I'm sorry I didn't tell you how much you touched me, how your spirit shattered my armour built by years of isolation.
I'm sorry I didn't open up to you when your beautiful eyes pierced my soul like a revelation from above.
I'm sorry if I hurt you or if I seemed ignorant to pangs for connection.
I'm sorry I'm a fool, sorry for the empty life I can't give up for fear of living.
I'm sorry for myself, a cemetery full of dead memories, tombstones inscribed with a past of turned down love and unshared joy that no one will ever read.
I'm sorry that what was only spoken words away will never be uttered because of a moment lost in the space between our lips, because of my agony at exposing my heart outweighing my fear of being old alone.
I'm sorry I doubt everything, sorry for the sadness I carry around like an old friend. My heartbeat is a mournful guitar playing in the corner of a room with the lights off echoing around me, never letting me forget the life I continually let go of.
I'm sorry I will never lose myself in your embrace, forget a world of tears and let our hearts duet and for a lifetime relish in simply being.
I'm sorry that after writing all this down I still wont be able to tell you.
I'm sorry is all I can be.
Friday, 25 April 2008
Sunday, 20 April 2008
In Brugge
Not to be confused by the current "comedy thriller" doing the rounds at cinemas.
Apologies to David Kitt for (ab)use of his excellent music.
Saturday, 19 April 2008
Alco-Pops and Designated Drivers
I'm going to have to disagree with this one, The Bar Is NOT a beautiful place.
A hollow empty den whose atmosphere is written on the digital, flat-screen, interactive, bilingual, surround sound Television screens that tower over everyone in corners, the enforced chart music played out at decibels that encourage unfriendly silence or uneducated shouting. Walls adorned with tacky, wacky paintings of giraffes playing Ker-plunk!!! Or tasteless black and white photographs that hint at what once was, sacrificed for the Is.
No longer satisfied with just serving pork scratchings and plain crisps, we know face an onslaught of Deep Fried Camembert dripping with Cranberry Sauce or extravagantly named burgers hiding their simplicity behind syllables. The rush of bar staff delivering elegant mountains of over priced hash interrupting games of Darts and Cribbage.
Drinking options spiral, no longer a case of a pint, it's chilled, extra smooth, with a twist of lemon and a hint of balderdash. More ridiculous names in passing attempts to define a person by a label.
Talk of football and cricket overtaken by the watching of twenty four hour sport networks, the art of conversation condensed into the art of the soundbite between adverts, the cries of "Yeah" "That was great" and "Get them In" passing for the heartbeats of a friendship.
Karaoke, Quiz Nights, Backing Track Singers, Race Nights, the pulse of an attempted community mixing with the ring of the electronic till.
The loneliness of a thriving bar, the lies to impress, the drinking to excess. Fashion and appearance thrust ahead in place of real life.
Of course I may be wrong. But when was the last life changing experience you had in your local?
A hollow empty den whose atmosphere is written on the digital, flat-screen, interactive, bilingual, surround sound Television screens that tower over everyone in corners, the enforced chart music played out at decibels that encourage unfriendly silence or uneducated shouting. Walls adorned with tacky, wacky paintings of giraffes playing Ker-plunk!!! Or tasteless black and white photographs that hint at what once was, sacrificed for the Is.
No longer satisfied with just serving pork scratchings and plain crisps, we know face an onslaught of Deep Fried Camembert dripping with Cranberry Sauce or extravagantly named burgers hiding their simplicity behind syllables. The rush of bar staff delivering elegant mountains of over priced hash interrupting games of Darts and Cribbage.
Drinking options spiral, no longer a case of a pint, it's chilled, extra smooth, with a twist of lemon and a hint of balderdash. More ridiculous names in passing attempts to define a person by a label.
Talk of football and cricket overtaken by the watching of twenty four hour sport networks, the art of conversation condensed into the art of the soundbite between adverts, the cries of "Yeah" "That was great" and "Get them In" passing for the heartbeats of a friendship.
Karaoke, Quiz Nights, Backing Track Singers, Race Nights, the pulse of an attempted community mixing with the ring of the electronic till.
The loneliness of a thriving bar, the lies to impress, the drinking to excess. Fashion and appearance thrust ahead in place of real life.
Of course I may be wrong. But when was the last life changing experience you had in your local?
Friday, 18 April 2008
Rollercoaster On The Moon
A light shines in your eyes
As you descend,
And pick up speed,
Pointed from the green and blue,
And not so far,
From Blackpool.
The Spiral
P.S Save the galaxies, kids - they're all we have.
(Just lock your door,
before you do).
As you descend,
And pick up speed,
Pointed from the green and blue,
And not so far,
From Blackpool.
