Love and death

 
A brittle figure leads me about the room;
she’s red wine and brown bread, sustenance
and depression take control. It must be love!
Oh, it must be joy! The viola plays a melancholic
tune; oh this must be love.

The photographs of memories line the walls of your cocoon;
faces and personalities of the people you never really knew – but
they’re the people you’re most fond of. They must be! They’re far away,
but they kept you warm in the winter, they held icebergs at bay.
Oh! The stormy harbours are dangerous, oh! The stormy skies are reckless,
and they guide you back home. Oh! Red wine stains the gormless, oh!
This insincere face you present to the city street; and all the foundation
in the world won’t protect your complexion – it feels safe here! But all your
neighbours hide behind the peeling paint of weatherboard window shutters;
they’re lined up, but you’re empty to their demise. Oh! Red wine stains the gormless, oh!
But the nightlife lives on without recompense in heartache, oh! The safe stormy
harbours of inner-city life. Oh, they say that all good prose has a coherent story,
but I’m not satisfied – I held my tongue as my world expired. It’s nothing to cry about,
there’s no need to despair! Structure is the refuge of the unimaginative; and narrative
is a manic-depressive storytelling technique. Oh, the photos of memories line the walls
of your cocoon and I don’t care! I’m tired of the faces and personalities; and most new
faces are just another reason to die! Oh, stormy harbours are dangerous and I just
want to die! The faces distort and the laughter dies, the morning brings the light of
memory; and I leave a low-lit candle in the hope that memory mosquitoes will perish
before the dawning time. Oh, we drank and debated revolution! Oh, we drank and hoped
we’d both survive by dawn. I can’t sleep on my own, and I know I won’t see your face
when I sleep. Oh, this must be love! This must be love and war and music and
starvation and panic attacks.

A brittle figure leads me about the room;
she’s red wine and brown bread, sustenance
and depression take control. It must be love!
Oh, it must be joy! The viola plays a melancholic
tune; oh this must be love.