We ate the birds. We ate them. We wanted their songs to flow up through our throats and burst out of our mouths, and so we ate them. We wanted their feathers to bud from our flesh. We wanted their wings, we wanted to fly as they did, soar freely among the treetops and the clouds, and so we ate them. We speared them, we clubbed them, we tangled their feet in glue, we netted them, we spitted them, we threw them onto hot coals, and all for love, because we loved them. We wanted to be one with them. We wanted to hatch out of clean, smooth, beautiful eggs, as they did, back when we were young and agile and innocent of cause and effect, we did not want the mess of being born, and so we crammed the birds into our gullets, feathers and all, but it was no use, we couldn’t sing, not effortlessly as they do, we can’t fly, not without smoke and metal, and as for the eggs we don’t stand a chance. We’re mired in gravity, we’re earthbound. We’re ankle-deep in blood, and all because we ate the birds, we ate them a long time ago, when we still had the power to say no.
…and being impulsive can kill you- but at least you do what you gotta do.
Mornings: The Velvet Underground (1969)
Afternoons: Amélie’s soundtrack
Evenings: Sticky Fingers by The Rolling Stones
Nights: Romantic Works by Keaton Henson
In spite of all the enforced physical and mental primitiveness of the life in a concentration camp, it was possible for spiritual life to deepen. Sensitive people who were used to a rich intellectual life may have suffered much pain (they were often of a delicate constitution), but the damage to their inner selves was less. They were able to retreat from their terrible surroundings to a life of inner riches and spiritual freedom. Only in this way can one explain the apparent paradox that some prisoners of a less hardy makeup often seemed to survive camp life better than did those of a robust nature.
For the first time in my life I saw the truth as it is set into song by so many poets, proclaimed as the final wisdom by so many thinkers. The truth - that Love is the ultimate and highest goal to which man can aspire. Then I grasped the meaning of the greatest secret that human poetry and human thought and belief have to impart: The salvation of man is through love and in love.
i am always fooled by this almost month that stitches august to the brink of july’s moons. i am always unable to make any prognosis given it’s inconspicuous stroll. somethings i’ve noticed happening around this time are- the sweat puddles on skin dry up and leave some sticky residue that whets the mosquitoes.
i am always in a stay awake sleep- in the delusion that the hours are running late only for me. i listen to piano music and think about sleep-ridden fingers- too tired to write- too worked up to dangle & dance.
i feel latent nostalgia erupting from the subterranean city of heart- and i and i have my chest full of things from my childhood- film photographs, laughter, fears, sounds from lil’ vocal cords. i found a long lost friend from pre-school who had changed her name. i still think i’ll find what she was- what she isn’t in another body with the same name sauntering on some alleyway; again, someday.
i don’t know- i am in some fragmented loveset. something that has splashed asunder against me. i am-
where are my westerlies?
I don’t know- but the way people come off on most of the social networking sites distresses me in a strange way. I think that certain aspects of their personality get amplified and it stops seeming real- it almost becomes larger than life; and when you know what’s actually going on in Person X’s head and then you see Person X saying exactly something else to ‘appear’ as if that they are on cloud nine; then for a second I get so disgruntled that even though I love Person X, I’ll loathe their internet persona and feel that they are a put-on. (Which at times trickles down to real life.)