Water knows Best

She bends her head to turn your neck. She bows before the less words said.
She knows the room number to your heart but they don’t make keys to open the locked up masters of men.
Swivel, drivel, jab step to the plexus. She mastered men but her heart won’t set her free. She serves three gods who kill her lovers with religious guilt. Butter wouldn’t melt on the little Petal’s tongue. Water knows best so she just stays there. Waiting to die again.
She says living is easy, just let her die where her tears won’t be as long as lonely. Let that Water drink her up. Water knows best.

 

 

 

 

Has It Come To This?

“History without myth is surely a wasteland; but myths
are compelling only when they are at odds with
history. When they replace the need to make history,
they are a dead end, and merely smug.”


                            – Greil Marcus

What did you see?

Ghostly guitar, keeping determined, uncertain time
with the drum, like a scorned staccato lover,
preceeded by a mournful horn crying for yesterday and
tomorrow, crying for real, crying, crying for
something real, trying not to die, twinkling,
twinkling our little star, piano tip-toe as soft as
snow, delicate as life, jazzy organ stirs to rise our
love, twirls her hair, reminds us of moments and
kisses, memories and music lingers and why we only die
twice at most, but then love outlives us all, even in
our worst dressed season, before the slang turns to
something new or loses interest with you, and what
does it profit a man to gain the whole world and you
know the rest, and the sound of spirit and soul
struggling to exist, to articulate, to comprehend with
a sure hand, and naked expression can be messy, and
misunderstood, like emotions can behave in ways we
have yet to learn, like change we have yet to embrace,
with strange faces, freaky fingers, frank and fearless
but dare not touch the sacred things, wash your hands,
right or left, it seems too hard to go deep without a
guide, and do instructions always make right if the
root is wrong, and pains the brain beyond the
realisation that it has come to this…or has it? Was
he dreaming? Or was it a reality of dreamy
imprecision, sensually welcomed into the epic fantasy
art of living a love that never existed in the
material world, but who would deny him the twisted
pleasure of romantic pain; the brutal beauty of a
floating mirage, like a cloud hovering just above his
head (a grey halo), walking wounded awakens dormant
desire from the shackles of dangerously repressed
passion, fool-hardy though he may be, but hardly a
fool on a hill he never climbed, and guilt is a
mountain we have all climbed, but the glory of love is
the peak turned upside down, inside out and all the
way round.

See what you did?