For your eyes only: Lines of suspicion, sedition and a search for perdition (found on my FB notes from 2009)

Damn the fact that I had so many mini strokes that robbed me of my ability to write, remember, even remember if I wrote this.

I have entire decades wiped from my memory banks. Jeff’s response on the original fb note post seems to indicate that I must have written this.

Either way- it is good.


Jeff called again and told me exactly how/when I wrote this and my memories came flooding back.

It was after I did a dinner theatre gig and it felt channeled somehow when I wrote it.

He reminded me that musicians often say the same: the best works don’t come from you, but through you, as if downloaded from the Akashic Records of sorts or the Collective Consciousness

For your eyes only: Lines of suspicion, sedition and a search for perdition

“For your eyes only”

“We live in the age of camera-phones, Internet…” – ‘Vampire: The Masquerade’

“It is impossible to say entirely just what she means to me.”- Charles Dickens

“No man is an island” – John Donne


Life can be summed up best by seven simple words. Don’t get caught with your pants down. This above all to yourself be true. Don’t drink and drive you bloody idiot. If it’s not on it’s not on. The ancients said. Seven is a magical number. Between heretic cannibal and pious ascendant are seven paths, seven pillars. Between NOTHING and ETERNITY is seven days. From idleness to idleness is seven hours. Seven keystrokes. Seven last smokes. Seven year good fortune. A cooling off period. The big freeze. Tonight the temperature is dropping. Life can be summed up by the polar ice-caps melting and the post-coitus of yesterday’s lusts. Seven sins, one is lust. Bare breasts, pink nipples sweet to taste, the pang of long gone touches, the musky smell and wet feeling in the first moments since the embrace is broken. Seven sins, one is greed. Counting your last pennies like they meant something, losing 270 billion dollars like it meant something, taking, taking, losing, giving back logos on charity goods and a telethon. Seven sacraments, one is anointing the sick, rendering alms, relieving suffering, a kiss, a kind word, the promise of tomorrow. Get well cards. Flowers. Helium balloons. The sick white hospital walls. The groans of dying. Seven sacraments, one is Eucharist, the body and the blood. Jesus wanted to be close to us.


Love had. Conversational drought. The man drought. The farmer wants a wife. The farmer wants a husband. Love being had to the sound of whispered kissing, to the sound of champagne glasses clinking, a little light flirting among the drinking. Deep in the thick syrup of tonight, garments are being shed to lie in crumpled bundles on hotel floors. A lot of tourists in the city. Love had not. Half a bottle of tawny port. Has the taste of wood. For fucks-sake. Heartbreak. Desolation tastes like salt on the breeze.


What can a man do? Sip at cheap bourbon and beer and tell his tale. Sidle up to the vulnerable girl who’s had some drinks. Shoulder out all comers. Many hours work for a few minutes of pleasure. By and by a man, presently a beast. By and by a man, presently a piece of flotsam against currents of evening wound tight with rhythm and sound. How I hate all nights in the city, packed shoulder to shoulder. Screaming bars. Identical tank top and hip hugging jeans wearing girls bouncing on the dance floor yelling. Always the same. Foreign beer. Vodka and ginger. Fuck off. I don’t want to know you. Fuck off. I don’t want you to spill your drink on me. The droplets of sweat on my arm. Midnight stuck- strikeouts sidle home. Lockdown.


Shaved legs. Tights. Leggings. Thin calves. Shapen thighs. A man lies. You’ve chosen your bed now die in it. The price of bullshit is. The sentence delivered. Will you be upstanding? Here comes the justice.


Quarrel? Do you quarrel, sir? Do you bit your thumb at me, sir? No, sir. Pistols at dawn. Gentleman’s duelers. Pushkin had a whore of a wife and died for it. We must all be the same. Faithful. Thin. Fat children- the new stolen generation. Fat people- the blight on the nation. Thin is the new bronze. Bronze is the new black. Tanning is skin cells in trauma. Have you seen the signs? ….Sodom…. burns. Have you seen the fires on Avalon’s last sure. I name this land: Terra Australis. We must all be the same. Silent and reverent when brass sounds play, outraged, today and every day. To fuck, to fight is the new black. Why would you want to drink a poisoned chalice anyway?


Have you had your Obamagasm? Have you felt the spasm of change? Have you had your big O, the big OH OH OHHHHHH, the big OH-OH, can you feel your juices flow, oh oh oh, here we go, OH OH OH ohhh. Have you had your Obamagasm today?


Hold on tight. Hold one another. Hold one another. Together on the shore. A shore of night. A shore strung together by distant lights. Discordant, shattered, broken beaming. Hold on dear children to the dreaming. In what darkness do you sleep? Hold onto the sheets at the chill closes in like a predator. And the morning serotonin washes over you like a prayer. Where will romance be held? Where will we dine in Hell? Loss of faith is a terrible sin. A terrible burden. Hold me now as the chill closes in.


Make sure. Make sure love against the beat of currents. Seal up your love. Patch its holes. It’s Valentine’s Day. Set your love’s sails. Weigh your love’s anchors. Look on, to the fore’d to your most beloved star and we press on, we press on.


Please forgive my disturbing lack of faith. And also my foolish ideals.


Down in the stone yards they sing a song. A song of tombs. A song of rooms. A song of mausoleums. Down in the stone lands they sing, a song of archeology, of museums. A song of ancient tomes and bygone tongues, the weight of ages- like tons. Down in the crooked jaw streets, whose tongue winds stained on black roads beyond the midnight. Down in the midnight kingdom, we stand, holding candles and reading. Between the lines.

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