Thursday, February 3, 2011

05.04.1970 (XIX)

i.
we are not listening, we are on the streets
walking barefoot on the pavement
watching the smoke curl from our lips
and laughing in the face of the jealous sun

we are still here, filled to the brim with love and acid
even with all the war and destruction in this world
and we will open the doors to your mind
and protest your way of harsh thinking

we will sing for you and we will make love to you
we will evoke the most intense passions
out of that shriveled soul you keep in a jar by your bed
and it will fill and grow and you will become human once again

we are a new generation
our parents, cowards to the marrow of their bones
afraid to live, selfish in their protection of our best interests
warning us not to try the things that would make us the happiest

we are the age of youth
and we shall carry on in the hearts of the next children
the petals of our hearts living in the souls of others
their skin pigmented by the guitar chords and the voices of greatness
their eyes bottomless with colours and visions and sounds

we are the music makers, we are the dreamer of dreams*

we will always be alive even when we are dead

we will live on forever, but you are only mortal

we will truly live, while you will simply exist

ii.
i saw hundreds of them coming at me with their long hair and coloured clothes. singing. swaying. holding hands. obviously intoxicated with drugs.

she came towards me out of the crowd, appearing like a ghost. she floated out in her dress and fixed her eyes on me. those eyes. even in my dreams, i can still remember those deep, bottomless, brown eyes. if i looked in them too long, i was afraid i wouldn't be able to climb out, drowning in thick chocolate. losing myself in all the pleasures of the universe. i could crawl into them and feel what she had felt, make love with all the men she had made love, hallucinated what she had hallucinated. i could share her dreams and her memories. i could be her lover. but that mouth. those full lips, curled up at the ends in a childish smile.  she must have been a child, seventeen at most. her hair, reaching down to her calves, wheat swishing in wind. so young, so careless, so free.
nothing to lose.
only death could touch her and i wasn't too sure about that either.

she reached me and slowly held up a chamomile. a weed. she smiled fully, showing her bright, straight teeth. looking into me, through me, as though i didn't exist, as though none of us existed, only she did, she put her flower in the barrel of my gun.

i still wake in the middle of the night, gasping in fear and sweat drenching my brow. my wife sleeping soundly by my side and the moon creeping onto the floorboards.

i still wake with the sound of the guns going off, a magnificent blast. i see the crowd in slow-motion, opening their mouths and moving their limbs, their animal instinct to turn and run, but their human mind telling them to stand their ground. they are conflicted, i see that. i see their doubt and weakness in their minds. i see their fear. i am blinded by spray of blood and the stench hits me. god, it's glorious.

i still wake with the remnants of the chamomile petals ingrained in my mind, falling leisurely to the ground. i still wake remembering that through all of the confusion, i could hear an airy voice whispering death is not the end, it is the afterglow, life-hater.

* from Music and Moonlight by Arthur O'Shaugnessy



en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kent_State_shootings

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