Charles Bukowski, It's Ours

there is always that space there

just before they get to us

that space

that fine relaxer

the breather

while say

flopping on a bed

thinking of nothing

or say

pouring a glass of water from the

spigot

while entranced by

nothing

that

gentle pure

space

it's worth

centuries of

existence

say

just to scratch your neck

while looking out the window at

a bare branch

that space

there

before they get to us

ensures

that

when they do

they won't

get it all

ever.

When I listen to music...

When I listen to music time stands still in its eternal fluidity; seasons change like colours in the winter morning sky. My body is weightless; and I’m elevating, waving at passing by clouds.

I reach beyond myself. And with my mind I open doors unknown to my reflections; reflections I can clearly see through.

When I listen to music, electricity rages through my existence, escaping from my fingertips, running wild and free. This energy I can’t restrain consumes me and I, I lay motionless in utter despair.

This inability to show the turmoil of my ever-changing emotions, the certainty of this certain lack of expression, throws me at the wall, shutters me in pieces and then puts me back together again.

In this everlasting flow of events, I cry my lungs out, I push myself to every direction, I breathe the world around me; but all to no avail.

No voice echoes out of me, every direction equals none and air ignores my inside. And I’m gasping, silent and immovable, vanishing; yet, when I look at me through the eyes of darkness, I remain solid while blissfully glowing.

And this is how I feel... Every time I listen to music.

Or, maybe... This is how I feel... Every time. Every single time I...

Is it me or your eyes burn like fire?

Every time I think of your stare, I fall into a haze; my insides flame with lust and anticipation. When am I ever going to meet you? When am I ever going to touch you? It seems so long.. It feels so long. It's like I'm falling down an endless hole, leading to nowhere else but longing, craving, waiting, fearing; frustrated.. And all that in the thought of you. When am I ever going to see you? When will the day come that I'll be able to feel you? When will this blessed time be that I will fear for your absence no more? When will that day arrive, that I will rest into your soul, and banish the terror of my need for you once and for all?

I'm back.

And that's all you need to know. ;) 

Closed until further notice.

Federico García Lorca, Gacela of the Dark Death

I want to sleep awhile; awhile, a minute, a century...

I want to sleep the dream of the apples,

to withdraw from the tumult of cemetries.

I want to sleep the dream of that child

who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas.

I don't want to hear again that the dead do not lose their blood,

that the putrid mouth goes on asking for water.

I don't want to learn of the tortures of the grass,

nor of the moon with a serpent's mouth

that labors before dawn.

I want to sleep awhile,

awhile, a minute, a century;

but all must know that I have not died;

that there is a stable of gold in my lips;

that I am the small friend of the West wing;

that I am the intense shadows of my tears.

Cover me at dawn with a veil,

because dawn will throw fistfuls of ants at me,

and wet with hard water my shoes

so that the pincers of the scorpion slide.

For I want to sleep the dream of the apples,

to learn a lament that will cleanse me to earth;

for I want to live with that dark child

who wanted to cut his heart on the high seas. 

William Butler Yeats, The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core. 

.

One of these days . . .

If a picture is worth a thousand words...

Then what is this sum of pictures dancing along an over-imposing tune worth? I wonder. . . . .