It cannot be otherwise, when tacky and tense sounds of a saxophone start cleaving the walls of an evening's kitchen. It cannot happen differently, when the sweetish smell of brewed camomiles is following the dense melody throughout the clingy walls. And this awkward knocking so fairly lightened by the forlorn street orb cannot be any different. And us both, we can't be smiling differently than now with our damp and coloured by the drowsing sun lips. Looking up with drowning in a secret eyes and diving in again. And hands, they're just resting here. By no means are they demanding and divining for a sapid touch - they're just laying on the table set with shadows. The tips of my fingers are playing solo of the flowered cup. Eyes of yours and mine glowing with a dim light are drowsing in a luscious mist. The sinking melody of the walls moves closer and webs my fingers. The blues lead them onto your warm cheek. My palm stills hand in hand with the nocturnal light on your unearthly face. The tea brews up again. 

Amid the rumble of the pavements you found an islet where you're paddling now in the absolute heat. Lucid pearls of light are dropping from every lash. And he is thawing in those pearls. 'I am afraid of drowning.' You couldn't take the mildness of the green bed, you hardly opened the sunk eyes. And when the pupils met the entire deluge, the reality started raining with sound, with colour, it came flowing and pulling and carrying you away with it, only... a very different sound, a very different colour flows in from the starry tiny droplets and lets you stay on this lone islet. And you're forever paddling in the absolute heat...

Twenty-four hours of hushed voices, of lonesome taciturnity is too much to bear. I cry for the moon, I call for the wane... break through! Or at least taste the unrest, the vacant hectic waves of disharmony. Not in a way to be scattered to the winds... but fairly enough to want and shed the bits of good on me... Seems I cry for too much, seems the moon frayed away this night.

It is still beyond my grasp and it will always remain this way - WHEREFORE. And I'll miss you for there is no other way. For you spoiled me with your presence. And the realm will discord your death as it was your best performance. "...but it's brute..." Now I'll be able to watch it inside-out and in slow motion. "...how can it be?.." Even with dirt in mouth you can evoke such susceptibilities! You rose and left. And once again I'm here with those drivellers... for they said 'it'll get better', and it doesn't. They said 'give it time!', and soon I'll be pushing daisies. And let's play Who's More - for I could purvey for a hundred parched. Except they all have seen the sea already...

But again I'm forth. O, music, adieu. For there is no other way.

Because I knew - when you go, I go hand in hand. And so you did.

Incubus...

The realm is filled with touch again. Once more you're playing the requiem. Whilst I'm fallen by the grand, clawed to your leg. I hail but the lips are sealed... and fingers stuck together. What happens now?.. "...so lurid!.."

I cried a river... I cried so...

"Get angry, dearest, with yourself." You're telling me but I'm only cross with you. And your god. For you said... dearest...

But again I'm forth...

in memoriam

'The lad's so scrawny, a slip of a boy, eyes of a basset hound... A gal visits him by night, one such with stilts. Don't know what she chews on. Isn't he ashamed?' Prudes next-door are slandering.

I imagine: as if a couple from a Gothic painting - arms spindly, bodies out of proportion. Willy-nilly they both settle themselves in my head. The images are seeping into my mind with no control from my side. Artistic, I muse.

Their gawky, bony bodies are moving in an even rhythmic manner. Parched lips, closed eyes, lids tingling. Their hands slipping pass the neck, verging on the shoulder blades, the nails clawing at the skin. The girl's nudging little bristols are like sour apples. Keeling over, stretching out the slender legs, crooking the toes with pleasure, they are panting. Running up, suspending. The gal's wailing. The lad's keeping himself manly even though the boyish body seems to be breaking in the instant...

It's an immodest way of thinking about seen or heard people. It's a vile method of creating a story, writing a pseudo biography from the tiny teeny slips of mind. Really, it's not thinking about the people at all and it's not their stories in the end. It works as dreams -- the things you find in the realm are the ones you fear or wish the most.