|
| |
my_lagan_love
|
|
|
werewolf
|
i went to where we used to kiss. the road winded past the shadowy husks of sleeping houses. barren boxes, their points of interest on hold, their vulnerabilities and delicacies behind closed shades. the world those sleeping within normally covet for themselves is left unguarded. the road remains uphill to a fence and beyond it, the wilderness. i cannot see very far into, and all light finds very little to reflect off of, trees that seem props hiding some emptiness. the engine shuts off so suddenly. and now the brandy warms my throat, is the realest offering of this great human heritage i'm supposedly a part of. i come here not often, but often enough. i try to recreate it all, see where things went wrong, see if i could correct it just like that. but it's hardened like the cement sidewalk at the edge of the darkness that i remember seeing wet one day when i was young, before i had met her. i cannot change what happened. the secrets of the darkness beyond hold less allure. i know enough to feel there is nothing beyond this sidewalk, these homes. they say a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. and here i am, trapped between the remembrance of her lips and that darkness. only one of them seems very real. and it changes with each drink i take. i'm trapped by what could've been and what is. daily i fight between the ifs and the is. there was a time when her lips closed the distance. i will go home and sleep. i will surrender again the thousand nights we never had. the price of all i had was all i didn't know i was going to lose. when i stare at the darkness her lips are there, hidden amongst the emptiness, something that came out briefly and then returned.
|
021205
|
| |
... |
|
|
werewolf
|
coincidentally here are the words to the actual lagan love song written by that great author...traditional....
Where Lagan streams sing lullabies
There blows a lily fair
The twilight gleam is in her eye
The night is on her hair
And, like a love sick leannan si,
She hath my heart in thrall
No life have I, no liberty,
For love is lord of all.
And often when the beetle's horn
Has lulled the eve to sleep,
I steal into her shieling lorn,
And through the doorway creep,
There on the cricket's singing stone
She makes the bogwood fire,
And sings in sweet and undertone,
The song of heart's desire
|
021205
|
| |
... |
|
|
frAnk
|
brother. your writing is fucking amazing, again and again you stun me.
"trees that seem props hiding some emptiness..."
"hardening like the cement sidewalk at the edge of darkness..."
"daily i fight between the ifs and what is..."
"something that came out briefly and returned."
perhaps with this painstaking, exhaustive expose you create some kind of peace with your memory?
|
021205
|
| |
... |
|
|
werewolf
|
ah they only seem empty because they have nothing to offer me. her lips seemed somehow the discovery which made all others i'd known and those i'd imagined from there seem shallow preludes, seem indistinguishable from the darkness. her lips caught me by such surprise that i lost faith in my ability to imagine, that i saw no purpose in pretending i knew what was out there. now that they were gone i could only wait in unhope, knowing that if in my whole life nothing like it had ever been offered, there was a chance it might never be again. so i wait at the edge and stare into the failure of my memory to hold still each uncovering flash of light in a sky i gave up trying to own.
haha...or so i thought...yeah it makes me feel better. plus...i walked into the darkness and again i was surprised to find a kiss which made me feel unknowable depths within myself, as if i'd been looking into myself all along.
oh and thanks
|
021205
|
| |
... |
|
|
werewolf
|
you're right though, each time i write, i'm redressing my old loves, and so of course my new loves. of course my new loves help me redress my old ones. it's all very complicated and dramatic. haha
|
021205
|
