you up and squeeze.
Cause life ain’t meant for missin’,
There ain’t two takes here, honey,
This is your last chance train
You knew before you said that
That I’m hooked, baby, hooked!
Like a marlin surfacing madly
I’m shaking all ’round
Lightening of your fire
As it comes and I submit
This is me, baby. This is me.
Oozing is my next move
I slowly inhale your soul
I will squeeze it together tightly
Watch it escaping between my fingers
Running through your darkened hair
As the day turns into night
Abandon all of what you’ve known
It’s my lingering svasti
Draped over my bare shoulders
As I sweep the streets
I don’t keep you for myself
I don’t hide you in my arms
You don’t reply to my encroaches
We become inanimate
But, like disaster’s calming exit
Left is my aching soul
Hunger for time, and more time
To reap and to sew; good (su)
We had friends, sure. The kind of friends that went missing during the daylight hours and came out at night. Friends you’re not sure you’ve known sober. Perhaps this is toxicity… or fun.
We’d all get together at one of our pads. Getting all preparing at one of our dimly lit haunts. The ladies would all be scurrying around getting their ons-on. It was sub-culture at it’s finest. We knew it and cultivated it like Grama’s purple pansies. It reminded me of the ol’ Beatnik poets, or scenes of Almost Famous where they de-flowered William Miller. Those crazies who lived on the edge of poverty, half addicted to some narcotic the other half so close to the insane asylum it was the pure fabric of our well knit society that held them together.
It was interesting watching everybody in their own. Mindlessly wandering about their fantasies as that’d surface and take root in a discussion. We were a group of intellects, not withstanding the freeloading social surfers looking for their own stay too. We all have those, those curiously inclined but far to mind fucked to be able to withstand the rigors of an alternate lifestyle. Society is a tenacious mother who doesn’t let that stranglehold loose too often. Vice grips made of the finest steel a man can mine.
When you find yourself in these kind of situations, it’s easy to trace back memories to circumstances: naked and alluring. It’s a smile and a random comment. A shared drink. What started as a gentle touch on the shoulder and a look so dangerous it ate magic and cast spells. A perspiring beer bottle. Cowboy boots. Tweed jackets with patches on the elbow and thick rimmed glasses that poked out the sides.
It was love and magnetic, like a riveting fiction steeped in sex scenes and pool hall billiards and whiskey shots and a love story.
And I was a sucker.
This isn’t a competition. This isn’t a battle for your love. This is an experience that we’re on together, holding hands, loving, whispering, walking, and waltzing through the evening’s twilight music rustling out through the brown wooden speakers of the 33 spinning wheels.
I corked my own bottle, I dusted off my own boots, I held the door for you. This was me, it was never my attempt to woo you, to brainwash you into me. At least not fully. Of course it’s hard for me to not try my best to cast my spells, in the end. I knew my spells were commingling with yours though. All the difference.
In the evenings we’d go for walks along the sombre street sidewalks, arm in arm with unconsciously matched steps; a slow pace. Slow dance in the living room with dirty indy music holding us close.
The floors were old parquet flooring; only a few loose segments to mind. We’d navigate the few squeaky spots with delicate care and embrace.
It’s funny how intimate relationships are always stifled in public. Soft becomes hard. Release become manicured. But the saunter always exists, the presence is constant. Julie had a swagger cultivated entirely. So did the rest of the gang, the lousy group of modern beatniks, loveless bastards, free floating radicals, my family of grandeurs I’d so come to call by love.
[note: to read full epic follow dragging left wing]
Face to face with myself
And not a shout to match my anger
Gross exaggeration of ignorant ideals
Spun into webs amongst my dizzy spins
To catch me when I fall down
Strangely grasping, gasping for air
Leaning out the window at
Ninety miles and hour where
Oppression isn’t meaningless
Sunken windows blow over the moonlight
As my smile begins to fade, enrage
Standing at my post
Face to face with myself
The worst is it’s only a settling
A magical mist of wonders and witches
Crawls and creeps and slithers in madness
Oh! look out, down Guanlön Road
Pickles and plasters with deceitful tonics
Rattling around in the pitch of black
Left and right swaying the tosspot
Flickering light, down Guanlön Road
And if I should madness that sits upon shame
Follow me tither with unbounded touch
Twixt my fellows, twixt my brain
Rums and the wrackles, down Guanlön Road
…and these beautiful tenses that flip then and now,
That close over my eyes and filter my dreams
Into little open-lid unmarked boxes
Arranged like a Braque exploration in cubism
These tenses float through thought, itching these dark corners
And flickering little sparks about.
Sensorial-wisps tingle my toes
And I close my fists a little tighter around patched memories
For brief moments then
As I stand alert, awake, and open
A vortex envelopes myself until that split second
Where I no longer have choice but instinct
…and I flip out, eyes fluttering
Glowing like a radiant being whose reached ecstasy
Who has just downloaded boundless formations
With Nag Champa floating and settling around