I do not love you straightforwardly

Back to the basics, one at a time

Breathe in, breathe out
Love and be loved
It's simple, but simple is hard
Nobody said it was easy
But what's hard is simple

I do not love you like the flight of an arrow
I love you like the wind that takes it off course
There is pride in that love, and in who it's for
Yet I will veer away and find an easier target

I do not love you straightforwardly
Shadows blend with the soul
I love you in cryptic messages
Simple words are for simpler people

I know how, why and I know from where
I forgotten all else to make room in my mind
Plants that never bloom must become the flower
I love you like still air loves the wind

But my hand, my eyes will never find yours
I keep my eyes open so you may sleep
The hand on my chest feels a dying heartbeat
A complicated rhythm, out of sync with the world

Back to this basics, but wiser this time
Breathe in, breathe out
Play the game and hope to lose
I wish I could love straightforwardly
I'm a simple man
But it's hard to be simple

Dreamworld

I thought of her the other day. All smiles and happiness, breaking the cardinal rule. Moving on with her life after she had lost true love. 
I sent a cold wind just to remind her
I can be cruel that way

And she must mountain every molehill I make. She didn't feel the familiar touch and sigh. She didn't hear my voice in the wind and smile. 
She screamed and gathered a crowd
She can be foolish that way

A ghost she screamed, of a dead love that I buried with my own hands. It is true, I am a murderer but not this, anything but this. She pleaded to the crowd to hang her. 
The crowd just observed and murmured
They can be cold that way

What a horrible death it seems to have died this ghost, look how it's face is still writhing in pain. Pain or ecstasy, a young voice asks. Ah, the young, the finders of love and pain, verifiers of age old truths.
They learn nothing from what is told
Youth can be lovely that way

So an exorcist was needed and I was called. Famous as the man who had once known love, who had lost it and been haunted but who had devoured its ghost till it showed no more. Unknowingly I followed the path of the ghost I had sent. To cast him out of the one who haunted me.
It sort of gets confusing at times
The truth can be tricky that way

Soon as I was close enough to recognize her I was also close enough to realize the finality of what I had done. She was gone, lost in the dreamworld that ghosts of past loves entrap their victims in. There was nothing I could do, no potions of ice cream and chocolates, no spells of Celine Dion. I put a purple flower on her body and then left mine. I found her soul in the dreamworld, free of the memory of what had gone wrong. In a time when love was pure and all was good. Purple skies and purple moons. I held her close, I promised I'd never leave her. 
It all makes sense even though it doesn't
Fiction can be pleasing that way




If only life made sense when it doesn't
Living without her would still be livable that way

. . . . . . . . .I

. . . . . . I wish I was a stripper poet. I want each line to bare a little more of my soul. But strippers need to be comfortable with their bodies and I think my soul needs to hit the gym. What colour is my soul? The white of cigarette smoke, the black of my clothes, the brown of dried tea leaves or has the color of other souls washed onto it leaving it a confused mixture of green, orange and blue. I wish I was drunk, my writing these words word be more acceptable then but I'm not, the only intoxicants I've known recently are painkillers. Cheers.
. . . . . . . I wish I was an actor, but pretense gets harder as we grow older. No more ruling GI Joe forts, no more world cup win against the wall. No more pretending the feeling is truly love, no more long phone calls pretending to be engrossed in the meaningless conversation. My guitar now is a real guitar but I played cleaner notes on my tennis racquet while listening to swamp thing. No more capes, no more scripts. Pretense gets harder as we grow older, my grandmother can't even pretend to walk or remember my name anymore. Maybe thats what death is, the end of the final pretense of being alive.
. . . . . . .I wish I was a lover. Wish there was still enough naivety, still enough blindness. Was she the most beutifull girl there ever was? It sure was a great mirage. Maybe I should have just stood there and let myself be decieved but I kept walking and my oasis vanished right into the desert air. Was our love divine? Is anything? Both answers have to be the same. But the past has been let go off, it only haunts me now when a paper threatens to stay blank unless I invoke it. Will I l ever truly love again? Will I ever be truly loved again? I hope both answers are exactly the same.

