CRY FOR HER

At least, for us, for lust, because truth be told, there is no laughter, there are no tears, just a stained bedsheet. Hearts that remain unbroken, love rises like smoke, and time whirls around the clock. Everyone I have ever admired is dead, and what does it matter, time goes, they are history, but what is history if not the forgotten the lost the unachieved, the dreams of dreams and endless nooks. For we shall never know our fathers, or there father's fathers, no matter how noble, how grand.

I come down here to the south, not in search of fathers, nor in search of mothers, I come for the contrast of life and death to find my place hidden in the nooks in between where God lives, where we all live who are not entirely sure what is living and what is the foul stench of death. In these cracks, in these times of lost souls, is where the gutter reins. In the trenches with the best, it is not the bourgeoisie, nor is it the pleading for mercy that the sun casts upon hope, the joyous illusion of grandeur of time and timelessness.

The smoking log is the blade of grass never seen for all the other blades cut through the span of attention that is running dry. We force the words or rather like to think we have force, when in reality, all there is, is grace, and be with thy name, thy holy soul until the end. For the train can not and will not stop, and we must step aside like the toreador in our mind, pretending to suggest we have even the slightest tinge of hope to think to believe we guide this ship, we set this sail.

We breathe the breath of time that has blown many sailors to the oblivious mouth of deep outer oblivion, but inner we know, and we can not lie to the peace of God within our own. We are here to lie, to cheat to steal, and cry and get high and low, and tell one another what a grand time we have, and what pity we deserve. But in truth, as you know, and I shall know, the man behind the curtain is none other than the shadow who one time came before, which prowls all. The sunshine licks with the gracious pleasure of time. Here and there, and nowhere inbetween, but you and I.

We shall never dine again in the same place nor the same time, so savor her, savor her, look deep into her eyes, and cry for her, cry for her, cry, for her.