immortal days, in a time when homesickness is sweet as honey;
so here we have 3 sketches, and 3 poems (and half a poem, but that's for explanation); the sketches utilize a format that occurs naturally, but has its justification in that i've seen it used by both TS Eliot and Pablo Neruda- poem in prose, i guess. some of them are prolly weird. all written under a spell. and here:
the sketches are about: 1) a particular night; 2) some fucking guy and his cologne that tricked me; 3) months spent in vegas with honesty.
☆TONIGHT WAS:
As though through wires- as though to repay, in full, those months of tormented cold- there was finally a breath of warmth, green with light, chaotic with the rains. In the middle of January summer visited the town. Visited when the dark would hide tis face, when it could sink into itself, when only hyenas like us would see it; when only the night jackals would rise to the occasion. The sound of it was all around; dampness, just the right amount of storm to enjoy a cigarette with. The dead sea of cigarettes in the grass- changes everything, this night; the dark charges all the neon in the city, but here there's only one white light blinking steady. Steady as the sea goes- steady as the waves; heady like full horns blasting, this ain't untrue. Sink in, sink in slow- poison, potion. Night like this charges it up, makes it all mix. You can hear the banshees, the spirits in the air, the sense of power, the sense of death, electricity; all the intimacies of the sleeping apartment buildings, and it all adds up to light. On a night like this there's no fighting a smile- coffee tastes just like electricity, smoke is as true as history and good love. Everything forgotten- your love makes no sense, forget your steaming thoughts, hold fast to lessons, keep yourself inside your pocket.
Nothing could die on a night like this, and if it dies it goes straight down into the ground, into what's true. It's not so much mindless or heartless as full of spirit, sex and blood, sugar magic, songs to sing, bells to ring- certain times to forget everything. On a night like this, who needs Nevada? The brass rings like the hour: dark, straight, true, unclear. These storms that come up the coasts; these kids who die for music- die to long for it. What's there to prove?
On a night like this there's pure dark; on a night like this, lightning strikes the trees, the duality in threes. You can feel all 50 degrees shaking in your hips, more importantly in your blood, coursing, clench your fists: bone promises in your lips, aw right, all 50 states in the clouds and wind. Stirring up, veins charged with bright; conjuring all knowledges, calling all forgotten spirits. Who's to represent the army of the dead? Dread, sure as Hell I will or won't. Just let the brass keep on going.
Inhale- burn. Make sure to keep full and quiet. Wind of the sea, wind of warm that talks to me: your Florida coasts, your eyes colored Amazon, New York song- this (rising, falling, dying, thinking) all works out fine.
☆THE WAY COLOGNE TRICKS YOU IS:
He by the light of graffiti, he by the edge of the bricks that backed him, laughed, and in that there was all the sin that I was looking for; all the sin that I want to take with me on the ascent to the top, and maybe burn, and maybe fuel. It's not a complete assimilation of personality traits but a suggestion in the placement of bones, in the movement of the arms, that brings me to the conclusion that in him rests the decisive note to the song. Not an astrolabe and not a key to go on, but just some fact that I could maybe find some respite in. Not all sin gets you the ticket and not everybody who goes by what's good will go to Hell; you can go to Hell, bringing the poem down like that. Some people just do right. But if- in the dominance of his blood, in his dark eyes, in what's underneath the bait-and-trap of his clothing- there awaits perdition, there's just condemnation, then I guess that what I'd want to do is bring it up to the angles of ashes, that is to say, to sail along it. Three days unshaved and laughing through a cigarette; rude, brute, under the spell that the wind carried from its torment of three day's rain. It had seemed like a storm. Maria Full of Grace; broken embraces; call to order; rise to higher power. The night turns neon and everything comes under the spell of the storm (rises and falls with it and its power, the graffiti, the garbage trucks, the cars that spin clean color, vortex), and I go schlepp off with some savage illiterate...it's only what bones promise. It might only be a trick of relativity, but when it speaks so soundly, when it inspires such respect, when it tastes so much like honey and salt, it's worth it to be fooled. It's worth it, if only to complete the song.
