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 that.
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 antidisestablishmentarianism.
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 shadows…
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.
© Copyright 2017 Ken Simm. All rights reserved.
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