As it was.
As it was.
As it was the piano raised the mornings to the twilight, and the rain would splatter to the windmill and the glass of windows and glasses of scotch with a Cuban cigar resting by the sheets unused.
As it was, every key spoke better than the typing machine of the 50's and the centuries before and your skin was soft against the rain, and the droplets of mud and London in your tangled hair, in every knot and every spot.
And then they'd slow, my fingers would caress them like a cat, or a leather glove used in highways. The notes rushing me to type, or to play, or to try, or to seize and your hair was always wet with the wind and the air, and I couldn't stand to think you apart. My waist was on your arm, my love was pumping through the veins of no breath, and no pot, or cigarettes and I always felt so small, so small to the muse. Cos your breast and your smile and your plead and your voice and your land, your land was your Albion, your fabric, your stencil, your work, in the land of the classes that survive in the dawn.
As it was I couldn't rest with Britain on my side, I couldn't rest with the sixty six so far, and the zephyr of Chicago. No, I could never rest, and I wasn't tired, and neither were you, but were you chained before your time? It was not about time but about apart, studies and languages and meetings , and tea and gin, and a the green lawn before Stonehenge speeding me madly to write more with no need to write or identity to speak, but my muse, the muse, the ups the downs, and your hair was mess and mud.
As it was on the dawn, I had never seen the dawn, not in my land, so hot away, it was chilly and old, it was hot and industrial, and nature was away. As it was it was Hackney and Camden, but the bridge was the shadow and it was no dream of yours, or mine, or a string-less guitar over the shoulder, over the scars, and it made no beat of letters, or rhythms. I have arrhythmia. It has no beat, no rhythm, no lung, but the keys do. I could have been him, playing in big stades and scores of ancient Greeks, and Italians, and poetry non spoke, and all the music I should despise so much, and I could have been him if not for talent for luck and love to the mere sound. I could have been him or he.
As it was I was too deep to be, and to shallow to live. It was not for you, it was not for me, it was not for the stars or Danny or amber shine, or sunflowers of Russia, and gold, and my dad speaking of proletariat, and my mum in the institution of knowledge, and my brother painting everything in life, and the ones I know nothing off, and it was not about him either, or about us, it was no iskra, or gold in the Irish pub and I knew of writing none. With your lips on mine and your body in touch and all the things we mumbled in murmurs, and the jean fabric, and the morning, and the Sunday, and the soul, and sweat, and the crescendo disappearing.
I was so scared of time. I was so out of time, so out of confusion, and revolution, and New York, and Brooklyn pizza, and the aunts not known, and the years not lost, and the wagons never rode, and the dreams I feared to loose, and the ones I made up to be lost in them, in us, in everything we were are will not be and be.
As it was, I couldn't stop and never will, not now. Not even when the last note fails to satisfy my trash ear, and the dust is not made of stars and the gutters don't see the sky, and the libertines in the way, and the spasms of glory and chi and Paris, and Hackney, and albion, and Arcadia, and anarquia.
As it was I was draining on words for your dark nipples and thoughts, and saliva on my face, and everything we were, and the time we failed to spent, and all the mistakes of the language that I never accepted but always loved, always cherished in lust, in despite, in absolute passion for each and every word, and now every tear, and every time the droplets stung my fingertips, and every thing was to fast to be, and to slow to stop to rest to sleep, to feel, to live, to sink, to slow to die and to fast to live.
As it was, as it is, that it could go on, but will not, as it is as it was, as will be and will start when our eyes finally meet, and will end like everything ends indeed, and I'll be writing about everything we'll be and was, saying the way everything is and as it was.
As it was, every key spoke better than the typing machine of the 50's and the centuries before and your skin was soft against the rain, and the droplets of mud and London in your tangled hair, in every knot and every spot.
And then they'd slow, my fingers would caress them like a cat, or a leather glove used in highways. The notes rushing me to type, or to play, or to try, or to seize and your hair was always wet with the wind and the air, and I couldn't stand to think you apart. My waist was on your arm, my love was pumping through the veins of no breath, and no pot, or cigarettes and I always felt so small, so small to the muse. Cos your breast and your smile and your plead and your voice and your land, your land was your Albion, your fabric, your stencil, your work, in the land of the classes that survive in the dawn.
As it was I couldn't rest with Britain on my side, I couldn't rest with the sixty six so far, and the zephyr of Chicago. No, I could never rest, and I wasn't tired, and neither were you, but were you chained before your time? It was not about time but about apart, studies and languages and meetings , and tea and gin, and a the green lawn before Stonehenge speeding me madly to write more with no need to write or identity to speak, but my muse, the muse, the ups the downs, and your hair was mess and mud.
As it was on the dawn, I had never seen the dawn, not in my land, so hot away, it was chilly and old, it was hot and industrial, and nature was away. As it was it was Hackney and Camden, but the bridge was the shadow and it was no dream of yours, or mine, or a string-less guitar over the shoulder, over the scars, and it made no beat of letters, or rhythms. I have arrhythmia. It has no beat, no rhythm, no lung, but the keys do. I could have been him, playing in big stades and scores of ancient Greeks, and Italians, and poetry non spoke, and all the music I should despise so much, and I could have been him if not for talent for luck and love to the mere sound. I could have been him or he.
As it was I was too deep to be, and to shallow to live. It was not for you, it was not for me, it was not for the stars or Danny or amber shine, or sunflowers of Russia, and gold, and my dad speaking of proletariat, and my mum in the institution of knowledge, and my brother painting everything in life, and the ones I know nothing off, and it was not about him either, or about us, it was no iskra, or gold in the Irish pub and I knew of writing none. With your lips on mine and your body in touch and all the things we mumbled in murmurs, and the jean fabric, and the morning, and the Sunday, and the soul, and sweat, and the crescendo disappearing.
I was so scared of time. I was so out of time, so out of confusion, and revolution, and New York, and Brooklyn pizza, and the aunts not known, and the years not lost, and the wagons never rode, and the dreams I feared to loose, and the ones I made up to be lost in them, in us, in everything we were are will not be and be.
As it was, I couldn't stop and never will, not now. Not even when the last note fails to satisfy my trash ear, and the dust is not made of stars and the gutters don't see the sky, and the libertines in the way, and the spasms of glory and chi and Paris, and Hackney, and albion, and Arcadia, and anarquia.
As it was I was draining on words for your dark nipples and thoughts, and saliva on my face, and everything we were, and the time we failed to spent, and all the mistakes of the language that I never accepted but always loved, always cherished in lust, in despite, in absolute passion for each and every word, and now every tear, and every time the droplets stung my fingertips, and every thing was to fast to be, and to slow to stop to rest to sleep, to feel, to live, to sink, to slow to die and to fast to live.
As it was, as it is, that it could go on, but will not, as it is as it was, as will be and will start when our eyes finally meet, and will end like everything ends indeed, and I'll be writing about everything we'll be and was, saying the way everything is and as it was.
♠ ♠ ♠
Run on sentences are made to run.