| SAME WHERE ELSE | PART TWO | THE HARD CELL | | Episode Sixteen |
Sibyl ~ Barry Windsor-Smith
If I invert the world
just briefly
so the moon swims the lake into the sky
glassine glassine
would we set our clocks
to oscillate our month’s away?
The singer floats the words on a voice made of whiskey; a style long gone out of fashion. She holds the microphone, still on its stand, as if unaware of its role, as if it were there by chance; something upon which to rest her hands.
The band - hired for the Milestone Party with uncharacteristic attention to quality by someone in Admin - oozes sound; backward-leaning guitars and countermanding drums; as if the noise they make is not so much an effort but rather some duty pre-ordained by the gods of music.
If I invert the world
just for love
so the sky hangs down around the moon
stainless stainless
would we rise to fly
like aquatic birds of prey?
Atom’s teeth chatter with the cold of the drink he’s just taken a gulp from. He feels like he’s standing on the edge of something dark and dangerous; that to take another step will shut a door behind him; a door without a handle, leaving him back in the room with the hairy madman.
In the dark of the audience no one cares if you scream.
If I invert the world
just once
so the horizon divides twin sister moons
skyline eyeline
would we lick the sky’s rim
to numb the morning sting?
And he wishes that she were singing to him alone since the words seem to mean something that he cannot quite reach and perhaps if she looked him in the eye he would understand and stop shivering.
Before he can catch his breath the band leaves the stage with a promise of “more later worker drones” and are replaced with piped music of the not-quite-background variety.
“What you lookin' so unhappy ‘bout Tonto?”
As if he has wrapped his cold core in papery facades of human warmth and studied empathy.
“Adam? Join us in the land o laughs willya!”
As if that was a choice available to a broken man.
“You know what your problem is doncha?” says Al, the Human Resources guy from the third floor, as he sloshes his drink across his knees, “too serious; you take things too serious.”
just briefly
so the moon swims the lake into the sky
glassine glassine
would we set our clocks
to oscillate our month’s away?
The singer floats the words on a voice made of whiskey; a style long gone out of fashion. She holds the microphone, still on its stand, as if unaware of its role, as if it were there by chance; something upon which to rest her hands.
The band - hired for the Milestone Party with uncharacteristic attention to quality by someone in Admin - oozes sound; backward-leaning guitars and countermanding drums; as if the noise they make is not so much an effort but rather some duty pre-ordained by the gods of music.
If I invert the world
just for love
so the sky hangs down around the moon
stainless stainless
would we rise to fly
like aquatic birds of prey?
Atom’s teeth chatter with the cold of the drink he’s just taken a gulp from. He feels like he’s standing on the edge of something dark and dangerous; that to take another step will shut a door behind him; a door without a handle, leaving him back in the room with the hairy madman.
In the dark of the audience no one cares if you scream.
If I invert the world
just once
so the horizon divides twin sister moons
skyline eyeline
would we lick the sky’s rim
to numb the morning sting?
And he wishes that she were singing to him alone since the words seem to mean something that he cannot quite reach and perhaps if she looked him in the eye he would understand and stop shivering.
Before he can catch his breath the band leaves the stage with a promise of “more later worker drones” and are replaced with piped music of the not-quite-background variety.
“What you lookin' so unhappy ‘bout Tonto?”
As if he has wrapped his cold core in papery facades of human warmth and studied empathy.
“Adam? Join us in the land o laughs willya!”
As if that was a choice available to a broken man.
“You know what your problem is doncha?” says Al, the Human Resources guy from the third floor, as he sloshes his drink across his knees, “too serious; you take things too serious.”
2 comments:
"In the dark of the audience no one cares if you scream".
Boy aint that some truth...
Lobe were here.
Hope your weekends fab!
Lobe: your voice is echoing in this empty room - thanks for the visit pal.
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