Luring the Loon
I picture a man, grown sick of the monotony, the dull hum of electronics and crippling cable connection at his finger tips, he dreams of a sunset on a foreign beach with the smell of sea-salt, bare asses and a lack of defeat. He musters up the courage to say "You know what, fuck it" as he locks up the apartment door, light-weight suitcase in hand with gray-toed socks sticking out the side. Hustling down the stairs, he hails down a cab to the nearest bank, grabs his savings, quits his job and books a one-way flight to Sicily.
He's somewhere between genius and loon, casting away everything he's ever known for the lure of the sea and the pull of the moon, where the sands starch white and the water runs clearer than 38 years of lonely tears warping his bedroom. It's a 2 hour drive to the nearest flight with a 6 hour delay that'll take all night, and that's quite alright, it's alright, because he's somewhere between genius and loon, casting away everything he's ever known, for the lure of the sea, and the pull of the moon, where the sand's starch white and the water runs clearer than 38 years of lonely tears warping his bedroom.
The illusion of time rewinds itself, stepping off the flight and into the light of an orange morning in a Hawaiian shirt. Allure of ancient histories in the air, between active volcanoes and criminals rampant in the town square - he doesn't care - all that matters is the lure of the sea and the pull of the moon, speaking broken Italian to a clerk to clock into a hotel room, where he'll change his socks and shake his cock after a long-held piss and a shower, too. A restless sleep follows till the afternoon, he gets dressed and resumes his quest to rest where the waves wash away a long 38 years of listlessness, fingering away at a wedding band too warped to loosen from his hand. He waves to the street and hails down another cab, wondering how long it'll take to spend every penny that he has. He wasn't born rich but always planed for a vacation where he wouldn't have to worry when it came to having ample cash at hand.
Kicking his shoes to the left, he steps on invisible pebbles towards a hammock, hammered between two cliffs, smoothed up the sides from wearing waters where the tides move. The sky neon pink as the sun starts to sink into a lucid painting, for which he needs a drink of a similar shade with a classy umbrella to mark the occasion of freedom and beautiful breezes. The man relaxes, and draws in a quivering breath; stifling a memory, for he's somewhere between genius and loon, casting away everything he's ever known for the lure of the sea and the pull of the moon, where the sands starch white and the water runs clearer than 38 years of lonely tears warping his bedroom. The water lulls him into a waking dream, dappling his eyes and quelling his fears, he listens, he listens intently to the song sweetly serenading him towards the horizon, a deeply hued sky, where a cry starts to haunt him, belittles him, makes him less of a man, without questioning why.
From the depths before him rises a siren, lacking a loud cry, rather, a full chest and set of alluring eyes. He man-handles his oculars in disbelief, wondering if he overdid it with the stiff drink. Bare feet slip into the sand, warmth still lingering after the blazing brand of summer's noon, he makes his way to the water's edge with an ache in his head and a burden eternally barraging his chest. He's somewhere between genius and loon, casting away everything he's ever known, for the lure of the sea, and the pull of the moon, where the sands starch white and the water runs clearer than the 38 years of lonely tears warping his bedroom, pondering why his beloved died beneath the pull of the waves, and the lure of the moon. He's manic, delusional, seeking his bride, the pride of his life who might have survived if only they hadn't fought that mid-summer night. He wades in the water, first his calves, thighs, trunks, to the chest, on his way to the rocks where the siren rests and beckons him, he's closing in, the tide is heavy and the air is thin, he's somewhere between the sea and the moon, casting away all that he's ever known, for the lure of a memory and will of a lune, forgetting he never learned to swim, floating face-up in a silent lagoon.
((I owe this beat for the inspiration: http://soundcloud.com/drekk-1/synth-lead-beat)
He's somewhere between genius and loon, casting away everything he's ever known for the lure of the sea and the pull of the moon, where the sands starch white and the water runs clearer than 38 years of lonely tears warping his bedroom. It's a 2 hour drive to the nearest flight with a 6 hour delay that'll take all night, and that's quite alright, it's alright, because he's somewhere between genius and loon, casting away everything he's ever known, for the lure of the sea, and the pull of the moon, where the sand's starch white and the water runs clearer than 38 years of lonely tears warping his bedroom.
The illusion of time rewinds itself, stepping off the flight and into the light of an orange morning in a Hawaiian shirt. Allure of ancient histories in the air, between active volcanoes and criminals rampant in the town square - he doesn't care - all that matters is the lure of the sea and the pull of the moon, speaking broken Italian to a clerk to clock into a hotel room, where he'll change his socks and shake his cock after a long-held piss and a shower, too. A restless sleep follows till the afternoon, he gets dressed and resumes his quest to rest where the waves wash away a long 38 years of listlessness, fingering away at a wedding band too warped to loosen from his hand. He waves to the street and hails down another cab, wondering how long it'll take to spend every penny that he has. He wasn't born rich but always planed for a vacation where he wouldn't have to worry when it came to having ample cash at hand.
Kicking his shoes to the left, he steps on invisible pebbles towards a hammock, hammered between two cliffs, smoothed up the sides from wearing waters where the tides move. The sky neon pink as the sun starts to sink into a lucid painting, for which he needs a drink of a similar shade with a classy umbrella to mark the occasion of freedom and beautiful breezes. The man relaxes, and draws in a quivering breath; stifling a memory, for he's somewhere between genius and loon, casting away everything he's ever known for the lure of the sea and the pull of the moon, where the sands starch white and the water runs clearer than 38 years of lonely tears warping his bedroom. The water lulls him into a waking dream, dappling his eyes and quelling his fears, he listens, he listens intently to the song sweetly serenading him towards the horizon, a deeply hued sky, where a cry starts to haunt him, belittles him, makes him less of a man, without questioning why.
From the depths before him rises a siren, lacking a loud cry, rather, a full chest and set of alluring eyes. He man-handles his oculars in disbelief, wondering if he overdid it with the stiff drink. Bare feet slip into the sand, warmth still lingering after the blazing brand of summer's noon, he makes his way to the water's edge with an ache in his head and a burden eternally barraging his chest. He's somewhere between genius and loon, casting away everything he's ever known, for the lure of the sea, and the pull of the moon, where the sands starch white and the water runs clearer than the 38 years of lonely tears warping his bedroom, pondering why his beloved died beneath the pull of the waves, and the lure of the moon. He's manic, delusional, seeking his bride, the pride of his life who might have survived if only they hadn't fought that mid-summer night. He wades in the water, first his calves, thighs, trunks, to the chest, on his way to the rocks where the siren rests and beckons him, he's closing in, the tide is heavy and the air is thin, he's somewhere between the sea and the moon, casting away all that he's ever known, for the lure of a memory and will of a lune, forgetting he never learned to swim, floating face-up in a silent lagoon.
((I owe this beat for the inspiration: http://soundcloud.com/drekk-1/synth-lead-beat)