Sunday, September 27, 2015

Laughter cackles like a scream

Music, and dancing - break the hidden sway,
The tide is rising, a flood is kept away.
I watch from a safe distance.
You curtsey to your beloved rhythm.
I bow... out... and say nothing of it.

The meandering of your life bores
- Me, it does not please,
Your sparkling dress does not delight my eyes,
Perfect notes, do nothing for,
Your noises do not alight my ears...
- What good to me, is your ever perfect pitch,
Water's teeth approach from beneath.
I do not wish it was you I was... carelessly... dancing with.

Music, and your dancing, breaks and sways,
Your laughter cackles like a scream or a quiet stream,
A haunted wind chime,
Flowing upon the deep strength of cold biting icy winds,
You screech with pleasure, in twirling form,
Eyes lit, a glint, like steel blades,
Or the sight of a rifle, against the hedonic delight of the Etruscan sun.

Darling, your delightful looks, and ever evolving borrowed worldview,
Do nothing for my inner peace,
And I am not native to your happiness sprees.
Water's teeth approach, they seek not to please.

Music and dancing, break our way,
The solemn notes of your life, frankly bore,
You sway, and dance, with catlike grace,
You ghost about, and float above the floor,
The delightful melody that is you, deeply offends.
As you gracefully seek a tad attention, for you, of course,
And riches and luxuries, for you, and your court,
And wonder about seeking out any other than me to please.
I do not tell you of what's hidden below murky waters just out to sea.

You smile and tell us of us ordinary folk,
You are certain to keep a few close at heart,
You gleefully grin, and tell us how you condescend,
And keep your feet grounded, upon the air above the dance.
The floor is flooded, perhaps you'd know if you dared touch it,

Music and dancing, I break away.
I do not want to meander and pointlessly sway,
And the music does nothing for my inner peace.
And the waves are just a bit too close for little old me,
I watch you from a distance, as is proper, yet,
You curtsey and meander to gain society's medals, proudly,
- to hang upon your well ironed blouse,
- and dark blue ribbons for your hair.
I leave you to it, and it is truth, that you are quite superficially good at it,
All continues, as water's teeth near, white, glinting, primal and bare,

- But my soul is not native to the notes - which you aimlessly play.

And you don't for a minute stop to think, before your ruthlessly sway,
And endlessly bray about all the delightful things you've done, as you've strayed,

And of your acclaims, ever wisely won.

And you cannot for a minute, nor a second, believe, that it is not you I endlessly seek to please.
I hide my silent grimace, and look away, as at a distance, something seeks you from your beloved seven seas.

Saturday, September 19, 2015

I set my dangers on auto correct, and seek you out in the recommendations of others

You hid it with a bizarre smile,
Plastered with lipstick and fake eyebrows,
Long eyelashes, upon your canvas visage of a fake face.

You run to the record player, and quickly fumble about.
You press a lever, and it lifts the needle up,
Like a druggie, you try to find the vein,
The next track... not this one,
Where with a record is choice, you don't much like this one.

Click, it drops, and after static, it hits the track,
And like a druggie you relax a bit... music soothes, it controls a mood.
Nothing vibrates in your brain quite like analogue,
As you play about with mostly modern songs,
Music, hits the spot, you say, it's your version of those Iranian bongs the students like
- it alters your foulest of moods. It soothes.

You connect your headphones, and switch between (twenty;) channels
Radio, blasting into a cranium, leaving - reeking and seeking... red hearts and yellow emoticons.

And you listen, and shift in the middle of twenty thousand annoying songs...
What you are seeking I can't quite tell, but the music, like an addiction, cannot satisfy.
You place YouTube on AutoPlay, and to dark places, you, it takes, once again.

And you reach for your IPhone, it weighs less than 20 stone...
Like Tor, it browses your dark web,
It speaks of who you love, and who you'd pay to waylay or spay,
And from it, more music blasts, and a spell, casts.
And you stand, and break into an unbegotten dance.
It seems like you are having a blast, like a suicide bomber could never cast.
And the clock strikes, and shivers with effort,
Time moves backwards as you sing along to a certain song,

And you raise your flag well beyond your mast,
And Instagram your latest self portrait, via a poor man's Photoshop.
And certainly, you are wearing quite the crop top,
You turn on the beat, and feel everything is quite sweet.

And so I set my dangers on auto-correct, and seek you out in the recommendations of others,
But they only ever lead to your darkest of webs,
And I fear this path leads to infinite recommendations,
And to songs that blast, and spells that cast, upon the tattered hope of any good man's mast,
SOS- now - SMS, I re-pen a redundant acronym- Save My Soul... I seek to say..

None of which I desire to follow.

Do you hear me?
If you see what I mean?
Perhaps if I uploaded it to Instagram?
But it's not quite my style.
And your most annoying songs have blasted for quite the while...

So I seek peace, with my curtains closed, my door locked,
And a book set in 1884, a century before the era we seek, everyday to once again meet, on empty streets,
And you lay down on your bed, upon another planet, in black and white,
And set about photographing every item you choose to eat.
And in some bizarre unthreading of fate, autoplay has us listening to that same foul beat.
For some reason, you think it's sweet.
To me it's not quite the same,
Music is not how I seek to speak.
And the futuristic novel I read, has me quite upbeat.

