Sunday, January 31, 2016

Cymbal #51:: Stories of the Street

I have been asked by hundreds of children - How do Cymbals come into existence? The answer is simple. They happen when the music hits the light.

Sweet Mother Night, now let your purple cloak enfold us.

Your fingers in mine, a bridge of tendons and bone. Your voice like the low wind in the grove. I can smell eucalyptus when your mouth opens. Our wine is abandoned – the gloaming is our cup.

The company has faded, you’re singing only for me. Your voice is the gift and I’m on my knees to receive it. There are tombs on either side of us, incised into the velvet of the sky. When this city falls, we will have again what we always did: dust and rock, bush and tomb.

There is a holiness which has no eternity in it, which will not survive the light of day. This is the unwritten present, the taste of possibility. You are not old, and I am not young. We are all ageless in the loose grasp of the purple night. Look at me now. I’m made of bronze. This is no less than you deserve, and it’s all we have on earth.

That Petrol Emotion - Stories of the Street - 1991
(a cover of a Leonard Cohen original)

In our transient city lies an eternal necropolis. All of these tombs are full of those, who were once like you and me. They let their flesh have penury, and the souls eternal night. The rest of the world is sleeping. We are those the night has bound till dawn. Your hair catches the light of the lanterns in the trees. Lean your lips into mine. There is not another world, and the one allowed us is dying.

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