☆BACK IN THE DESERT
LAS VEGAS SONG
Back in the desert we was pirates, or something more honest, more lawless-full-of-life, and between the casinos and the shopping outlets we clutched our guns, we played our rhythm and rhyme. We drove through the Mojave, cars were breaking down on all sides; we came to the mountains that silently point the way to California, full of death, full of the spirits of others. What could die, then? The coyotes that loped back to the nameless hills, the gambling dens that advertised something called Madrid Boxing...it was all superficial, but none of it was meaningless.
Because, at the end of it, we always came back to the night- we always ended up breathless, laughing, on the terrace of that adobe light with its firefly lights, with its central air conditioning. Me and you, we'd sit under the falling sparkle of close heat, with Coronas, a pack of lights, a pack of Djarum Black, and ruminate on all the songs we'd heard- all the movies we saw- all the lives that lived that only added up to our own. Yeah, we were gunners; back to our dens, back to our dreams and reality. Through it all, to say the least, we were honest and laughing.
and the poems are all sorta pretty much self-explanatory:
☆LOVE AND RESPECT
She was killing insects with her hands,
The idea of love had her throat trapped like a scorpion.
True that you're my endless Queen; true, that
I invoke your eyes in ash, seek you in the song of ebb and tide
Want your memory in the sea and sky.
When the empire of remembering is set to decline, I hope I can find
An oasis in your mind; I hope that even when I'm blind, I'll feel
The truth inside your hands- and humanity in your mouth.
Hope can stagnate, of course, and sometimes it's only a safety feeling.
Sometimes it burns out with the last cigarette, with the last cut of the knife,
With the first scream of the night.
Regardless of what might fall, which dreams might be dismantled,
I'll always fold into you, and across this sea of empty dark worry,
I'll always feel the bliss with which you smile.
-And I'll always keep your silver cigarette case, emblazoned with gypsy memories, Catholic stars.
☆KHALED, KING OF RAIN
You stole the light that Almodóvar used
To navigate the tunnels of the human heart at midnight;
Instead, you used it to see a movie,
Catch a drink with friends, sweet-talk some desert mermaids,
Go to work and come back home in one piece;
Going about your everyday
Licked by the flicker of love.
You walked along that 2 AM avenue,
And I turned to your breathing, and I fell to thinking melody, insomnia,
I fell to your beat that rang so true above
Injustices, despairs, unfinished songs, cigarette bans,
That rang above misery and emptiness and tones, textures, of the superficial
-And surfaced with your jaw and hands, breaking through the spirits,
Colored red and gold.
Your hips- I breath,
Your bones- my mind closes in light and dark,
The intimacy of this music that rains so often.
You alone, and in the bare sunlight, and marked by the passing of night.
The friends I knew, the smoke that passed, the snow that came and went-
Dissolved; I had a lot more on my mind, a lot more to maneuver,
But in that stolen light I turned to dusk,
And when you spoke, the nighttime rang.
☆ANOTHER SONG FOR THE KING OF RAIN
I spent
Two months suffering for your skin,
Three more sick with darkness,
Weeks savoring a thief's ideas, days too close,
and I spent hours in four walls of silent stone:
Love- a temple of lust;
I've spent all my days forgetting and all my nights in dreamless sleep;
It's time to call this shit shut
(dark, everything is dark enough for neon;
everything- light rains; your sweat)
It's time you stop making me crazier than I already am,
Time you gave it up to me.
☆DIRTY VEGETABLES
Dodge the television, catch a trick,
Move to the movies, elect the next president-
Do whatever it takes to get through the day.
Fall and fall back to basics.
I could always scratch away these penniless blues, but then again,
I could always also change my name, my thoughts, my worries.
They'll always find something to write about, to make you happy with,
To scandalize your constructed glass and flags.
What's the point of this game, anyway?
-The point of it's to live; no matter what all of this means,
There's always the will and strength of promises,
Prayers, night, and dirt. -Those things that sustain themselves.
(God! These fucking vegetables-
Maybe in the next life I'll be able to hear myself think.)
