lovehatethings

"And during the few moments that we have left... we wanna talk right down to Earth in a language that everybody here can easily understand." - Malcolm X

Under the gun and nostalgia-laden, wondering why that which was once good may or may not remain so.

“I am the harbinger of the Apocalypse” cried Jerry Rigg,
while raking potato chip remnants from a wooden bowl.
The party down to coloured liquor from a long-necked bottle
sagged its way to the impending sunrise once foretold.

Muffled from the bedroom down the hall a squeaky boxspring sang
a well-worn melody in F; the headboard kept the time.
Diane then staggered from the kitchen with a happy face in mustard
painted on her chest as some tempting paradigm.

There’s a party in my brain and everyone is in slo-motion,
while I sit engaged in discourse with the figments in my head.
Jack is snoring wildly underneath the gatefold covers
of “Frampton Comes Alive” and some album by the Dead.

“Do you feel like we do”, rose the dissonant recital
from Ben stuck stagnant in recliner.  I’d thought that he was dead.
A sudden wave of clarity then overtook my vision
with ghostly circumstances from this morbid waking stead.

I felt my leaden arms reach up and out to transient space
as a band of fire ascended and overwashed my face.

There’s a party in my brain and everyone is in slo-motion,
while I sit engaged in discourse with the figments in my head.
Sara shuffled up to me and latched upon my shoulder,
sat me on futon, took the verse I’d written, then she read:

“I’m so far gone.  Show me the way back to relevance.
Appearances seem to melt into a rash of consequence.
Connection to the world I left behind
dissolves into this bitter rind that flavours such meringue.

Sara spoke no more, she sat confused beyond relief
and falling from her consciousness an omnipresent sleep.
I thought I heard a siren from a million miles away
and flashing lights spark frightened wake-up calls to stimulate the fray.

Stepping backwards two more steps my waking world collapsed
trying to fight against the dreamworld coming I relapsed.
And Jerry passed out covered in some hardened nacho cheese
while Diane formed, upon his shirt, a ketchup masterpiece.

There’s a party in my brain and everyone is in slo-motion,
while I sit engaged in discourse with the figments in my head.
The battlefield is strewn with the bodies of survivors.
A morning sun has washed the scene within its bloodied red.

Transported 30 years in 30 seconds.

Recorded late at night, here: http://goo.gl/maps/o7Sq

Some musings on recollections of Victoria Day.

Explored some memories of days gone by... really gone by... holy shit, has it been that long?

Some excited ruminescences about a new season of another podcast I do, and some fond recollections and nostalgia about a lifetime of Sunday afternoons.