Tuesday, September 8, 2015

So I said, let's give lost love a test.... even if it's the worst at best...

Curls, in unwashed hair.
She twirled them, with her front left digit,
She smiled weakly, and looked to me.
Her eyes were... were questioning me.

Curls, in unwashed hair.
She twirled them in, with her feminine digits attached to...
An appendage from her torso...
She was done up nice, more present than a package below a tree.

She asked if I loved her...
I spoke my truth,
I said, I really didn't know,
I love a you, but I don't know if she's real, not yet, you see.
Curls, in unwashed hair.
She twirled them, with her front left digit,
She smiled weakly, and looked to me.
Her eyes were... were questioning me.

Pretty curls, in unwashed hair, she twirled them with her fingertips,
She licked her lips, and relaxed her furrowed brow.
Wrinkles had spread about her beautiful visage of a face.

I love you too, she said, but I don't know if you're real, just not yet, you see.
I was glad she agreed.
Perhaps she'd fathom my soul from a venetian canoe.
Maybe she'd twirl my thoughts about, with her front left digit,
As she licked her lips, she narrowed her brow, and funnily looked upon me.

Curls, in unwashed hair.
She twirled them in, with her feminine digits attached to...
An appendage jutting out from her left, connected to her shoulder, from her torso...
She was done up nice, more present than a package below a tree.

She asked if I loved her...
But still, I spoke my truth,
As I had that time before,
And she frowned, but hid it well.

Time, will tell, it is the test,
She said this to me, and I heartily agreed,
I looked upon her, more present than a package below a Christmas tree.
We'd argued at times, love was put to the test,
But the woman I thought I loved, still stared me right in the face,
So, I said, let's give love a test, even if it's the worst at best.

And she frowned at me, quite strongly.
For she didn't know just yet,
With her, even the worst was always,
In every way, the best.

Curls, in unwashed hair, she twirled them,
And with her eyes, she braided my soul to her,
As she twirled her hair, and curled it into some other thing.

And I smiled, and I told her I love her, for I think she's real,
Her form, complied with my fantasy.
And she frowned, and with great sorrow she looked at me,
And finally, she said it to me, as though I were quite daft, you see,
'Your fantasy, complies with me, it's not that other hurtful thing, you just said.'
'And my fantasy, complies with you, too,' she kindly added as an afterthought.
And she twirled her hair, and curled it into some other thing.

Saturday, September 5, 2015

A boy, fallen, upon a beach - it's just, he couldn't quite breathe.

She said I was mean,
Cold hearted about these things.

That Lion, Cecil, was it,
Had died up in Africa, while I focussed on... other...
Everyday and mostly mundane things.
And a boy had fallen upon the beach,
It's just... he couldn't breath.

And perhaps the toddler's parents had been tortured,
Forced to leave a far flung war zone... a Syria, so to speak.
Maybe they leaked out of the country, fearing a regime.

And the boy, he'd fallen upon a sandy beach,
In Europe, a place his parents did as safe-haven seek,

But Europe rejected them,
As did the stormy seas,
And a boy sun bathed upon the lifeless beach...
He'd bathed in the treacherous seas,
Floating like driftwood upon a beach.
- Except, he couldn't quite as yet breathe, you see.

And she said I was mean,
Cold hearted, for I said he was one of many,
The cadaver of a boy, who'd once sung, walked, and dreamed.
The unwelcome corpse who'd immigrated onto the beach.
One of many, he is, I mundanely did speak,

And then did wonder my thoughts, my dreams,
I pictured them, as the photographer has the long sleeping infant...
The many dead toddlers, claimed by Europe's bordering seas.
Sunbathing upon the ocean floor, just as yet... unable to breathe.

She asked me to coffee or a coke... But all I got was a dreaded laugh and a soak.

She asked me to coffee or a coke,
But to be honest, I didn't like her ever-present sound just as yet.
Clickity click, she walked upon the ground,
In shoes grown from hippo hide.
And flawless skin - thicker than cast iron.

It rained a bit, and her expensive heels did squeak.
Her perfect hair frizzed a bit,
A deep delicious brown, the Nile, as though in flood.

Her laugh rattled, and fully soaked upon me.
Her brown eyes, the deepest of wells, Widened with flowing delight...
It entered me, that terrible, awful sound.
She asked me to coffee or coke.
But to be honest, I didn't like her sound too much as yet.
Dripping, water, squishiness against the pavement as she did speak and squeak.

She asked me to coffee or to coke.
Coffee, I said.
I needed the company, and she was good to the look,
As her expensive perfume wafted over a bloke.

And the rain did coldly do me in with a soak.
And as I ordered a coffee, she ordered a coke.
And me- her augmenting laugh did mercilessly soak.

And all of this, did loneliness, stoke.
She asked me out for coffee or coke.
The sky had darkened, as afternoon turned to night.
But all I got was a dreaded laugh and a soak.

She looked at me with perfect eyes,
And in them, I did soak.
As I drank my coffee, and she drank her coke.
In her wretched laughter, I did soak.

And I wonder if she'd laugh with me again,
If I asked her to coffee or a coke.
As in ironclad darkness, my emptiness attempts to soak.
And I think of her wretched laugh. I smile. I hope.
Perhaps she'd meet me yet again... for coffee and a coke.