A random droplet in the mist of time.
The single perspective, in a jumble of others that we seem to ride.
We, are here.
Clarinet and trombones, the coy piano sprinkling the bends and some sultry saxophone thrown in for good measure.
She’s all the old world blues, maybe jazz at times melancholy or not.
She’s all the handwritten notes stashed unread in the bed-table drawer.
A clink of glasses.
The mothballed comfort of books being reread.
Just like you in me.
In form. In thought.
We smell silence. High juniper whiff of bottled agony.
Meanings sans words.
A well crafted abstract in soft nonsensical whispers.
We move ahead and then again we don’t
We masquerade as time.
See all that blood spilling over. See life drain out of those eyes.
And voila! She is alive all over again.
We hear.
Time after all has ears too.
That indistinct static of voices from an old television set.
Those faint sighs from a picture at the countertop.
It has a picture in it. A picture in a picture, and a disembodied hand drawing patterns in the sand.
The sand on the picture frame.
That picture in a picture.
Of those moments of long nights bearing down on the elements, we know quite a little.
Time sleeps too after all.
And lulls all its passengers quite well.
We see candlelit chambers.
The praying quarters, frankincense and myrrh.
deities carved in wood, the Volto Santo
As old as time itself.
we see him banding over a table.
We hear the sound of him scribbling.
A bottled perversion hard-bound.
Literally and metaphorically of course.
His flannel lined trench coat,
his peppered beard.
He is one of us maybe,
or perhaps on an extended sabbatical.
We all of course crawl back into the comforts of temporality at some point.
We wander till we are lost.
And stay till we are found.
caught in the immaculate fornication,
between a moment and time,
as distinct as mast and mist.
And yet we exist,
on the hard boiled fantasy of a toy ship in the bottle.
on the empty vandalized lamp-posts,
and the alter egos living beneath our tongues.
We are after all,
hitchhikers of time.
The single perspective, in a jumble of others that we seem to ride.
We, are here.
Clarinet and trombones, the coy piano sprinkling the bends and some sultry saxophone thrown in for good measure.
She’s all the old world blues, maybe jazz at times melancholy or not.
She’s all the handwritten notes stashed unread in the bed-table drawer.
A clink of glasses.
The mothballed comfort of books being reread.
Just like you in me.
In form. In thought.
We smell silence. High juniper whiff of bottled agony.
Meanings sans words.
A well crafted abstract in soft nonsensical whispers.
We move ahead and then again we don’t
We masquerade as time.
See all that blood spilling over. See life drain out of those eyes.
And voila! She is alive all over again.
We hear.
Time after all has ears too.
That indistinct static of voices from an old television set.
Those faint sighs from a picture at the countertop.
It has a picture in it. A picture in a picture, and a disembodied hand drawing patterns in the sand.
The sand on the picture frame.
That picture in a picture.
Of those moments of long nights bearing down on the elements, we know quite a little.
Time sleeps too after all.
And lulls all its passengers quite well.
We see candlelit chambers.
The praying quarters, frankincense and myrrh.
deities carved in wood, the Volto Santo
As old as time itself.
we see him banding over a table.
We hear the sound of him scribbling.
A bottled perversion hard-bound.
Literally and metaphorically of course.
His flannel lined trench coat,
his peppered beard.
He is one of us maybe,
or perhaps on an extended sabbatical.
We all of course crawl back into the comforts of temporality at some point.
We wander till we are lost.
And stay till we are found.
caught in the immaculate fornication,
between a moment and time,
as distinct as mast and mist.
And yet we exist,
on the hard boiled fantasy of a toy ship in the bottle.
on the empty vandalized lamp-posts,
and the alter egos living beneath our tongues.
We are after all,
hitchhikers of time.
