Songwriting confidential #37


There are only flickering lights on the dance floor,.a brief space where one thinks there might be a possibility of meaning to that last escaping shadow ,.a sense of longing in those eyes peering out of glens and forests,.a rustle of leaves no one hears but elves and sassy nymphs,.a reckoning of promises and mystical hope in baleful glances of natives saturated with portents of collapsing moons on beaches of green infamy and singing crabs, scurrying with belated deaf dreams of mercurial hauntings and legions of plucking harpist's,.See !!,.over by the melting portico, the woman in fleece and begonia bonnets incanting primeval peyote songs, mantras of sunken worlds beneath scented illusions of cats coupling in radiant fiery spectacles,.we have but a moment my dear pilgrims before this disappearing act follows us into the wells of oblivion, laughing as peaches, ripe and delirious , game for another try at another existence somewhere, someplace removed from glossy replica's of human indecent beautiful love