Strange, Very strange...!

A needle, a few tools, colorful threads and the exquisite
feeling of flowing words, I set out to weave my poem (She's not there.)

An imposing image of her as the hands set in motion,
she smiles through the thin veil of perception. (She's so far away-)

Aloof, longing and frosty eyed; she dances in between the threads. tommorow brings us closer just a little bit more so.

An aching spread of intoxicated whiffs, calms her down
the unsettling music offers no door. (Just for now;)

F A R

S
I
GHT

All across the great divides the threads lodge themselves in
bringing to the empty space, splashes of her in reminiscence.

Even the most beauteous creation, falls just a little short.
the essence isn't around, the aroma masked.

Tear away the space, rip apart the colours.
blunted needles and a longing desire (Its done now and what)

Far away the bird cruises in the skies.
revelling in flights of fancy, yet disconcertingly so;

The Poem becomes her.


Song Update : Dianne Reeves - When I Fall (Instrumental)

Labels: Experience, Experimentation, Imagery, Reflecting, Self indulgence, Surreal

Dear Pipey and the twin,

Thank you for your gracious invitation. I would love to fly to the village and smoke when i can, but the tangles of the city have lodged themselves deep into me. I'll break free and come as soon as i can.

Last night a fire broke out in Bob the butcher's shop and it took them three noodles with a broken hose to put it off, and Bob seems to be broken and gutted looking at the charred remains. The old whore lounging by the pier died last week too. They said she balded herself and ripped off a ear before she jumped to her death, something to do with a long standing belief in the end of the world according to her book of experiences. Strange book i tell you.

In other news, the merchants from the far east came again with a string of slaves tied together and fed with dates to command a better price this time around. No one seemed interested to bring the desert sands to their homes and so the merchants left, with just one slave less who didn't like the dates and the whips they gave him. Polly came around many afternoons ago with more wrinkles on her mortgaged face than the dead shoes she was loaned for the summer, Its a pity she doesn't like cupcakes anymore.

Thanksgiving is soon approaching and the dogs in the corner seem to be feeling it too. In the meantime you could also come down to the city, because I'm always here and the smoke here is in abundance.

Pollution, gutted shops and otherwise.




Until the needle tells otherwise,

Theo the greek



Song Update - Bike - Pink Floyd

Labels: Soundscapes, Surreal

Song update - I shall be released - Bob Dylan

Labels: Abstract, Ethereal, Experimentation, Imagery, Surreal

Breathing spaces and a suspended world,
the city lights come shining out,
The miracle man spins his tale,
A twist and turn and a churning blast.

Tell the bird to fly,
while the silken winds engulf the sky,
A candy shop with colours-a-plenty,
The violet oar ferries the king into the setting sun.

The striking miss commands the sea,
Salted dreams and the great gig in the sky,
glitchy beeps and the flowing accordion,
Float in harmony in a clear blue key,

A battered soul rises on.



Vivid dreams pave the souls journey,
with lights and smiles and psychedelic hues,
on with the travel immersed and submerged,
the piper's blissful song,
Dreams for sale! You want them, come get them.

On a wavy river bed,
resides the artful goblin,
Immersed in his soma, his heavenly music.
They say the piper once played to him.

God is in the details the goblin said,
as he floated on, into the smoke rings of his mind.


Song Update: Satellite - Above & Beyond Pres. Oceanlab

Labels: Abstract, Ethereal, Imagery, Psychedelic, Reflecting, Soundscapes, Surreal

Whispering into the darkness, a nightingale fades away softly,
this nightingale had lost her song,
a little weep and a few notes escape,
draining empty with shiny droplets from a silvery stream,
the notes escape her in a swan like web entangling and hovering,
pricking and wailing as if piercing through the seemingly ephemeral layers of her mighty heart,

talks to me and you,
love is not all letters and cruising around on sundays,
it isn't about what you said or what she thought you said,
it was about when she'd fly away and the memories that would play,
the good, the bad, the suave, the passionate and all things reminiscent,
she speaks not, because she was only meant to sing,
as if the burning words were her emotion filled notes,
the letters, all dead, burning as they jumped back to life in her voice,

a warmth she projects, even in her present state,
engulfing the night in the entirety of her silence,
bares all as she rises above her own flowing song in the air,
which blows at her, overwhelming her being.
All things pass, will this pass too?
she'd wonder, as she'd lost the only
pillow of comfort she'd ever known: Love.

Labels: Reflecting, Sadness, Surreal