Arghh, seems I can't get my head 'round posting as much as I should at the moment. Although, luckily, the blogging tendencies have been more frequent this month than during the other, former, vacation-dominated one. Oh, the summer joy. And long, lazy days where nothing else matters. Did I mention this is my favourite season of the year? I am such a sucker for holidays. Waking up whenever I find appropriate, depending on when I go to bed, watching films at any time of day, reading soppy fanfic's for breakfast and induldging in ridiculously long novels. Making myself a cup of coffee to go along with some wallpaper-doodling. Rock anthems on my mediaplayer list and Paul McCartney's new masterpiece on repeat. Liked his previous album better, though, but anything that man boils down comes up bubbling with marvellousness; genuinely brilliant artist work. Yeah, I'm a Beatles-fan too. Grew up listening to their old LP's, can't help it. Marked for life. And lovin' it. Here's another (THE other!) thing I induldge in whilst I have some time to spare:
"Long-necked stretch to winged tunes"
By Scaramouche, the po(t)et, written in the early wee hours of the late night's turn to morning. Finished at the real peak of day. Soundtrack: Richard Clayderman - Mariage d'Amour
If you want to hear my song
Then hear it with the wind
Or off dry leaves vanishing
Suck it up with nostrils sore
Do not stop until the calling sounds
The breaking, swallowed day
Bitter cries of ends you never tied
Hard-cut pills you gulp down raw
Without the water used for softener
Put your ear-lobes to the door pane
Do not breathe or you'll move
an angel shiver at the dire truths
Close your merciless, deceitful eyes
to no more see in vain
When seeing isn't purged through
to darkness and beyond
Whispers louden, screeching dampened
Lovelier the walls to punch and perforate
next to collapse at my feet
Torn to sour pieces, all aloof, you're messy
further far beneath what's mine
A tougher catch to gain the final go
Do not meet me 'cause I might just try it out
and come to you at gates of dawn
If you find yourself inclined and yonder
A momentary willingness of calm
You'll hear the only swan, like swans do sing
This lovely, lonely song
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment