The trains left her behind.
Not sure what city or town she lived in now. The smell of the murky waters, the imagined sound of their lapping in and around the outer shores. Strippers danced in peacock dresses upon clouds in the might of the sky. The surrounding birds ran a hunting party over to the sailor’s lofts and the street vermin, nestled in after a long run, inside their newspaper feather beds, wishing on reduction.
We are not the realization of ourselves, and no one wants to do the mathematics to build the final equation - bruised, dirty, full of might and cowardice, turning round and round in a firepit of ego and need, while the tribe encircle us, dancing and praying and breathing through the storm in our paper cuts.
Admitting they’d turned into whores, the strippers continued to their sleep in the clouds, smoke in their curls, stink from their knees, love somewhere deep inside their broken hearts. So much love buried in the black hole found at the tip of a needle. Out of it flies their first blood, their empty rooms, the can-can they did at the age of 5. If only it was as it used to be. A couple, broken in sacrifice, going to their communal death for the good of all, Fucking into eternity, burnt into the wood’s natural etchings, as the town ate and drank. Lift up your faces, look skyward - kick up your heels and spread your legs. The colours will bleed through the cracks in your eyes whether you want them to or not.
People see your insides, they just don’t bother to try. They can rip you to shreds, dress up in your entrails, play dice with your fears and arouse your sunshine to see-saw time. After the couple gets back up again, putting their strewn limbs back on, reacquainting themselves with the spaces beneath their experimental skin. The whores in the clouds will tell them that strippers never keep anything on, that rituals the very first time bear a different name, that a home becomes a house once the windows are clear. That it wasn’t what they thought it would be. Not even close.
The payout is shroudy, lost in the shadows of a gun barrel. It’s more than you can imagine. Piles of invisible cash in empty briefcases, littering a dry, straight highway. Always just waiting for the sun to break free from behind a cirrus cloud. He’s too busy making time with those dancing ladies. Seahorses sewn onto their fast moving dresses. They enact their superstition, leaving your belly wrapped tight around childhood.
Sweet leaves blown through trees, you were so young and could do anything.
He is the reason I believe in the might of gods, in the morality of the wise man, in the faith for the hero.
The sun shone differently then. It always broke through clouds of painted ladies. Their feathers shone fresh and bright, their feet quick and fancy-free; no one ever knew about their cuts and pregnancies, their ineffectual starry eyes, wanting to borrow some gold of sunshine before the next go around. They’d let you have it back, they can’t manage two things at once at that distance.
You return from the ritual embers, thinking that the humblest hearts make the largest, near silent sacrifice. Passed out, with sideways tears that glide down your neck with each crisp, clean feeling of memory. It serves to reinforce the constant void, lapping and retreating as the waves of this mystery border town outside the window - filling with appreciation, Christmas dinners, silent car rides and warm, amber stories, falling away to the worst road, the future one.
To the girls, touched, who wipe a tear with their grandmother’s embroidered handkerchief, take their pills and wash their underwear in the sink. Lastly, they fill up their wet eyes with the black dirt shadows of everyone else’s family secrets. One sip of waterfall whiskey rising in the smoke of the dance hall of jousting erections, life plans demarcating napkins and the glimpse of a way back home, through the eyes of a girl whose head is forever soaring above the clouds in the colours of the mythology that stands beside, watching and wondering how the story will end, what side of the coin will the gypsies win and steal at and what strangers will be stretched out on the fire escape when the hangover passes, and your realize you missed the daylight again. When the light hits your face and I finally don’t feel like I am floating anymore. You put my head and my heart in the dirt here on earth. Thank you. The sands will stay white, your homeland truer than you remember it. And I promise to breathe, to walk, to give, to taste and to love of everything you gave me, of everything I am.
The terror of stillness, the romance of a mighty squall.
The girls, still small, innocent and dreaming manage to gawk, shake off their ashes and smile. He’s telling them a story. He’ll be off to tell you one next time you sleep, or smell firewood or think of home without a place. The littlest girl, with her oversized stockinged legs, whispers that there must be gods up there in the clouds too. The taller, motherly one with the strong, brown curls and false eyelashes shakes a half-grin and bumps her shoulder, remarking that it’s only them up there. “Well then”, the little one squeals. And the waves continue, leaving an old faded photograph on the shore.
The trains blew noise in the distance.