. . . . . . .I wish I was guilty. I wish my sins defined me but I know they never will. It was too long back and they weren't evil enough. The inner devil is like the abdomen muscle, if you don't use it you lose it. I miss him though, Keneddy should have said, speak softly but alway carry a little man with a pitchfork and pointed tail on your shoulder. Maybe the workout the soul needs is to get this abdomen muscle back. I wish people were scared, if people respect the deception of the sign saying "beware of the dog" you don't have to shoot them. Beware of the gun . . . . no deception.
. . . . . . . .I wish I was me. I may not know who I am but I know who I'm not. I'm not the ailing body, I'm not a soul which will be defined by the colors other souls leave on it, I'm not a niccotene addiction, I'm not a pretender, I'm not someone who lives in the past, I'm not weak enough to need love to rebuild me, I'm not afraid of success, I'm not my sins and I'm not a string of words written in pain and anger. Yet you are who you are, even when you're not.
. . . . . . . Maybe a man is a combination of all he has been in the past, maybe a man is who he is or maybe, just maybe, a man is who he wishes to be. So who can I be? A gun waiting to smoke, an performer wanting to take a bow without saying his lines. With love in my past and with a future long enough for there to be no hurry.

. . . . . . . I am a poet, an actor, guilty as sin. I am the outsider, the mole, the pretender, the divine. I am just another human being but no one really is. I am the star and I am his public. I am nobody, but nobody is imperfect. I am the one the people who everyone wishes they were wish they were. I am the traveller at the start of his journey, deep inside somewhere I am the one who still believes, the one who still doesn't care. I am an immature man, an overgrown boy. I am my words, my unclear notes, I am the chemeleon, I can be any colour I choose.

I am me, time to stop wishing.

The midnight snack

I wake up late at night famished to the core
For words, for beauty, for meaning and more
Try to shut it out but it wouldn't let me sleep
Need to write, to rant, to proffess and weep

So I open the door and the little bulb comes on
Look around for a meal, just a snack till the morn
The same old dishes, the I, the God and a little love
Some childhood thoughts frozen in the freezer above

But sometimes the heart wants more than leftovers
It wants genies and faries and four leafed clovers
But feasts take work and I have a lazy heart
Like the good old scooter it only works kiss start

So I look at my watch and I step out in the cold
Walk to my neighbours house, a friend and muse of old
The lights still on and I hear fingers on the keyboard
Good signs, she must have a fridgefull of feelings stored

She smiles, I smile, but I'm not strong enough to play yet
She understands and in her arms, I remember and I forget
She feeds with her hands, pretty shadows on the wall
There's a fireplace and it roars, hopes rise, doubts fall

We lay on the bed, both devoured, both at peace
Smoke rises like it must after every gluttonous feast
I hold her and wonder if thanks belittles the act
But like all great eaters, I lack in manner and tact

I kiss her forehead and whisper those three gratefull words
She is enraged, she curses, she knows the most hatefull words
Dinner and a show, my smile seems to offend her even more
She goes quite and cold, and points towards the door

I don't mind the cold night, the nourished soul is immune again
I start the short walk home as the morning drizzle turns to rain
But as I reach my door, the horrid realization hits my head
I've done it again and left my keys next to her heart shaped bed

I sit in my garden, loved and alone, I scream and moan
While the winter rain playfully soaks me right to the bone
She opens her door and calls, I think I know that look
There's the hunger again. . . I really should hire a cook

The worst habit of all

Some jokes must never be laughed at
Even though you know they promise the sweetest laughter
The joke's impolite so you bite your lips

Some dances must never be danced
Even though they're divine, you know you'll like a fool
So you stand in a corner and watch the others for tips

Some tears must never ever be cried
Even though you know they would release the pain
You swallow hard and you let the feeling pass

Some paths must never be walked
Even though you smell the lilies blossom beyond the rise
It’s someone else’s garden and mustn’t trespass

Some letters must never be sent
Even though they'd be the perfect start to a great love story
You let them die as a draft, you let the words drown

Some loves must never be lived
It hurts so much, you see you should have danced and laughed
Never formed the habit of letting yourself down

But some habits. . . . . .

