An Other Quote.

'To me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it's about, but the inner music the words make'

- Truman Capote.

It means something to me.

Move On.

Since my time of writing's last, my trial has ended, numb, anti climatic.

As far as aforementioned trials go, I was not found guilty. I was not strapped to a chair, in the strictest sense. Merely found a word I can't put my finger on. Hair of the duck, I'm living in a cupboard, I socialized overly, a week spent drowning in nobody's home, now I drown in here on my own.

Life becomes of no words never meant more words to me, but what of irony?

Burning down like the last match.

But, poetic devices aside (clearly...), I feel that the situations mounting up have given me some perspective.

I am not a child, never will be, and teenage angst ridden fantasies of burning love, consuming everything around it, ending in fiery death, archetypal, doesn't move me any longer.

She was exactly what I wanted, until she proved that she wasn't.

My life, I just want to live, immortal.

I have troubles, no doubt, but I don't need them. If I can do what I say without saying I need to do.

Sentences fall off the edge of the cliff, where I sit in the chair, rocking.

The blues.

I'd be happy, in life, just to be, to write, to do, to exist at peace with my world. I don't want what I used to. Not even what I wanted a week ago. I'll never burn a lead sheet again.

In talking previously, to the past, I said.

I said in streams of consciousness, stuck in Tin Pan Alley alone and breathing. I mentioned today's failures, useless, worthless days ending in hopeless night and twisted dreams. Maybe I'm wired differently, a friend once said. Maybe twisted dreams are the start of my days, not the end.

I begin in the night, in the hour for magick.

Maybe some day soon, I'll fall down in the street, clutching my chest as I pass the places we used to sit, but at the moment, all I think about is sigh. An anti climax, the likes of which has never been seen.

There are so many ways I could describe the lucidity of feeling I believe I am in regarding many situations, but I feel, with my mind processing metaphors and rhymes, listless chimes, that I could never explain them in space and time. Eclipse.

There's nothing in my eyes but cloudy dreams of tomorrow.

I'm living nightmares in blue.

For you.

The Trial...

'I have been guilty of kicking myself in the teeth'.

Some more meaning, now I find myself, out of touch, out of mind, in like, serious like, light another cigarette, inhale the pain away.

All I write is stream of consciousness, running down the river, waiting for her to return, her own private hell, a requiem for a dream existence, no reason to be sad eyes burning in the sun (I feel like and screaming should be next).

Where is she? I killed an insect, scratching on my screen, unable to write, my fingers turned to toes once.

I can't stand without her there, she's my new crutch, sit back down, retard girl. A reputation unwanted, deserved, where did she sleep last night?

She's pretty on the inside. If she didn't make me want to die, would I want her? Would I want to chew for her, cradling as she rocks? Busting down walls?

My life of silent screams makes more sense when she's bringing darkness towards me. I'd want to be there, if only there was nobody else. If I was only given the chance, I'd lie with her forever, alone, going nowhere, even taking two steps back, but it'll never happen like this.

I'd count backwards from infinity, if only I could reach her. She makes me feel like I'm young again. When I didn't feel a hundred years old. When I didn't need to be Dorian Gray. But I want to take a knife to my chest whenever she leaves.

It's been two days. Again. Time flies by.

Absence makes the heart resentful,
Free the grudges rest.
Absence makes the heart grow faster,
I never requested a test.

Internal rhyming, assonation, unrecognizably word.

If there's nothing I can do for you (I'll chew for you), let me down before I die.

I will die for you if you ask me, babe. A new band, an old flame, burning out, full of references and dirty slate.

There's nothing I can do that's good enough for you.

The trial continues.

And screaming.

Yours, on fire.

Sometimes I Wish...

Titles refer to songs. Hole. Look and tell me.

It's been a weird night.

Given the assumption that only you will read this (I don't expect her to think to, I lyrical enough to her as it is), I may as well continue.

Alone, soaked, wine and socialist principles. Tonight I reside in a place unknown to you. There's a fact file of mental handicap at my windowsill. I look. Technology faded.

I live here, behind the eye of humanity, with minimalist rhythms from a distant place. The same. Over and over.

If you save yourself, will you think you're happy, or skipped to the end of the line? Sap?

Feedback rings through my silent head. No direction as far as I can see.

I know how I feel now. I truly do. Like candles muting in the wind (if you notice, I write my mind), I drink of this wine, noble rot infesting the grapes, dying on the vine?

I have said this before?

You tell me. Read me. Kill me. Copy me. I'm desperate for her both. I know I've said Pyramus before, an unknown word, my mind thinks in metaphors of angels and angles. It's less dangerous on the same line, no longer, my libido would never be useless buckets of salt.