Not sure what city or town she lived in now. The smell of the murky waters, the imagined sound of their lapping in and around the outer shores. Strippers danced in peacock dresses upon clouds in the might of the sky. The surrounding birds ran a hunting party over to the sailor’s lofts and the street vermin, nestled in after a long run, inside their newspaper feather beds, wishing on reduction.
We are not the realization of ourselves, and no one wants to do the mathematics to build the final equation - bruised, dirty, full of might and cowardice, turning round and round in a firepit of ego and need, while the tribe encircle us, dancing and praying and breathing through the storm in our paper cuts.
Admitting they’d turned into whores, the strippers continued to their sleep in the clouds, smoke in their curls, stink from their knees, love somewhere deep inside their broken hearts. So much love buried in the black hole found at the tip of a needle. Out of it flies their first blood, their empty rooms, the can-can they did at the age of 5. If only it was as it used to be. A couple, broken in sacrifice, going to their communal death for the good of all, Fucking into eternity, burnt into the wood’s natural etchings, as the town ate and drank. Lift up your faces, look skyward - kick up your heels and spread your legs. The colours will bleed through the cracks in your eyes whether you want them to or not.
People see your insides, they just don’t bother to try. They can rip you to shreds, dress up in your entrails, play dice with your fears and arouse your sunshine to see-saw time. After the couple gets back up again, putting their strewn limbs back on, reacquainting themselves with the spaces beneath their experimental skin. The whores in the clouds will tell them that strippers never keep anything on, that rituals the very first time bear a different name, that a home becomes a house once the windows are clear. That it wasn’t what they thought it would be. Not even close.
The payout is shroudy, lost in the shadows of a gun barrel. It’s more than you can imagine. Piles of invisible cash in empty briefcases, littering a dry, straight highway. Always just waiting for the sun to break free from behind a cirrus cloud. He’s too busy making time with those dancing ladies. Seahorses sewn onto their fast moving dresses. They enact their superstition, leaving your belly wrapped tight around childhood.
Sweet leaves blown through trees, you were so young and could do anything.
He is the reason I believe in the might of gods, in the morality of the wise man, in the faith for the hero.
The sun shone differently then. It always broke through clouds of painted ladies. Their feathers shone fresh and bright, their feet quick and fancy-free; no one ever knew about their cuts and pregnancies, their ineffectual starry eyes, wanting to borrow some gold of sunshine before the next go around. They’d let you have it back, they can’t manage two things at once at that distance.
You return from the ritual embers, thinking that the humblest hearts make the largest, near silent sacrifice. Passed out, with sideways tears that glide down your neck with each crisp, clean feeling of memory. It serves to reinforce the constant void, lapping and retreating as the waves of this mystery border town outside the window - filling with appreciation, Christmas dinners, silent car rides and warm, amber stories, falling away to the worst road, the future one.
To the girls, touched, who wipe a tear with their grandmother’s embroidered handkerchief, take their pills and wash their underwear in the sink. Lastly, they fill up their wet eyes with the black dirt shadows of everyone else’s family secrets. One sip of waterfall whiskey rising in the smoke of the dance hall of jousting erections, life plans demarcating napkins and the glimpse of a way back home, through the eyes of a girl whose head is forever soaring above the clouds in the colours of the mythology that stands beside, watching and wondering how the story will end, what side of the coin will the gypsies win and steal at and what strangers will be stretched out on the fire escape when the hangover passes, and your realize you missed the daylight again. When the light hits your face and I finally don’t feel like I am floating anymore. You put my head and my heart in the dirt here on earth. Thank you. The sands will stay white, your homeland truer than you remember it. And I promise to breathe, to walk, to give, to taste and to love of everything you gave me, of everything I am.
The terror of stillness, the romance of a mighty squall.
The girls, still small, innocent and dreaming manage to gawk, shake off their ashes and smile. He’s telling them a story. He’ll be off to tell you one next time you sleep, or smell firewood or think of home without a place. The littlest girl, with her oversized stockinged legs, whispers that there must be gods up there in the clouds too. The taller, motherly one with the strong, brown curls and false eyelashes shakes a half-grin and bumps her shoulder, remarking that it’s only them up there. “Well then”, the little one squeals. And the waves continue, leaving an old faded photograph on the shore.
The trains blew noise in the distance.
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