along with the days

That fucking circadian slump, the early evening one. Motherfucker. Yet again a deadfriend’s voice do you know that feeling, when the day is done, you get home, look at the sea and suddenly it’s so blue it hurts. Damn, damned poets. I wish you’d stop treating yourself as a work of fiction, well I wish you’d shush and get back to being dead.

And the sun sinks and guinea fowl rust noisily, energetically.

Cook, read, potter about like some sensible soul. Distract, distract, distract. Sit down and ah fuck, my stupid brain is still right here in my addled head.

image

Music. Music is a good idea, since the TV died. What though? Nothing scars quite like music does. Richard Ashcroft. Reliable. (Yes, you do know him; he’s from the Verve.)

I lit my fire and sent my conch (I’m on fire)
Thinking of you and the love I’ve got (I’ll eat The Beatles for lunch)
I saw the devil’s servant, I sent her home
(I need somebody like you)
(I’m full of love and new desire)
(I said bring me your master, I don’t want his dog)
I built my boat from bamboo (but it sunk)
Thinking of you and the love I’ve got (I’m on fire)
(I saw the devil’s servant, I sent her home)
(I said bring me your master, I don’t want his dog)
(I ain’t afraid to die)
I lit my fire and sent my conch
(I’m on fire)
(I’ll eat The Beatles for lunch)
Thinking of you and the love I’ve got

(That’s two vocal tracks, the parentheses wind through the lines.) {lyrics} {on a beach} {acoustic version}

As wordy and wordstruck as I am, often in songs, the words matter less than their rhythmic relationship to the melody. The choon.

Washed up by an ocean who had tired of me

Sometimes there are words I love so much, that I don’t care about all the words in between them. When it’s not simply lyrics + melody = song, when the words, the lines sing too, when they make music … that’s a song. Sometimes it doesn’t matter what the words are, or what they mean.

Songs. Thank fuck for songs. It’s life that hurts.

(Please, please don’t console me.)

Comments are closed.