With great decision, I thought it would be best to delete Cara. She’s
not a real person
anyway. Just an avatar on
my computer.
So I pressed the power
button, but then Cara
spread out like a sneeze.
She would be there forever.
Don’t keep my hands away from the river.
‘Cause you’ll never get the chance to touch the flow of the water
again.
What has gone will be gone forever
Since you won’t cross the same river twice…
Before all stands the war – a precious old father
And the very nature of this old man is nothing but a blazing flame.
A flame so long as to the edge of sky.
A flame so vivid as the birth of light.
If you ask me to describe the first day of this world,
I’ll talk to you about the flame- the semi-god who hides himself in the volcano depths.
I’ll teach you all the silent language of fire and the secret music
of the eruption
A bright war is what we start and finish with.
The flames of my war surround me…
let’s travel
to the roots
of the story
ancient myth
sex crime
murder
whatever it happens
to be
and fully
explore
mind
takes me to a place
I
do not want to go
mind
tells me something
new
while kissing me
old
When you’re a kid, the world is fresh-
Each day is new and bright.
The days go on forever child,
Even when you sleep at night.
But as you grow much older,
The days start flying by-
The clock starts moving faster,
This is true, it is no lie.
When you’re little you want to grow up,
As soon as you possibly can.
When you’re older you want to throw up,
Because the years flow fast as sand.
So listen to my advice child-
Give heed to what I say:
Don’t be in such a hurry,
Slow down and love today.
they congratulate each other
and publish each other
in vast tables of content
they chortle over champagne
about their use of verbs
I will never be one of them
and that’s okay
Twenty minutes or there abouts
after they have all left for work and school.
She grabs a glass bottle of Coca Cola
and her feet step quickly attic-ward.
As she closes the door softly behind herself,
she sighs just like always
and surveys her little chamber with a smile.
She’s been fascinated with 1950’s America
since a child and just knows deep down inside
that she was born in the wrong country and era.
Sitting cross legged upon the dreamcatcher rug
set under the little skylight,
she flicks through one of the scrapbooks
she keeps filled with cuttings of cars, diners,
refrigerators, Disneyland
and a bunch of postcards of Manhattan
which she picked up on eBay.
And daydreams away wistfully
about the Grand Canyon and Emigrating,
conscious all the while that it’ll never happen
for outside of this private ‘Afternoon Attic’
her Individualism and Courage cease to exist.
More at http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.