Sometimes it feels like I feel you; drowning in the weight of all the lies I've told. All the many painful wires braided into this thing of ours-theirs-that once was such a puddle to dance upon.
Out there, in all the many nights that are frozen production stills on a click-clack projector repeat. So many that I've had-so many more that have stung.
And I'm just Hester Pryne.
__I've been met again and again in the middle of a wet, darkened street, with anyone, with tales spinning 'round my wrists
...and sometimes the lights are all GREEN at once-and I STOP,
and look suddenly either way-
and then I tempt.
I tempt the fabric on sparkling coals of gravel - like the grunged up existence of the woman; of a Communion girl - now a grandmother in lines-lies, and wrinkles of exotic "war wounds".
__Reaching far....to touch the forest branches Hester pushes aside; reaching high into the falling rain-the falling ache, in a cobblestone kinda city....as Nana's beads swing around my neck and I go chilly-wet into the space between the yellow lanes on bare feet and tiptoes.
Long, long hair swinging into the rain and sticking further into soft white cotton, my soft white skin....
Ah, ha ha. BEWARE you see, as you watch me-"don't fall too hard you see"-and I only smiled that time...
Cause then it goes on -
I hate ending. It's all but past almost, though I've been m~o~t~i~o~n~s from gone; boarding the plane-in my heart, my hands-for so very long.
__Reaching far....to touch the forest branches Hester pushes aside; reaching high into the falling rain-the falling ache, in a cobblestone kinda city....as Nana's beads swing around my neck and I go chilly-wet into the space between the yellow lanes on bare feet and tiptoes.
Long, long hair swinging into the rain and sticking further into soft white cotton, my soft white skin....
Ah, ha ha. BEWARE you see, as you watch me-"don't fall too hard you see"-and I only smiled that time...
Cause then it goes on -
until maybe we hate some others,
and a bench below the trees and the southern roof; where life was whatever words were made-
folded cracked leaves of stories told in the after embrace.....after we've dug and kissed into each other's skin-
sitting so calm, and resting so sweet in the sensations only seconds past...that will soon be lives and legs and weeks past.
Funny how that is.
Funny how it may be.
Funny how it moves, how we move-when we move together.
Dig on how the heart swells THEN-when it pretends-swells more maybe than it ever can. Does it ever swell?
Funny how it may be.
Funny how it moves, how we move-when we move together.
Dig on how the heart swells THEN-when it pretends-swells more maybe than it ever can. Does it ever swell?
I hate ending. It's all but past almost, though I've been m~o~t~i~o~n~s from gone; boarding the plane-in my heart, my hands-for so very long.
yes, All the taint-the things possessed; they become tombstones. And that's when (oh it aches uneasy) when the skin itself becomes a eulogy of everything "once was"
...all the so many times-over boiling of insides-we can talk forever more within.
"I was young, I was young, But it's all done - Take it away..."
Ah, that's how we'll do it when we leave- -
because there's HOME I feel (is it called swelling?) in my heart here.
And all over afterwards my smiles will carry the ones once made there, and my own boiling roaring monster inside will rest, maybe, one day - calmed with a once wild romping time.
-So that's how we'll do it when we leave-
we'll walk so sad into such a funky sun-
and then we'll turn you see, because it looks poetic, and then it's done.
And then it's done.
And we'll run then-
into the funky sun, and grin so wide, and maybe chuckle-when we go.
Scratch the scratch-
and burn into your own memory (sweet memory) another reminiscence of the SMOG....
"I was young, I was young, But it's all done - Take it away..."
Ah, that's how we'll do it when we leave- -
because there's HOME I feel (is it called swelling?) in my heart here.
The greatest.
Oh the "so much love", that truly does exist-and we all do feel it-when this group, it comes together.
And every starving character comes to rest within their soul as they roar and race into the excitement of potential and companionship.
These wildly character faces, painted now within photographs of a passing paradise
...the great bounding, saucy, exposition of our journeys to any spots all over.
And all over afterwards my smiles will carry the ones once made there, and my own boiling roaring monster inside will rest, maybe, one day - calmed with a once wild romping time.
-So that's how we'll do it when we leave-
we'll walk so sad into such a funky sun-
and then we'll turn you see, because it looks poetic, and then it's done.
And then it's done.
And we'll run then-
into the funky sun, and grin so wide, and maybe chuckle-when we go.
Daily headphones: Billy Joel's "Only the Good Die Young", and Smokey Robinson's "Tears of a Clown"