Numbers

Eight dreams I call my own

Dreams of ashes, dreams of dust

One dream wrapped deep in lust

But I wear them all proud like a crown

Seven sins, I've commited 

Searched for other in vain

Skipped penance with disdain

But no light bolt ever struck me down 

Six hearts I've broken

Ripped them apart without regret

The six sweetest girls I ever met

Watched them drown and waved goodbye

Five myths of childhood past

Santa Claus and eternal love

Goodness of the good lord above

The silly white truth and the sinister lie

Four paths I've walked till I realized

They wound up at the same old place

The same old I, just a wiser face

New rhymes, new meter but the same old thought

Three people though I've surely been

This one lost child, lonely and dark

This self assured youth, with just a bark

And this man who could but who decides to not

Two women I loved in times gone by

Gave them all I had, sweet and sour

A soul, a heart and a purple flower

The delicate dew drops and the harsh winter rain

One more chance to live it all well 

And I'd choose one dream, one love, one path to take

They'd be no myths, no sins and no hearts would break

Alas, clocks tick only forward and knowledge costs pain

 

Belated metaphors

Smells like butterflies
Smells like wine
Smells like love
Human yet divine

Sounds like laughter
Sounds like sin
Sounds like secrets
That are best kept within

Talks like thunder
Talks like rain
Talks Like the wind
Self assured and vain

Laughs like gunshots
Laughs like a child
Laughs like a cat
Pretentious yet wild

Cries like death
Cries like crime
Cries without reason
But does it all the time

Sings like a kettle
Sings always out of key
Sings like an angel
Cause its always proud and free

Dances like the sunset
Dances like a song
Dances in the dark
But lets me dance along

Wants like the devil
Wants what is due
Wants all she was promised
Or she'll take it all from you

Touches like silk
Touches soft like snow
Touches like it's accidental
But always lets you know

Teases like thirst
Teases like winters months
Teases like a mirage
But then gives in all at once

Kisses like holy verse
Kisses like the waxing moon
Kisses like a queen
But breaks away all too soon

Loves like the ocean
Loves with no need to pretend
Loves like a need
That can never have an end

Smiles like sadness
Smiles like the sunlit mist
Smiles like she can see
A cruel joke that all have missed

Prays like a habit
Prays like a command
Prays like God
Owes her all she can demand

Sleeps like knowledge
Sleeps like mighty kings
Sleeps like she knows
What gifts tomorrrow brings

Hurts like an end
Hurts like a flame
Hurts like a warrior
Without guilt or shame

Left like innocence lost
Left like she never meant to stay
Left like time would heal
But I still hate her every day

Springs word

The other day spring said its first word. It spoke in a birds voice and grew a flowers outside my house. I was the only one around to hear it .The others had places to go and people to meet, I like to wait for flowers to grow. . . . .



When they came back they knew spring had spoken. They asked me what the word meant. They called me to play their games with them, they called me to drink their drinks and dance their dances. I stayed quite and searched for windows from where I could see the gardens from. . . . .




I do not know love, I finally told them. I know just the word, the idea, I know what it should be and I know what it never can. I know that for you any meaning I can give will never make sense because to you the world makes sense, and they both never can, not together. . . . .




I went back home. Summer woke up, spring didn't even leave a goodbye note. It's flower had gone. I sat by my window to see my garden. Summer too wanted to know the secret and sent gifts to bribe me. A garden in bloom and this one flower next to my window that was so beautiful it hurt my soul just to look at it. . . . .



I stared at the flower, I did not understand it. I was afraid, afraid of it's beauty, of it's thorns, of it's promise and of all the feelings it made me feel. . . . . .



I bought paints and a large canvas and closed my window. A man of spring, I prefer my painted lies to perfect flowers not meant for me. But I could never find the right colors, the closed window begs to be opened and summers flower awaits behind it. . . . . .



If only it would say the word that spring did, the seasons wouldn't matter

Almost love

A vision, . . . .it must be, . . . what else?

