Tread softly on this thaumaturge,for your enchantment is not lost in it’s way.Between the illusions of fake pride,and the beauty of your quest.I slip into your sight,in a brief moment we share a glimpse of myself.And I notice we both have a hook left eye and mottled clothing, we share a tar stained kiss and I fall deeper into you. Yet this path is of my own choosing, this manipulation is your gift. My tongue on your sternum sees your atman, and in this moment I feel I could love you forever. Beguilement shows me a new face and within, I find imperfect beauty.
Perhaps this fellow
I’ve forgotten already,
Closed in the toilet
Too beautiful, but crazy
Is delirious, ambushed by nostalgia
With the most melancholy face
And silk hands more cheerful
Than you’ll ever know
Is there to tell those
Who do not know
What is only normalcy
But if it happens, who knows
If it happens?
A little jungle for me
And if they listen?….. I wonder?
….If you laugh?…. And they understand why?
A cook fries up street food
A girlchild wrapped it, already put it away
If you’re a muse to so many beautiful dreams?
Blowing behind a closed door
Ah, and I’m drenched in magic
But maybe this time, I’m out of hours
For a lighthouse, or a pedicure
Yet I’ve got some talc
I’d like to share, but only if you laughed.
Beside the sweetness of Harry’s Bar,
And the tenderness of Zanzibar.
This wax road reaches beyond,
The illusions that areTimbuktu.
And even the long legs of Babali,
It leads here to this quiet street.
That flies away like a butterfly,
Leaving nothing but a nostalgia.
Nostalgia flavoured Curaçao,
One day I’ll be able to explain it better.
But until then Mr. Hemingway,
Et alors.
Of our love she says, “it’s like a monkey without a history, it lacks the memory instilled inside dark gloves. Yet from time to time we walk on to the veranda and admire the view, that goes all the way to the deepest jungles of South America. And although I’ll never meet him, it does not mean I won’t search through all the game, from the shrub, to the hidden blue bathroom of your mind. You know I am an old tracker but I’ve never seen brindle more calm, more secret than him. So let’s take the first bus, you have already made up all the poetry. And with nearly forty years, you are due some applause now, and I am due for some love. Even if I never find him in your tangled forests”. She stood there in her smile looking at the trams of San Francisco, old track elephants lying above the tarmac.
To those who are inflicted with madness, that drives them to create. I say devour your madness, love your madness. Swim in the seas of Elysium, for they kiss the shore of the land that is your birth right to walk; because this madness, is the most beautiful madness of all. Spit in the eye of the sun, Hit the keys until your cuticles shed tears. The centuries need help, the species cry for the light, the gamble and the laughter. Give it to them.
I’m not a god damn hippie, hippies are boring, hippies make you sleep. Hippies preach about their enlightenment, that they found in books; which have been written by other self-obsessed hippies. I’m not a god damn hippie. Hippies are like sheep from New England, but Yiddish and with trust funds. They turn fucking into an amateur sport, concerned about their own charka energy, forgetting there is another person there. I am not a god damn hippie. Hippies believe in a hierarchy in society, where they are the top of the tofu chain. Hippies wear ninja boots and bad leather accessories. I’m not a god damn hippie. I am a terrorist on the streets of Belfast, I am part of the devil’s circus. I am a fallen angel, walking with a swagger and curled lip. I dance with death daily, and she holds me genteelly by a hook through my heart. I am not a god damn hippie. I’ve met Lama Zangmo, and despite what she says, I’m not a reincarnated monk either. In my headphones is Joe Strummer, and in my blood lies my dead twin. I am not a god damn hippie. I cut my own path through granite and marble, and I carve it with bloody fingers. I am a trumpet in your brain, a bull running loose on the streets. I live in the dark because the view of the light is so much better. I am not a god damn hippie. I am the damp spot between your legs. I am the most addictive drug of all. I am your greatest fear and your biggest love. I am not a god damn hippie. So when my hook is finally given a good pull, that shreds valve from home. I will die like humans are meant to, victorious, triumphant, hearing the music, been the music, roaring. I am not a god damn hippie.
I have this thing in my head, a mass of liquid verve. It screams it’s pain, for I have shut my ears to it’s ignorant fulmination. My eyes blinded, mouth smothered. The only illumination my atman craves and heeds, is the gentle whisper dripped through the orifice in my heart. A lullaby so sweet, it’s gravitas so addictive, so just. I wish you to hear its song, sleep sans the knotted tangled wolf of your mind, find yourself in its hamlet. Just extend your finger, put it in, and it’s done. Dreams will not await, for dreams will be made complete.
You are having a hard look behind the curtain and you are learning. You throw away your life, because you assume it will bounce right back into your lap. The human soul is not a rubber ball, it is vulnerable and impermanent in it’s casing, but it is stronger than you know, and more valuable than you can imagine. Step deeper into my world that time and Microsoft forgot.
Blood and sweat left in the bedroom, memories of all the sins we’ve done. Happy V.D day, hope the antibiotics clear the fuck out of that shit.