But if none of this is th real life? Is this just fantasy? I'd be landsliding down in a hole where I belong.

Some intimate knowledge of burning hope. I say burning a lot and screaming. Silent screams. I live a life in waking dreams. I don't recognise this place I lay, insects crawling from my skin.

Will anybody? Will they ever understand my words? Do they know what I mean?

Do you?

How about you?

Unintentional space, slivering stream of consciousness

I feel that these rant should be precursory to take me home. Some lyrics? This black hole sun. This black hole one.

One...

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

RAIN.

Well you know this life is killing me,
They took my soul away.
All that's left is just an empty space,
There's no such thing as come what may.

Well here I go now,
Can't I just hide away?

Hard rain washes the world away,
Bleeding memories are all I see.
I'm drowning, dry, a weary battle cry,
And beauty is a knife to me.

Well here I go now,
Can't I just hide away?

Someone give me shelter, please.
Shelter from this rain.

People drift by and never notice me,
They took my dreams away.
I'll fade away into the clouds tonight,
They'll build a new one out of clay.

Can't I just hide away?

Someone give me shelter, please.
Shelter from the rain.

Stop the rain.

Stop the rain.

All it ever does is rain,
All it ever does is rain.

My feet are off the ground,
My soul is missing,
Was it ever really there at all?

(c) 2009 Rob Eff.

Some old words, long since conception. One man and his old blind dog in the rain. hiding from the world in the world.

Time In Like...

Bury me in everything that you are, everything we could become.
I don't know how to write the way I feel, beyond metaphor, verse or rhyme...

In time.

I know we can soar together, free from this illness I still cling to, a crutch,
holding me up in melting days. Tomorrow, I'll leave where I rot today, waiting
for your call, I'll plan my day in secrets around you, under the radar of
existence, governed.

See the cripple dancing for you, I'd stand up for you, any time, if I could.

We're stronger than this wine, I know. In trust, in like, under my skin and
repeating softly spoken words of yesterday.

I spend my days out of mind, like a song, struggling to burn within an enclosed
glass, withering into nothing until you write.

Last night.

Nothing in the world on my mind, inside, I'm on your side, I'll be everything you
want if you need me to be. Read this quickly, desperately, without breath.

You take me back to a time.

A time, before melting, when everything seemed so much simpler. I'm the boy with
the time in his side until I see you, clockwise.

Exhausted...

There are no words.

My life falls apart every time I open my eyes. Afterlife, Afterdeath, everything is harsh, bright, and seared into my mind. A world on fire catches up to me, from behind, hurtling towards me like death. It silently approaches, stalking me in the burning sunlit morning.

This sun is at its brightest, ready to explode.
This lion at it's fiercest, dying.

A sacrificial stone, drenched to the drone.

Half a bar of silence brings me back to reality, I'm no Dorian Gray, but I see the future. My face emaciates as I touch it with scorched hands. Eyes rolling back, sinking like stones in my pass, I'm past.

Have you heard a death rattle?

I shake mine every day.

I hear silent screams and twisted dreams, morbid angels, the fearless fearing you.

Who?

The past. Coming for me. I can't see straight in front of me. Would you look at who's become?

There are no words. Nothing to say but nothing at all. Imagery melted long ago. Paragraphs rubbing together, like still wet paint cracking in the heat. There was a burning intensity, from where the future ended.

I'm crawling here, beneath you, with eyes of ash.

Have you ever heard the death rattle?

Of Mice And You.

I just had a moment.

Talking. Well, e-chatting.

It seemed like our whole future, I could see both sides of the crossroads, both eventualities, choose a side, choose it wise. The whole relationship came down to this one moment, this one comment.

Commence.

I won't say what it was, wasn't, might be, but I feel like Pyramus with a different ending. Quarreling parents refused permission, lovers speaking through a crack in the wall. This one observation broke through this wall, words of steel and burning heartstrings.

Absence makes the heart grow faster, I quiver when she is elsewhere. I'll write her letters, and write a million songs, screaming to crowds of strangers that this girl will be mine. In the morning I'll be with her, it'll be a different kind, my skinny love, last forever, never leave my side.

I've said this before, we all have, but it's never been like this. She.

She is everything, I haiku.

Through it all, stolen stories, soliloquy, ghosts haunt my sorrow and melt my soul, in a jar, firefly's turning the stream to steam. I'm always left with this feeling, gang aft a-gley, leave me nothing but grief and pain.

For promised joy, I write of Burns.

Now what do you suppose is eating me?