An imagining, a poet’s desire, sculpted by the sound of the waves, the breeze and the setting sunlight. I pause, . . . do I dare move forward, surely something this beautiful has darkness within, handing it out as fate to anything that dares to try and capture it. Darkness, the darkness of the blind, the darkness that punishes those who believe they could stare straight into the light.

Spare me, I make no such claim. I am too wise to love something as hollow as beauty, I must love the wise, the loving, the pure. I must be better. Haunt the hollow creatures foolish enough to try and feed off you, all I am is a man who could not look away.

The bond though has already been made, the moth will flap its wings, it is how it must be. I resign myself to my fate and sit beside, wanting to reach out and confirm that she is real, that I am real. She looks away, with eyes that defy you to find anything in them except beauty. I try because I must, because I can. I try and I find hurt, I find pain, I find that the flame is flickering under the beating wings.

There is a word I must say here, I know it. A word that will heal it all, a word that will enable me too see past the beauty, a word that will let me see though I am blind, a word that waves sculpted ages ago, a word the Gods made as powerful as they were themselves, a word I learnt the first time I saw here, a word I knew a minute ago. I panic, I forget, its too late.

“Almost,” she says. She smiles as she says it . . . . . then she says no more. It was almost love and it was almost lived. Heaven and hell, an inch between two lips, it’s a big word. It has exhausted her, she can take no more. She gets up to walk away, to find someone who doesn’t burn her back. She leans closer for the final touch and I remember my word.

“Love,” I whisper. . .

I don’t smile. . . .

She holds me closer, lets me smell her hair for one last time. There is a tear but I don’t know who it belongs to. If only I had remembered it a minute before the word would have been powerful enough to hold her forever. I know she wants to look back, I know she will not.

The flame has won and the moth in his defeat must now try and live. The real world honks its horns and begs and prods. I think again of the word and I realize what it is, . . . .

Just a vision. An imagining, a poet’s desire, too pure to really exist.

The sun sets, there will be no visions in the darkness.

"Love", I whisper it again, I smile this time.

"Almost" says the wind.

How are you?

Phantom of the opera, the demon inside. You hear him again and you sit down, silently, with eyes that seek intensity, with ears that seek to shut down, with a soul that seeks to receive. You sit down and you pick up either that guitar or the word keeper with it’s glowing white screen asking you – what today? Who will you be, the joker with the hat or the one with the scars, the boy in love or the man in despair. And You, you move your hands, unknowing, unsure and you say. . . . . . let’s find out.

Still, no matter how many words you write or how many songs you sing, the unsung song haunts you, the untold story does not let you sleep or wake up without wanting to do the other. The question of who you really are remains unanswered, the strings laugh, the glow mocks, . . . . . . like they could have given you the answer. You were foolish to even try.

The masterpiece remains unwritten, the source refuses to reveal itself. Does it really exist, is it God? You lose interest, the source may be holy, as may be the elusive masterpiece but you realize you are not. You put aside the guitar, shut the word keeper down and reach out. You're unsure of who you are again, the saint or the sinner, the artist or the faker but you're brave enough to let those questions go unanswered a little longer.

You step out into the world, even scarier, you wander around unsure of what to do till you stumble into the smile of a friend. This makes sense. You can use this; use the surety of the voice, the willingess of the smile and the undeniability of the love; to find your answers. They can be your source. God needn't be troubled anymore, he's given you enough.

"How are you" asks the friend. An informal greeting, but nevertheless a effective method of asking where you've been, why you went and most importantly who you've returned as. You wonder who you are now, the friend or the lover, the source or the masterpiece, the wounded or the cure, the man or the dream. But you know you'll find out and wrapped in her arms an inch from her ear, you whisper in a voice that is sure, a voice that already knows.

You say . . . . . . "let's find out"

Cannonball

"there’s still a little bit of your taste in my mouth
there’s still a little bit of you laced with my doubt
it’s still a little hard to say what's going on

there’s still a little bit of your ghost your witness
there’s still a little bit of your face i haven't kissed
you step a little closer each daythat I can´t say what´s going on"


I think it's time there was an answer. Do I owe you one, should I? Is it not my heart to break, my soul to lose, my eyes to dream and to cry with. My ghost to ignore. My mind to not be able to take off you.
I knew that before you did.


