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Friday evening and I'm an independent man. I've got things to do tonight, I've got a plan. We were simply strolling in a not-so-simple street while talking tall of talent in the growing dark. It was nowhere and everywhere and anywhere and we wanted fickle fame, money was more appealing than making a credible name. The breeze beckoned an ending and no one to blame; that’s life. Endless amounts of money given for pitiful things, tastefully taking cocaine makes them kings, gives them a brain, makes them sane. No strings sex and sipping Champagne and everything fame brings seem to be tempting for those small-town folk needing wings. Sirens sound - the musician composes lucid dreams that rouse the esoteric aims of their phony games, the mystic flames of optimistic dames beside their benign beaus - unaware of their sporadic foes. The accordion bellows endlessly along each daydream, languishing delusions with urban illusions and uniting the novice’s confusions. The music rings in the souls of the queens and kings; the violinist snaps their immortal heartstrings. Pariahs devour narcotics whilst weaving down the boulevard of hallucination, supping nectar in the station with a  sense of elation; it pops the bubble that lazes sluggishly the morning after the night before - the lingering smell of regret of the metropolitan war and the dance  floor duet, getting caught in the drift net.

With a ‘good evening’ to roaming strangers they delight in the dangers, become the avengers for the small-town folk beginning  to choke on the cigarette smoke that shrouds them with a cloak of chronic agoraphobia. They fear living, dying, forgiving and loving, but when the commuters commute and the artisans arrive, they cascade into sleep, afraid of faltering as their souvenirs fade, their memories decayed, their conscience strayed. The hollow marimba resonates - Chronos mows his scythe across the bars: a pendulum swinging from the stars. My tainted heart rips; bound in Saturn’s circus it grips feebly to Fate’s spindle. Alas! Her bloody thread begins to kindle " flowing fast Venetian red it unravels from her spinning wheel: weeping into her face I appeal " I kneel to beg. Time, were it not for your undue claim on our daily rhyme I’d not be Bloody Mary widowed at the cross; I mourn the loss, the loss, the loss of my Eros. For you I leave " I wait at the terminus and grieve. Across the seas I contemplate: is it not possible to arrest Fate when the east gives birth and bestows beauty on the earth? Dreams of flying fear of trying, reviving the highest of highs while the dreams materialise and life reaches the skies, they compromise, surmise, improvise. They win the prize. All we wished for was that initial spark once we’d left to explore the big wide world, ‘cause pretty soon on our door opportunity would come knocking, freedom galore unlike before when all we did was ignore that we existed.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

A well-written story. You create interesting people and good story line. The story left me with the want to know more. Thank you for sharing the excellent story.
Coyote