I am in love with Homayoun Shajarian's voice as it bends and quivers in ecstatic pain, screaming for a face; poetry pores out of me like sweat, and all I want is...
My heart sculpts sentences furiously, senselessly, drunk on the memory of a summer night where it soared and it was all I could do to stop it from leaving me (chera rafti!) oh love oh insanity. Wild is what this organ is, wild and mad and insensitive to reality and oh, that I want to leap out of my bedroom window and soar among the lit candle windows and doorways and verandahs and maybe one of them will be yours and my heart shall sit outside your door or on your verandah and eat the croissant you packed so that I wouldn't go hungry after sinning, and my ears live in the aestheticity of the clicking of your fingernails against wood and paper and pens.
Yes, it's in love! Why? Who knows! Young and in love with ideas and memories and no one to share this screaming joy, this joy that gallops, only slightly slowed by the stake through its heart, only slightly marking the fresh snow with droplets of blood, as it gallops, gallops, gallops with no one to share itself with, impotent in its fulfilment, fuelled by music and a voice that rips the fabric of my skin a little every time I hear it (chera rafti) and yes, here it comes, here it settles again, laughing maniacally, driving the stake through its heart deeper, deeper, until it reaches you, but it hasn't reached you, and I am yet again reckless and young and flawed and alive.
Remember that night I could have swallowed the mountain? It's good that I cannot reach you. This insanity needs a heavy shell.
And now I am spent. Now, gloom.
My heart sculpts sentences furiously, senselessly, drunk on the memory of a summer night where it soared and it was all I could do to stop it from leaving me (chera rafti!) oh love oh insanity. Wild is what this organ is, wild and mad and insensitive to reality and oh, that I want to leap out of my bedroom window and soar among the lit candle windows and doorways and verandahs and maybe one of them will be yours and my heart shall sit outside your door or on your verandah and eat the croissant you packed so that I wouldn't go hungry after sinning, and my ears live in the aestheticity of the clicking of your fingernails against wood and paper and pens.
Yes, it's in love! Why? Who knows! Young and in love with ideas and memories and no one to share this screaming joy, this joy that gallops, only slightly slowed by the stake through its heart, only slightly marking the fresh snow with droplets of blood, as it gallops, gallops, gallops with no one to share itself with, impotent in its fulfilment, fuelled by music and a voice that rips the fabric of my skin a little every time I hear it (chera rafti) and yes, here it comes, here it settles again, laughing maniacally, driving the stake through its heart deeper, deeper, until it reaches you, but it hasn't reached you, and I am yet again reckless and young and flawed and alive.
Remember that night I could have swallowed the mountain? It's good that I cannot reach you. This insanity needs a heavy shell.
And now I am spent. Now, gloom.
4 comments:
"There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin."
"Touch her, and I regain innocence.
We are bound, by our own yellow cords,
Of an irrational conscience.
Break them. Scandalous happiness."
Don't take me to church.
mmm
Church is boring. Pretty, but.
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