"stones taught me to fly
love, it taught me to lie
life, it taught me to die
so it's not hard to fall
when you float like a cannonball"


For how many years now have we played this game. How many times have you hidden while I stayed with my face to the wall, counting, not being able to stop and turn around for fear of seeing that you are no longer there.
The numbers never end.


"there’s still a little bit of your song in my ear
there’s still a little bit of your words i long to hear
you step a little closer to me
so close that I can´t see what´s going on"


How many times have I crossed your house, your pillar of stone to protect you from your dragons, to hear you singing from above, hidden by clouds you had made. How many times have I wished that the words of your song were for me. How many times have I gathered the courage to come up and ask only to realize that there were no stairs.
Come away with me, I whisper, but you keep singing, safe from your dragons.



"stones taught me to fly
love taught me to lie
life taught me to die
'cos its not hard to fall,and I don't want to scare her
its not hard to falland i don't want to lose
its not hard to growwhen you know that you just don't know"


I could stay awake all night, just to sing his songs to you, to hope that he would let you forget that I can't really sing. I would pray that you would drift away, so I could get close to you without you moving away, so I could hold you, without demons, and know. That this is it, this is the love I can never have, that this is the love I must search for in vain all my life. Know that this is the moment I must fail to recreate my entire life. To know that this moment, is all I shall have to show for in my life and to know that it will still be a life well lived.


"stones taught me to fly
love taught me to lie
life taught me to die
so its not hard to fall
when you float like a cannon.

stones taught me to fly
love taught me to cry
so come on courage, teach me to be shy
'cos its not hard to fall,
when you float like a cannon"


When I wake up from the dream I shall tell the still waters not to fear. I'm no cannonball. Love has taught me to lie and I can float for as long as I need to. Let not your heart fool you, you are free. You always were.



*** The "...." are the lyrics of cannonball by Damien Rice

A bitter man

He died an old man
His bed smelt of bitterness
His first words to the lord were
"You should have taken me when I was young"

A few days before that
He could still fight the tears
The pain in his bones he couldn't ignore
But he could remember the songs he had sung

It was a few years before
That he no longer liked music that was new
He heard the same songs, played in loop
But the youth and their 'music' ceased to be pure

He knew his youth had gone
Long before the doctor told him so
He knew it when he ran out of the rain
Because the tie he wore had a presentation to show

In his youth the rain had smelt of love
Of passion, of purity, of the girl he was with
Love made the world make sense while it lasted
And though he no longer thought he was God he still loved the myth

It was tough not to think he was as a child
When he could laugh at the mistakes others had made
When there was no time behind, no omni present report card
No reason to walk on the path the others had made

The seed could still believe it was a flower
Even when the thorns started to appear the rose was still a dream
But when the bark grew its thick hide the hope was last
He was just another tree in the forest fighting to reach the gleam

When he finally saw God he said, you should have taken me then
When I was young, in love and when my dreams were still free
God looked at the bitterman who's soul would soon heal
And said "at least now you're happy to see me"

Sweet child of mine

Why would you ask me if the stars are lonely,
If a world without love would be better than ours,
From which corner of your heart do these questions come,
Questions that no man would have an answer to

All I have is a touch that tries to say it’s all right
It’s all right to not understand the world we see
There are many days to figure out the answers
And one of the days you’ll see, you don’t need to


Why greet with love every passing stranger
Why trust a smile when it faked with such ease
Why my child, do you see such good in all people
It worries me how you walk into all the stretched out arms

I have walked amongst lies for so long now
The truth in your eyes often makes me cry
Why have I learnt so much that all I can teach is deceit
Tell your eyes not to try to teach me to smile


Sleep my child for your dreams are free
Dream it all before the world takes them away
Or perhaps you shall fight against those who teach us to fight
Fight for your choice to not fight at all

I am sorry my child, for this is the world I must give you
Wish there was another world closer to the heavens
For now sleep and dream the dreams only you still can
I shall stay awake to keep the nightmares away