What’s probably to you?
Is it a word, does it carry meaning, is it a connotation of your own life?
What’s unfinished to you?
That brainwave you’re trying to catch while jotting it down?
I do realise that this is temporary blindness.
I realise this is temporary deafness.
I do realise this is borrowed and recycled.
What I know and what I want to share
Is whatever there is within me.
What I fathom is only
What (that?) no one will ever grasp.
And as I come up with lines,
As I come up with tactics to make my nights whole,
My hours seem less insignificant,
I do not realise that this is what all our forefathers have done
Thousands of years ago.
We smoke, we shit, we paint, we piss,
We spend our minutes considering ideals
That consume us -
knowing we will never achieve to comprehend.
And suddenly I realise that
All my words, all the lines I’ve ever
Come up with, I’ve ever imagined,
Built and constructed in my brain,
evolve around the one and only idea
of how to escape loneliness.
JBG, 1st march 1984 – (unfinished, currently developing and under reconstruction)
Monday, 14 March 2011
So nice of you to acknowledge
Yes, it’s me in that room.
The person who can’t spell properly.
The dyslexic kid with a knack for swear words in Spanish and Portuguese.
The person who will turn into God on your right shoulder and the Devil up your arse.
I can be the Female Messiah for lost souls in terror.
I can be the Male Bodhisattva for your trembling heart in horror.
I can be the Alpha Male and the Omega Madame,
I can turn into Bovary in a second, give me another for an electric twist,
I can be the nagging feeling that won’t go away,
That won’t stop tapping at your ceiling at half past midnight.
Yes, it is me in that room.
The entity that soon will be known as that woman who lost her breath through dancing away,
Who lost the midday sunshine in a window in Southern Italy,
The Android which was working twenty-four seven,
The Humanoid that still needs to be invented,
The skeleton kept alive via caffeine drips,
The music genius hiding in that room that has lost its sense,
its touch to and for the world.
Yes, it’s me.
And yes, it’s still my room to roam.
No, I’m not the queen on the throne,
I’m the sublime and the French Revolution,
Both subjects you turn into objects and topics you talk about over lunch,
Doors you slam when you run from destiny,
Doors you can no longer accept to be in your possession.
Yes, it’s me.
And I still acknowledge you.
I acknowledge you by throwing imaginary books about Napoleon at my walls,
I acknowledge you by slamming that cake on the floor,
That sugary-sweet icing which makes my teeth itch and hurt and turn into stone,
I acknowledge you by making a fist and pushing it hard down into lemon-curd,
I acknowledge you by letting you go the second time round,
I acknowledge you with hammers and nails and holes in my walls you drilled a thousand years ago,
I acknowledge you by lending you my kitchen to prepare that last supper in.
But most of all,
I acknowledge you by putting my earplugs in, my headphones on, turning up the volume to maximum level.
I acknowledge you by destroying that lasting sound in my ears when I wake up in the morning,
I acknowledge you by not getting back to sleep after a day’s work,
and
I acknowledge you by that fucking paper hanging on my wall, that guideline to my sanity, that guideline to the aftermath I will play for.
7th of Nowhen 2010
The person who can’t spell properly.
The dyslexic kid with a knack for swear words in Spanish and Portuguese.
The person who will turn into God on your right shoulder and the Devil up your arse.
I can be the Female Messiah for lost souls in terror.
I can be the Male Bodhisattva for your trembling heart in horror.
I can be the Alpha Male and the Omega Madame,
I can turn into Bovary in a second, give me another for an electric twist,
I can be the nagging feeling that won’t go away,
That won’t stop tapping at your ceiling at half past midnight.
Yes, it is me in that room.
The entity that soon will be known as that woman who lost her breath through dancing away,
Who lost the midday sunshine in a window in Southern Italy,
The Android which was working twenty-four seven,
The Humanoid that still needs to be invented,
The skeleton kept alive via caffeine drips,
The music genius hiding in that room that has lost its sense,
its touch to and for the world.
Yes, it’s me.
And yes, it’s still my room to roam.
No, I’m not the queen on the throne,
I’m the sublime and the French Revolution,
Both subjects you turn into objects and topics you talk about over lunch,
Doors you slam when you run from destiny,
Doors you can no longer accept to be in your possession.
Yes, it’s me.
And I still acknowledge you.
I acknowledge you by throwing imaginary books about Napoleon at my walls,
I acknowledge you by slamming that cake on the floor,
That sugary-sweet icing which makes my teeth itch and hurt and turn into stone,
I acknowledge you by making a fist and pushing it hard down into lemon-curd,
I acknowledge you by letting you go the second time round,
I acknowledge you with hammers and nails and holes in my walls you drilled a thousand years ago,
I acknowledge you by lending you my kitchen to prepare that last supper in.
But most of all,
I acknowledge you by putting my earplugs in, my headphones on, turning up the volume to maximum level.
I acknowledge you by destroying that lasting sound in my ears when I wake up in the morning,
I acknowledge you by not getting back to sleep after a day’s work,
and
I acknowledge you by that fucking paper hanging on my wall, that guideline to my sanity, that guideline to the aftermath I will play for.
7th of Nowhen 2010
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