Maybe you need to be somewhat crazy to understand life.
I haven’t been crazy enough to comprehend what there is to grasp.
Reason has nothing to do with existence.
Well, my reasoning hasn’t made me any wiser, that is, nor any more existing, for every answer gives more questions made to shorten life,
like : Why can’t I catch a ferry on a stormy day and still think I am asleep safely in my bed?
It would make the journey so much easier. We humans can think anything we like?
But I can’t. Not convincingly.
So there is the next question: Why do I think stuff like this? At bloody six in the morning? On this windy quay? Before my coffee?
I don’t understand life and I am feeling seasick already.
I should have stayed safely in bed. All with a good reason: too many questions emerge at six in the morning!
Where are the words to fully say
what we mean when we are loving,
in the most natural way?
Is it making that we do
when it all is full surrender?
What is the word for how I feel
when you touch me very tender?
Can’t be passion, we’re too lazy,
Hiding in some language that we miss
there might be a good expression
Of the craziness it is!
You prayed so hard while we made love
but love did not came from above,
it is a trade, in bed it’s made
as far as you cared anyway then.
The moves, the moaning and the end
an arcade of some bodies bent
a violent action following erection.
To you that was what made the trade.
You came and thought that love was made,
you called it: heavens satisfaction.
Your love was not sent from above
as you would throw me down to earth
and made this trade an act of dirt.
How could you call this making love
when you wanted to pay me off
the truth was more than you could bear
You left in tears and went somewhere
you had enough, I didn’t follow.
The trade of making love is just an art of sorrow.
Through the dark green pine tree tops
the wind whispered your name. It was a sunny day.
A black bird sang a tune not heard before,
another joined in far away.
Suddenly the wind was gone,
the black bird done with it
A never deeper silence came
and time to throw some sand
on your wooden coffin’s lid.
I won’t forget your name.
let’s just go to bed again
forget the day, it’s going nowhere
back in your arms under the covers
let’s just be two lazy lovers
let’s just go to bed again
pour just coffee in a mug
screw the day, it’s getting nowhere
in your arms I want to hide some
from the ugliness outside
come let’s go to bed again
inspired by Santana’s music 🙂
The seagull cried over the square in Oslo
where people gathered round
and broke the silence of the mourners there
with all their grieving
in that one forsaken sound
‘No I can’t come to the door now
I am other wise engaged,’
said the husband
to his wife
and he put his feet up on the couch.
He was living the good life
lying by omission