Anchors and umbrellas
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Dear Charlie,
Finally, the last page of "Mystery On The Pacific Princess" is flipped. Another book for the ladder. The end came earlier than expected.
Clouded by miniature umbrellas, Justine hung over me at the Razor. It was a long night, all I wanted was to send you the smell of soaked lilies, smoked notes and burnt almonds. My pen and paper couldn’t alarm her. She was feeding the ghost with the details of torn jeans, of happy and upset head tilts, of secret smiles, of bad company, of bed bites and all the visions one tries to forget under miniature umbrellas. I was elsewhere. And you are.
You’re in a plane. You’re in love with the animals scratching the white paint off your fence. The plants fell apart while you were away. You’re over it. Or did you sail back to the anchor that kept you steady while you wrote “Living at 1722, taken by the sun but her eyes close before I wake.” in your last letter? Your brilliant heart had settled on a bed of coals when I was lost at the station, looking for some shade and flowers for a corpse.
No escape or getting away with murder. The moon serenades the water-filled souls luring them to the surface of the ocean with a promise of a forgiving kiss, like a morning mirror. But there is no enemy here, there is no war. All I hear is a ticking of a clock, as clear to me as a foreign language. There must be a time when there is nothing to lose. Was there ever? No pockets. No backs. No blood. Nothing to prove. Just a series of choices. A way across the desert stained with faith. What weapon will tickle the heart into oblivion? Which trap will capture the rays to feed these stars starving below your boats? Just a string of last chances, to pass the first in line, to charm the fool, to breastfeed, to be a cut truth, not to be left behind when all the soldiers lose their wings, melted by a closeness that flew over their heads while they prayed for ground in midair.
Don’t worry about Justine. She will be happy to see you again. You never asked her a question she couldn’t answer.
Finally, the last page of "Mystery On The Pacific Princess" is flipped. Another book for the ladder. The end came earlier than expected.
Clouded by miniature umbrellas, Justine hung over me at the Razor. It was a long night, all I wanted was to send you the smell of soaked lilies, smoked notes and burnt almonds. My pen and paper couldn’t alarm her. She was feeding the ghost with the details of torn jeans, of happy and upset head tilts, of secret smiles, of bad company, of bed bites and all the visions one tries to forget under miniature umbrellas. I was elsewhere. And you are.
You’re in a plane. You’re in love with the animals scratching the white paint off your fence. The plants fell apart while you were away. You’re over it. Or did you sail back to the anchor that kept you steady while you wrote “Living at 1722, taken by the sun but her eyes close before I wake.” in your last letter? Your brilliant heart had settled on a bed of coals when I was lost at the station, looking for some shade and flowers for a corpse.
No escape or getting away with murder. The moon serenades the water-filled souls luring them to the surface of the ocean with a promise of a forgiving kiss, like a morning mirror. But there is no enemy here, there is no war. All I hear is a ticking of a clock, as clear to me as a foreign language. There must be a time when there is nothing to lose. Was there ever? No pockets. No backs. No blood. Nothing to prove. Just a series of choices. A way across the desert stained with faith. What weapon will tickle the heart into oblivion? Which trap will capture the rays to feed these stars starving below your boats? Just a string of last chances, to pass the first in line, to charm the fool, to breastfeed, to be a cut truth, not to be left behind when all the soldiers lose their wings, melted by a closeness that flew over their heads while they prayed for ground in midair.
Don’t worry about Justine. She will be happy to see you again. You never asked her a question she couldn’t answer.
Labels: Dear Charlie
posted by Primessa Espiritu
May 23, 2009
Why is the moon so sad?
Thursday, May 07, 2009
Labels: morrissey, movie video, music, seasick, Yet Still Docked
posted by Primessa Espiritu
May 07, 2009
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