The Spiral
P.S Save the galaxies, kids - they're all we have.
(Just lock your door,
before you do).
Thursday, 17 April 2008
Elsewhere
A short analysis of the difference between great and good:
Right place, right time?
Essentially, but I'd argue that a piece of work that evokes personal memories alien to the memory of viewing, listening, or absorbing the work in the first place - be they good or bad (or great) - can be, and should be, considered wonderful;
Does it hold you in its arms when you're falling or sinking?
Does it embrace your bruises and soothe them?
Do you always think of the same colour when it presents itself or plays?
If the answer's no to all these questions, I'd suggest you look again.
But why ask me?
Because I'd argue that a piece of work that evokes personal memories of the viewing, listening, or absorbing the work in the first place - be they good or bad (or great) - can be, and should be, considered wonderful;
Does it make you feel warm when you're waking or sleeping?
Does it soak up your problems and soothe them?
Do you always wonder how life would have been before your relationship came?
If the answer's no to all these questions, I'd suggest you look again.
I'd suggest you look elsewhere:
From the strangers that live above your ceiling,
to the people who live beneath you, deviod of healing
and filled with feeling.
I'd suggest you look elsewhere.
The Spiral.
In living memory of Eric Case.
Right place, right time?
Essentially, but I'd argue that a piece of work that evokes personal memories alien to the memory of viewing, listening, or absorbing the work in the first place - be they good or bad (or great) - can be, and should be, considered wonderful;
Does it hold you in its arms when you're falling or sinking?
Does it embrace your bruises and soothe them?
Do you always think of the same colour when it presents itself or plays?
If the answer's no to all these questions, I'd suggest you look again.
But why ask me?
Because I'd argue that a piece of work that evokes personal memories of the viewing, listening, or absorbing the work in the first place - be they good or bad (or great) - can be, and should be, considered wonderful;
Does it make you feel warm when you're waking or sleeping?
Does it soak up your problems and soothe them?
Do you always wonder how life would have been before your relationship came?
If the answer's no to all these questions, I'd suggest you look again.
I'd suggest you look elsewhere:
From the strangers that live above your ceiling,
to the people who live beneath you, deviod of healing
and filled with feeling.
I'd suggest you look elsewhere.
The Spiral.
In living memory of Eric Case.
Monday, 7 April 2008
Taken from the Night
There was a time when I adored the night.
That absence of colour, everyone equal in faded sight, the clamour of every ones attempts to keep this ball rolling dimmed to a faint echo of a whisper.
The flicker of a candle flame dancing like a better day casting shadows that reinterpret themselves with the beauty of an artist freed from the shackles of flesh and consideration.
The closeness we shared away from the world seen only by the untold expanses of the universe.
The clarity of a thought seen through a eye no longer blinded by a thousand other distractions.
A world beyond a world glimpsed only in flashes and images that hint but don't tell.
In those days the history of a life and the future of a moment would meld together in a collage of stars that spread out further than I could imagine and knew more than I dared bask in for longer than a heartbeat.
........But then you were gone......
And now as I look up at that desolate ocean of space and it looks down on me with neither warmth nor understanding I see not the wonder of an existence without boundaries but an eternity of a connection lost never to be found. All I can do is call out into the void, there is never an answer, but I need you to know that there was a time when I adored the night.
That absence of colour, everyone equal in faded sight, the clamour of every ones attempts to keep this ball rolling dimmed to a faint echo of a whisper.
The flicker of a candle flame dancing like a better day casting shadows that reinterpret themselves with the beauty of an artist freed from the shackles of flesh and consideration.
The closeness we shared away from the world seen only by the untold expanses of the universe.
The clarity of a thought seen through a eye no longer blinded by a thousand other distractions.
A world beyond a world glimpsed only in flashes and images that hint but don't tell.
In those days the history of a life and the future of a moment would meld together in a collage of stars that spread out further than I could imagine and knew more than I dared bask in for longer than a heartbeat.
........But then you were gone......
And now as I look up at that desolate ocean of space and it looks down on me with neither warmth nor understanding I see not the wonder of an existence without boundaries but an eternity of a connection lost never to be found. All I can do is call out into the void, there is never an answer, but I need you to know that there was a time when I adored the night.
Friday, 4 April 2008
Tears From Ghosts
It was in the half-light of a cold, January afternoon that the memories of his surroundings began to gnaw into his mind...
The first time he’d stood, carefree and giddy with anticipation, in the doorway of the very same pub, with the bar at the other side of the room.
The first time he laid eyes on the pictures recalling memorable moments in time, shared within the walls they hung from, and the elderly man in the corner with the sad, regretful eyes, and the regulars on the stools holding court.
