The most orgasmic/organic coloured piece of music is
the second movement of Rodrigo's blind Concerto de
Aranjuez. You hoped your excellent hopes throughout the
rightness of courtships and safety. It was a wishing
for pieces taken from our little drama's that began
with a line of words caught in our imagination, or an
image. Perhaps a blue motorcycle flying slowly down the
nave of a Cathedral in the snow. Or an armchair resting
in a field of poppies with a strange flags. Coloured
with pencil crayons.
As if you understood. I understood.
Lots of things that perhaps others did not get. Films
and eclectic erotic novels. We have a problem Dave.
Atsa no feesh, Seen things you would never dream of,
into my heart an air that kills. Being the mote in
God's eye. Soft machines. If not, not by the Kings of
Aragon. There was some remonstrating against the
continuity of indolence. So I end up painting dogs and
horses so as not to go stir crazy in these manifold
minefields.. Not that anyone sees anything wrong in
Didn't someone say that art and home life is oil
skimming on water. Andre with his Celtic surname would
like that. Put it in the manly manifesto he would say
and we would oblige, taking it in the slides during the
endless history lectures. Finding our days are defined
by fifty five and then ignoring our lesion lessons.
Cutting up the pieces. Unless we are observed by the
five criteria. Five Sufi masters for five jokes.
Standing in our sunlit mote classrooms up to our
armpits in closed questions. You sonny, answer
questions four, five and twelve on pages.... Now who
are you? Learn how to spell
It seems obvious now but you need to learn to learn.
Your belly is like a heap of chaff floating on the
biblical breeze. Your thighs are alike as two pieces of
dough to make the unleavened bread and wickedness is
women. This you believe fully on occasion when you say
it after the many endings.
Love nor lust never lasts. So burning notebooks is
justified. Then you suddenly remember trying to catch a
crow with your coat and impressing with your
sensitivity local knowledge. Climb your mountains and
your coal heaps. Bring together all you once new knew
and whistle through your licking. Sink the life of
tripping and react always pro actively.
Wet and I am laughing.
Within darkness, books, into small rooms and fantastic
The sticky dogma of newness in linen beds of hoping.
Memories fade as new follows old.
Concerns that were once apocalyptic, or so we thought.
Ideas, ventures of a new kind to lead us on beyond the
meagre benefits of our existence, blighted by what has
been lost through foolhardy passions. Coming too soon
or too late. What does it matter if chances are not
taken when feelings consume beyond our understanding.
We are fools, that at least is evident. Talk not of our
foolishness and remember.