from the weeping song
Go son, go down to the water
And see the women weeping there
Then go up into the mountains
The men, they are weeping too.
Father, why are all the women weeping?
They all are weeping for their men
Then why are all the men there weeping?
They are weeping back at them.
From the Weeping Song by Nick Cave
Spread colors
Some stranger took the white and black
and spread them slowly out in destiny,
my hands were tied up in my back
while I watched my colors paint the misery
What was it that the stranger tried to say,
in desperation I remember asking myself
Somehow it changed my view in every way,
watching my colors be taken from my shelf
It all seemed like a surreal act of insanity
but I woke up in the morning, so infatuated,
and saw colors in between dreams and reality,
right at the spot where my life is situated.
in between red and yellow
Last night I had a dream colored in a shade in between red and yellow, almost sepia, and I was so unhappy to wake up from it that I wanted to fall asleep and go on dreaming, just to continue living in the world in between red and yellow, almost sepia.
The storm is awakened
An unsatisfying joy of life, yes, indeed, that is what it has become.
The silence finally awakened the awaited storm, and my tearless cry,
it wet my hair and whispered that changes are about to come.
And yet it never puts an end to my questions starting with why.
You know, my life happens every time my hair gets wet,
life waits and lurks around when you are least aware,
because life awakens when the in betweens are set.
And, in most occasions, when you have nothing left to share.
The storm, it certainly does not listen to your tearless cries.
Sadly, but fortunately, it composes a fractionating melody
to your words armed with remembrance and knives.
As protected as you think you are, there is always this somebody.
Layers of life
Our conversations become layers of words beautifully patterned, while we fill the unutterable in between the sentences of each other, taking a pause and falling into silence at the same time before we continue where we left off. Yes, exactly where we left off, we consciously go on, very determined, to reach a higher level of each others intellect. That is, I dare say, a rare and priceless connection which is too good to be true. Because it is, in fact, far off our reality.
The Dreamers
There is a certain sense of joy in romanticizing life. Being a dreamer and believing in things that do not seem to have any practical value in reality (which could be a matter of definition, don’t you think?) amuse me. That’s just how it always has been and always will be.
dancing barefoot
she is addicted to thee
she is the root connection
she is connecting with he
here I go and I don’t know why
I fell so ceaselessly
could it be he’s taking over me…
I’m dancing barefoot
heading for a spin
some strange music draws me in
makes me come on like some heroin/e
she is sublimation
she is the essence of thee
she is concentrating on
he, who is chosen by she
here I go and I don’t know why
I spin so ceaselessly,
could it be he’s taking over me…
she is re-creation
she, intoxicated by thee
she has the slow sensation that
he is levitating with she …
here I go and I don’t know why,
I spin so ceaselessly,
’til I lose my sense of gravity…
(oh god I fell for you …)
the plot of our life sweats in the dark like a face
the mystery of childbirth, of childhood itself
grave visitations
what is it that calls to us?
why must we pray screaming?
why must not death be redefined?
we shut our eyes we stretch out our arms
and whirl on a pane of glass
an afixiation a fix on anything the line of life the limb of a tree
the hands of he and the promise that s/he is blessed among women.
(oh god I fell for you …)