The first time he nervously asked the landlady’s daughter for his first drink. The first time, after an hour or two, that he summoned the courage to return her gaze, through glazed eyes, from the very same seat.
The first time he returned. The first time he drew comfort from the fire flickering in the corner, and keeping out the cold.
The first time he heard the strains of the piano – still stood proudly, like a weather-beaten and wise grandparent with a tale or two to tell – and how he was seduced by the sad, lost melodies that poured out and filled the room, like gin into a tumbler.
The tone, and the smell. The unmistakable musky smell that sat between the keys and released itself and hung in the air, an invisible fog, and drifted and danced in time with each new note that was played.
The first time the melody and the musk intertwined and became as one.
The first kiss he shared with the girl he’d later love.
The first Christmas, the first birthday. The laughter. The wedding reception with the flowers and the tears of joy in his eyes.
The jokes, the anecdotes.
Closing in now. Appearing like apparitions from the walls and the skirting boards...
The candle burning high and new on the table beside him. The door opening, the cold coming in, the flame dancing higher.
The laughter and the tears. The arguments and the make-ups and the break-ups. The fights and the philosophies.
They all belonged to the past, but the memories remained and they were alive within him…
The changing faces, the turning of pages. The pulling of pints. The cuddles in the corner. The chatter and the smile for the landlady’s daughter.
The wooden arms of the chair. The floorboards that creaked in the same place, in the same way, every day.
The nights that were lost to the liquor and the ones that were never forgotten, but seldom recalled.
The candle that burned down. The candle that he’d barely noticed had burned down on the table beside him. The candle that he’d barely noticed had burned down while he lost himself to his memories, but which still burned...
And then he looked back to the doorway where he’d stood for the first time, all those years ago, carefree and giddy with anticipation.
And that’s when he saw the young man looking back at him. And that’s when he watched him move across to the bar and nervously ask the landlady’s daughter for a drink, and that's when he watched him take his seat.
And that’s when he looked at the candle and saw the flame burning low on the table beside him. And that’s when he saw the wax, clinging to the stump that was left.
The wax clinging to the candle, suspended in time, like tears from ghosts.
The first time he’d stood, carefree and giddy with anticipation, in the doorway of the very same pub, with the bar at the other side of the room.
The first time he laid eyes on the pictures recalling memorable moments in time, shared within the walls they hung from, and the elderly man in the corner with the sad, regretful eyes, and the regulars on the stools holding court.
The first time he nervously asked the landlady’s daughter for his first drink. The first time, after an hour or two, that he summoned the courage to return her gaze, through glazed eyes, from the very same seat.
The first time he returned. The first time he drew comfort from the fire flickering in the corner, and keeping out the cold.
The first time he heard the strains of the piano – still stood proudly, like a weather-beaten and wise grandparent with a tale or two to tell – and how he was seduced by the sad, lost melodies that poured out and filled the room, like gin into a tumbler.
The tone, and the smell. The unmistakable musky smell that sat between the keys and released itself and hung in the air, an invisible fog, and drifted and danced in time with each new note that was played.
The first time the melody and the musk intertwined and became as one.
The first kiss he shared with the girl he’d later love.
The first Christmas, the first birthday. The laughter. The wedding reception with the flowers and the tears of joy in his eyes.
The jokes, the anecdotes.
Closing in now. Appearing like apparitions from the walls and the skirting boards...
The candle burning high and new on the table beside him. The door opening, the cold coming in, the flame dancing higher.
The laughter and the tears. The arguments and the make-ups and the break-ups. The fights and the philosophies.
They all belonged to the past, but the memories remained and they were alive within him…
The changing faces, the turning of pages. The pulling of pints. The cuddles in the corner. The chatter and the smile for the landlady’s daughter.
The wooden arms of the chair. The floorboards that creaked in the same place, in the same way, every day.
The nights that were lost to the liquor and the ones that were never forgotten, but seldom recalled.
The candle that burned down. The candle that he’d barely noticed had burned down on the table beside him. The candle that he’d barely noticed had burned down while he lost himself to his memories, but which still burned...
And then he looked back to the doorway where he’d stood for the first time, all those years ago, carefree and giddy with anticipation.
And that’s when he saw the young man looking back at him. And that’s when he watched him move across to the bar and nervously ask the landlady’s daughter for a drink, and that's when he watched him take his seat.
And that’s when he looked at the candle and saw the flame burning low on the table beside him. And that’s when he saw the wax, clinging to the stump that was left.
The wax clinging to the candle, suspended in time, like tears from ghosts.
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