WhirlpoolTo be in place is not to be in time.
Some things are not for the leaving.
Like one more breath in an airless room, breathing,
It ceases to be an option.
Emotional survival, hope extant. And you would talk of
Smoke, in smoke filled rooms, drinks and things,
This and that,
Chat and ask people more about themselves,
Then pull one long sleeve across your mouth, wet.
And laugh, amused
Ending in nothing.
To be in time, in the vein of things, is to be amused.
To make the world distant. The binding refrain.
At distance, laughter is impenetrable. Undecipherable. Arcane.
It's cold outside.
Frozen to death or shaken to pieces?
You choose, your choice.
Inside, or the rain?
So we walked.
Where would you rather be?
Under a hill.
At the bottom of the sea, crushed in the black.
A few months ago, wrapped in your arms.
Sick, and cold, and shivering,
Do you remember nothing?
Are these things worth noth
Five and TenFive and ten.
I remember sitting there
remembering a time,
where I was remembering a time, when
I was remembering a time.
a curious thing
like four men being dragged down a river
in the same boat
holding the same piece of string
each falling in turn.
Life is short enough to have things
to talk about
and a need to talk
Your cold, well, it feels like all the others,
I can't set you aside in it.
You might be being nice
but I can't tell the smile from the smirk.
The gentlest touch can be
indistinguishable from a slap in the face
or a knife in the back
the greatest innocence invites the worst betrayal.
This is the time of the second hand, the used
and if what is said is moderated for lighter viewing
then what is heard is not to be believed
and every word a gentle lie
to save us from a greater pain.
The surroundings may be different
but the poison is the same.
In this life people sell their age
or point at in, as if to say
I know how things work
Facts mean fictionOne too many birthdays, and her jaw drops
her face falls away
like she's going to catch age.
Don't you know?
It's something we all already got
The trip may be getting better
but that car is breaking down regardless.
And you cannot stop.
Rolling down that hill.
You'll see. The mirror will not lie
about lines, and the dull root of memories
embers ebb in the flow of time, are washed and replaced by pictures
memories are ink on paper,
the history books depict, and what
they call passages
are in fact portents
you will find, you will see.
As you get older,
There is a certain pleasure
it the outside being wet and
the inside dry
Forgetting the shrill of the gulls,
slowly numbing skin
the cry of the wild sea beckoning to you
but the soft glow of the hearth calling you in.
Or to cut to the chase
I'm getting older and I'm taking you all with me.