NOTES;;
so the explanation for Another Song for the King of Rain was that it was spost t be the ending to the poem that preceded it, but i dint think it went along with its tone; and so, fragmented, i put it after it.
ah and the format of the first three poems- there's a prose-poem under the name of Hysteria by TS Eliot that's much more graceful and compact than my messes, hah XD i don't remember the names of the Neruda poems that i've seen in that format, but you can most likely find them in one of his anthologies.
thanks for reading! :D
the sketches are about: 1) a particular night; 2) some fucking guy and his cologne that tricked me; 3) months spent in vegas with honesty.
☆TONIGHT WAS:
As though through wires- as though to repay, in full, those months of tormented cold- there was finally a breath of warmth, green with light, chaotic with the rains. In the middle of January summer visited the town. Visited when the dark would hide tis face, when it could sink into itself, when only hyenas like us would see it; when only the night jackals would rise to the occasion. The sound of it was all around; dampness, just the right amount of storm to enjoy a cigarette with. The dead sea of cigarettes in the grass- changes everything, this night; the dark charges all the neon in the city, but here there's only one white light blinking steady. Steady as the sea goes- steady as the waves; heady like full horns blasting, this ain't untrue. Sink in, sink in slow- poison, potion. Night like this charges it up, makes it all mix. You can hear the banshees, the spirits in the air, the sense of power, the sense of death, electricity; all the intimacies of the sleeping apartment buildings, and it all adds up to light. On a night like this there's no fighting a smile- coffee tastes just like electricity, smoke is as true as history and good love. Everything forgotten- your love makes no sense, forget your steaming thoughts, hold fast to lessons, keep yourself inside your pocket.
Nothing could die on a night like this, and if it dies it goes straight down into the ground, into what's true. It's not so much mindless or heartless as full of spirit, sex and blood, sugar magic, songs to sing, bells to ring- certain times to forget everything. On a night like this, who needs Nevada? The brass rings like the hour: dark, straight, true, unclear. These storms that come up the coasts; these kids who die for music- die to long for it. What's there to prove?
On a night like this there's pure dark; on a night like this, lightning strikes the trees, the duality in threes. You can feel all 50 degrees shaking in your hips, more importantly in your blood, coursing, clench your fists: bone promises in your lips, aw right, all 50 states in the clouds and wind. Stirring up, veins charged with bright; conjuring all knowledges, calling all forgotten spirits. Who's to represent the army of the dead? Dread, sure as Hell I will or won't. Just let the brass keep on going.
Inhale- burn. Make sure to keep full and quiet. Wind of the sea, wind of warm that talks to me: your Florida coasts, your eyes colored Amazon, New York song- this (rising, falling, dying, thinking) all works out fine.
☆THE WAY COLOGNE TRICKS YOU IS:
He by the light of graffiti, he by the edge of the bricks that backed him, laughed, and in that there was all the sin that I was looking for; all the sin that I want to take with me on the ascent to the top, and maybe burn, and maybe fuel. It's not a complete assimilation of personality traits but a suggestion in the placement of bones, in the movement of the arms, that brings me to the conclusion that in him rests the decisive note to the song. Not an astrolabe and not a key to go on, but just some fact that I could maybe find some respite in. Not all sin gets you the ticket and not everybody who goes by what's good will go to Hell; you can go to Hell, bringing the poem down like that. Some people just do right. But if- in the dominance of his blood, in his dark eyes, in what's underneath the bait-and-trap of his clothing- there awaits perdition, there's just condemnation, then I guess that what I'd want to do is bring it up to the angles of ashes, that is to say, to sail along it. Three days unshaved and laughing through a cigarette; rude, brute, under the spell that the wind carried from its torment of three day's rain. It had seemed like a storm. Maria Full of Grace; broken embraces; call to order; rise to higher power. The night turns neon and everything comes under the spell of the storm (rises and falls with it and its power, the graffiti, the garbage trucks, the cars that spin clean color, vortex), and I go schlepp off with some savage illiterate...it's only what bones promise. It might only be a trick of relativity, but when it speaks so soundly, when it inspires such respect, when it tastes so much like honey and salt, it's worth it to be fooled. It's worth it, if only to complete the song.
☆BACK IN THE DESERT
LAS VEGAS SONG
Back in the desert we was pirates, or something more honest, more lawless-full-of-life, and between the casinos and the shopping outlets we clutched our guns, we played our rhythm and rhyme. We drove through the Mojave, cars were breaking down on all sides; we came to the mountains that silently point the way to California, full of death, full of the spirits of others. What could die, then? The coyotes that loped back to the nameless hills, the gambling dens that advertised something called Madrid Boxing...it was all superficial, but none of it was meaningless.
