The Arcade Fire Funeral MemoryA Poem by Travis LawrenceA band called The Arcade Fire came out with Funeral in 2004, one of my all-time favorite albums. This is my tribute to the music and the memories it elicits. One section for each song (10), but they flow as one.Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels) A golden hymn tripping over asphalt turns and twists black pools spotted like eyes, winding wavy ovals into parked flow streams, remembrance of green belts. Change my lead to gold and grow higher, sleep in my head like a day grown dim. Trace the colors, trace the inside of a voice sung in sunken memory, like the wind pushing sound from light leaves traces my ears inside the lines and pushes me back to her outline, her shadow discolored in black, stars I strain to see at night. Not envy but empty chords recreate memory, solo records a tribute to time gone, a part from her sea, land locked and dehydrating, withering like a rainy day to green dust. Neighborhood #1 (Laika) Steady notes play on monotones and she is all I see as my smooth peak lowers in recollection. Une Annee Sans Lumiere Shadows of sight sink and swim in the dim lake of memory collections. A vision of a rock steady I sit and watch and waste. Aura glinted my green eyes, a slow spectacle of curved vision and remains today a spark of curiosity and pining for returns. Through music. Through an image. Anything. I am always there. Neighborhood #3 (Power Out) Take this small splice of time and stretch its sides. Incase the liquid in glass, form the tracing flies and molding puffy white clouds shrunken in a mid-March sky. Raise a glass in magnification and slumber beside the comfort of such purity. Neighborhood #4 (Kettles) Sooth me with Susan’s voice, her trailing slurred speech, the pitch of her wings through wind, the tone of bright eyes, dark brunet and sympathetic. Slow and smooth motions of eye lids blinking dark screens, sleight motions of straight lines from my sight to her that stay an eye’s length away. Her sharpened fire cuts the black night, and boils my chest to hot water that singes my veins to a rolling boil. The heat spews steam like kettles through my thoughts in saunas and drowns the sound of their form. But I blistered and calloused and live in dead skin cells, and any day could come to be again, she will come to me again, I will speak and shield her heat. Crown Of Love Susan, if you want me, please, forgive me for not saying anything when you were with me. I strummed my strings and found an empty sound, an ache of anxiety waking me in nervous sweaty sheets covering like regret. Wake Up An older sight, torn up and colder, has more nostalgia for a rusting memory. Tell me it’s a lie and I’ll adjust. Dancing pictures spotty and slurring like an intoxication of endorphins. Haiti Smooth water dripping down streams in flows of clear reflections, a playful sunlight curtaining off creek beds and swerving bright uncolored spots around my instinct and sight. A sunny day in mid-March sits on a rusting rock, watches and wastes my sight away to memory. Calmed in slight moments pictured and shuttered, I caught a slim photograph captured and without many burns. Rebellion (Lies) I close my lying eyes to dream and be saved by night, a progression like water back to a river mouth, every time I close in a dream slips through a crack broken by my steady faults and sulkily unrepaired. Without water I think and dream in solitude and singularities, a sight of someone I think I would love, memory of near perfect days hid underneath the covers. In The Backseat The ending and hopeful progression to another high note. © 2008 Travis LawrenceAuthor's Note
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Added on May 7, 2008Last Updated on May 7, 2008 AuthorTravis LawrenceAustin, TXAboutI'm a 29-year-old using this site to backup my writings, which are mostly poems. Leave a comment if you like, they always make me smile. Have a nice day! more..Writing
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