Well I’ve been to the crossroads and I didn’t get no deal
The devil said I didn’t have the balls
And Bob Dylan’s sixty-first apocalyptic dream
Did nothing to alleviate these closing in walls
The world is a woman without any clothes
Ogled and pawed and taken up the nose
My heart is a damp and delicate rose
A mechanical construct that don’t make house calls
On the eve of the future, in the words that I scream
Ech… more of the same old shit. I’ve been stoating around trying to get my head around a positive future; trying to break this dark cloud. The muse, reticent bastard that he is, has been moody and non-cooperative so I kicked his arse with a couple of beers and plugged myself into the Afro Celt Sound System in the hope of getting it all off my chest.
The future is hanging by a yes/no thread of the contractual kind that caused the holiday period weather to be a vague limbo, notwithstanding the Australian sun.
Back in the land of the long white faces (most of whom I don’t want to look at) the sun has finally come to burn and I can hold no interest in a country that I have already declared spiritually dead.
The future cannot come fast enough – I’m tying knots in baggage costs and sweeping dust from long lost hopes; I’m riding high in daydream tomorrows – the Northern winter; the faces of real people; with real lives.
I don’t ask for much – only that you say what you need to say to my face – don’t feed my paranoia with conspiratorial whispering – if I offend your delicate house of cards then at least have the balls to pull me up; spit in my face or beat the shit out of me.
The past is now blotted with these last two years wasted in a place of dead roads.
Funny, all I want is to settle my arse in a chair that doesn’t rock; fill a house that is foreseeably mine with the music (old and new) that feels like it knows me – where Sagittarius and the twin stars of wonder may laugh and fight and frustrate me (and I them) – where the road may stretch out ahead; long and straight. I don’t want to run any more, I want to walk, I want to stroll.
This is the wilderness; and I’ve been so fucking deep that there were times when I couldn’t see the sky; times when I didn’t want to see the bastard sky with its ozone deplete factor fifty-fucking-five skin cancer and photo fade future; times when the green consumed me; the knots in my log house leering demons of wood memory and skin crawling alien-ness. From this place have tumbled words intertwined with the buzz that comes from creating and the gut wrenching fear that comes with middle age.
Tell me you don’t know what I mean and I’ll envy you your youth; tell me you know where I’m hanging and I’ll salute you for hanging beside me and doing your best to admire the view.
Self analysis is a narrow ledge; unforgiving and all empowering; awe inspiring; humbling; hurting; denying deluding – it teaches you nothing but that you know little of how you got through – on a wing and a prayer; by the seat of your pants; by the grace of your god; on the words of your mother and the approval of your father.
And those dark corners where you dare only to fleetingly look: leave them behind for they are but small blots on the face of the years; don’t hang on to that which is now cast in mud to slowly erode with the loss of each cell to the calling earth.
Heh…more of the same old shit.
But here I am in the face of my infinitely better half; my guiding light; my challenger; my conscience; my co-conspirator; my sand in the Vaseline; my captain; my crew; above me; below me; in all of my lines; where I bleed and where I shine; here in the face of the one who is growing beside me; intertwining branches of thorns and of roses (sometimes the thorn, sometimes the rose) – here where solitude and trespass collide; on the cusp of the moon; in the spaces between minutes; in sacrifice and defiance; here where there are no excuses.
It’s difficult to be brutally honest; even with strangers, especially with oneself.
The mind cannot judge itself; it needs the distance of another to correct those over compensating swerves; those doubts; those touch-up jobs; those swept under the carpet corners of rust and of rain and of self-serving gain; while she soars I glide, swim with the tide.
I took occasion to swim in the sea; all adult fear and paternal paranoia; and it threw me around just as I remember it doing when I was a boy. It felt like an old acquaintance; it remembered me.
And even so the world turned: they hanged a man corrupted by power (possibly corrupted before he had power) and even though it was all fucked up (no truth was served; no justice beside that biblical revenge served) even though nothing has changed; no surge of revolt in middle class classes; no popular rising off apathetic arses – even though it’s business as usual – I find myself not caring that much - this demon has personal business to attend to.
* This is the Headline on the New Zealand home of MSN today - no really!... ugh! tell me I'm wrong about this place - ten months of winter.
The devil said I didn’t have the balls
And Bob Dylan’s sixty-first apocalyptic dream
Did nothing to alleviate these closing in walls
The world is a woman without any clothes
Ogled and pawed and taken up the nose
My heart is a damp and delicate rose
A mechanical construct that don’t make house calls
On the eve of the future, in the words that I scream
Ech… more of the same old shit. I’ve been stoating around trying to get my head around a positive future; trying to break this dark cloud. The muse, reticent bastard that he is, has been moody and non-cooperative so I kicked his arse with a couple of beers and plugged myself into the Afro Celt Sound System in the hope of getting it all off my chest.