Because, at the end of it, we always came back to the night- we always ended up breathless, laughing, on the terrace of that adobe light with its firefly lights, with its central air conditioning. Me and you, we'd sit under the falling sparkle of close heat, with Coronas, a pack of lights, a pack of Djarum Black, and ruminate on all the songs we'd heard- all the movies we saw- all the lives that lived that only added up to our own. Yeah, we were gunners; back to our dens, back to our dreams and reality. Through it all, to say the least, we were honest and laughing.
and the poems are all sorta pretty much self-explanatory:
☆LOVE AND RESPECT
She was killing insects with her hands,
The idea of love had her throat trapped like a scorpion.
True that you're my endless Queen; true, that
I invoke your eyes in ash, seek you in the song of ebb and tide
Want your memory in the sea and sky.
When the empire of remembering is set to decline, I hope I can find
An oasis in your mind; I hope that even when I'm blind, I'll feel
The truth inside your hands- and humanity in your mouth.
Hope can stagnate, of course, and sometimes it's only a safety feeling.
Sometimes it burns out with the last cigarette, with the last cut of the knife,
With the first scream of the night.
Regardless of what might fall, which dreams might be dismantled,
I'll always fold into you, and across this sea of empty dark worry,
I'll always feel the bliss with which you smile.
-And I'll always keep your silver cigarette case, emblazoned with gypsy memories, Catholic stars.
☆KHALED, KING OF RAIN
You stole the light that Almodóvar used
To navigate the tunnels of the human heart at midnight;
Instead, you used it to see a movie,
Catch a drink with friends, sweet-talk some desert mermaids,
Go to work and come back home in one piece;
Going about your everyday
Licked by the flicker of love.
You walked along that 2 AM avenue,
And I turned to your breathing, and I fell to thinking melody, insomnia,
I fell to your beat that rang so true above
Injustices, despairs, unfinished songs, cigarette bans,
That rang above misery and emptiness and tones, textures, of the superficial
-And surfaced with your jaw and hands, breaking through the spirits,
Colored red and gold.
Your hips- I breath,
Your bones- my mind closes in light and dark,
The intimacy of this music that rains so often.
You alone, and in the bare sunlight, and marked by the passing of night.
The friends I knew, the smoke that passed, the snow that came and went-
Dissolved; I had a lot more on my mind, a lot more to maneuver,
But in that stolen light I turned to dusk,
And when you spoke, the nighttime rang.
☆ANOTHER SONG FOR THE KING OF RAIN
I spent
Two months suffering for your skin,
Three more sick with darkness,
Weeks savoring a thief's ideas, days too close,
and I spent hours in four walls of silent stone:
Love- a temple of lust;
I've spent all my days forgetting and all my nights in dreamless sleep;
It's time to call this shit shut
(dark, everything is dark enough for neon;
everything- light rains; your sweat)
It's time you stop making me crazier than I already am,
Time you gave it up to me.
☆DIRTY VEGETABLES
Dodge the television, catch a trick,
Move to the movies, elect the next president-
Do whatever it takes to get through the day.
Fall and fall back to basics.
I could always scratch away these penniless blues, but then again,
I could always also change my name, my thoughts, my worries.
They'll always find something to write about, to make you happy with,
To scandalize your constructed glass and flags.
What's the point of this game, anyway?
-The point of it's to live; no matter what all of this means,
There's always the will and strength of promises,
Prayers, night, and dirt. -Those things that sustain themselves.
(God! These fucking vegetables-
Maybe in the next life I'll be able to hear myself think.)
NOTES;;
so the explanation for Another Song for the King of Rain was that it was spost t be the ending to the poem that preceded it, but i dint think it went along with its tone; and so, fragmented, i put it after it.
ah and the format of the first three poems- there's a prose-poem under the name of Hysteria by TS Eliot that's much more graceful and compact than my messes, hah XD i don't remember the names of the Neruda poems that i've seen in that format, but you can most likely find them in one of his anthologies.
thanks for reading! :D