The future is hanging by a yes/no thread of the contractual kind that caused the holiday period weather to be a vague limbo, notwithstanding the Australian sun.
Back in the land of the long white faces (most of whom I don’t want to look at) the sun has finally come to burn and I can hold no interest in a country that I have already declared spiritually dead.
The future cannot come fast enough – I’m tying knots in baggage costs and sweeping dust from long lost hopes; I’m riding high in daydream tomorrows – the Northern winter; the faces of real people; with real lives.
I don’t ask for much – only that you say what you need to say to my face – don’t feed my paranoia with conspiratorial whispering – if I offend your delicate house of cards then at least have the balls to pull me up; spit in my face or beat the shit out of me.
The past is now blotted with these last two years wasted in a place of dead roads.
Funny, all I want is to settle my arse in a chair that doesn’t rock; fill a house that is foreseeably mine with the music (old and new) that feels like it knows me – where Sagittarius and the twin stars of wonder may laugh and fight and frustrate me (and I them) – where the road may stretch out ahead; long and straight. I don’t want to run any more, I want to walk, I want to stroll.
This is the wilderness; and I’ve been so fucking deep that there were times when I couldn’t see the sky; times when I didn’t want to see the bastard sky with its ozone deplete factor fifty-fucking-five skin cancer and photo fade future; times when the green consumed me; the knots in my log house leering demons of wood memory and skin crawling alien-ness. From this place have tumbled words intertwined with the buzz that comes from creating and the gut wrenching fear that comes with middle age.
Tell me you don’t know what I mean and I’ll envy you your youth; tell me you know where I’m hanging and I’ll salute you for hanging beside me and doing your best to admire the view.
Self analysis is a narrow ledge; unforgiving and all empowering; awe inspiring; humbling; hurting; denying deluding – it teaches you nothing but that you know little of how you got through – on a wing and a prayer; by the seat of your pants; by the grace of your god; on the words of your mother and the approval of your father.
And those dark corners where you dare only to fleetingly look: leave them behind for they are but small blots on the face of the years; don’t hang on to that which is now cast in mud to slowly erode with the loss of each cell to the calling earth.
Heh…more of the same old shit.
But here I am in the face of my infinitely better half; my guiding light; my challenger; my conscience; my co-conspirator; my sand in the Vaseline; my captain; my crew; above me; below me; in all of my lines; where I bleed and where I shine; here in the face of the one who is growing beside me; intertwining branches of thorns and of roses (sometimes the thorn, sometimes the rose) – here where solitude and trespass collide; on the cusp of the moon; in the spaces between minutes; in sacrifice and defiance; here where there are no excuses.
It’s difficult to be brutally honest; even with strangers, especially with oneself.
The mind cannot judge itself; it needs the distance of another to correct those over compensating swerves; those doubts; those touch-up jobs; those swept under the carpet corners of rust and of rain and of self-serving gain; while she soars I glide, swim with the tide.
I took occasion to swim in the sea; all adult fear and paternal paranoia; and it threw me around just as I remember it doing when I was a boy. It felt like an old acquaintance; it remembered me.
And even so the world turned: they hanged a man corrupted by power (possibly corrupted before he had power) and even though it was all fucked up (no truth was served; no justice beside that biblical revenge served) even though nothing has changed; no surge of revolt in middle class classes; no popular rising off apathetic arses – even though it’s business as usual – I find myself not caring that much - this demon has personal business to attend to.
* This is the Headline on the New Zealand home of MSN today - no really!... ugh! tell me I'm wrong about this place - ten months of winter.
3 comments:
You certainly counterbalance the no winter we're having in Tejas after four months of summer over 100°F I prefer the heat and would only move closer to the equator, but it seems like it is coming to meet me as green house gasses bloat it nothe and southward. Might get to you by the time I'm a crispy critter.
Happy New Year my dear fallen disciple of the Lord
Seems you had an interesting Christmas break with sandy beaches and greasy vaseline and vice-versa!
;)
“they hanged a man corrupted by power (possibly corrupted before he had power) and even though it was all fucked up (no truth was served; no justice beside that biblical revenge served)”
As I told my old blogging friend Sophie:
The way justice is being delivered in Iraq:
It’s delivered the Hebrew-Persian way
By bloody bearded killers high on crack
Yelling “Muqtada” Akbar while they slay
Good to see you back .Im so glad you had a good time I hope you get some nice weather soon here it has been way below freezing.
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