What is lost, and what must be won.

What is lost, and what must be won.
(Photo by Escape Fantasy)

 

Now’s the time for us to accept
That what is lost is better at rest.
In hours and days,
We acknowledge the cost.
Yet how to repay
For what you lack the most,
Why dream you had stayed
In these arms of your host,
When it don’t make a difference,
You’re ten lives away…
It is gone in the distance,
You just followed your way.

Then here comes the time for you to incline
To the feeling of loss
And not having a choice,
Even still it resounds familiar in tune,
And you’ve been here before,
So, you must be immune,
In truth you had more than just no other way,
But you needed to feel it could stop any day.

Now you’re reaching the point
When you’d better assume
How, from this dawn until the last you consume,
All you didn’t once do, as bridges you burn,
All you couldn’t live through, however returns.
It’s your every day’s due, now what must be won.
And no further rescue if damage is done.

Everything gets old nowadays.

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Everything gets old nowadays.
Aging faster than it used to be,
Or we just felt agreed.
Aging faster from a week to another,
Even from the last till the next hour.
Habits get older as quick as they come,
Our best behaviour tomorrow’s bygone.
In a reset of thoughts do we find a new shelter,
And by playing the ghosts, can we manage to linger.

Everything’s past in a few days,
Whatever the mood, or emotional phase.
It burns out way fuller, blows sooner to decay,
Than it sure would at first or only months away.
And there’s a hunger and thirst always willing to grow ;
Yet the moment it bursts you don’t want it to slow,
Then consume all it’s worth, and now older it shows…

But you know, these days,
Everyone changes anyways.
Faster than a postcard,
Than whatever nice people say.
And there’s a reason your hair would suddenly gray,
Only time is made such a bitter reward,
You wish it never would catch you off guard…

But everything gets old nowadays.
Way faster than it used to,
Or we once knew.
Faster from a dreaming to its nightmare,
From hope to despair.
Until it don’t even seem you just might care.

I didn’t wave goodbye to yesterday,
More, I forgot which was the day.
Don’t know what this life used to be,
The chain is set apart from me.

No word was told, one passed the other by.
Is it too old for us to even try ?
Who’d say hello ? That’s from another time.
The way things go, now’s everybody’s crime.

And life would spin along, just as an endless play,
These years of turning wrong, we knew might have a stay.
I never waved goodbye to yesterday,
It was so long departed anyway.
Nor even cried so much for the old world,
It left too many wishes never heard.

The world is full of good memories.

The world is full of good memories.

The world is full of good memories.
If you just find the one to share with,
Your life’s a functional myth.
And if today’s made of woes or tragedies,
Oh, you just stand by, it blooms in history.
The kind which you remember with heart and dignity.

It may of course not happen in your prime,
Even take thirty years to ring a fonder chime.
Only that’s what you learn anyway :
Sweet memories and good times,
Won’t cover the same day.

The world is full of past unbeaten works,
Of the best ever done job
That could possibly emerge,
And even drawn from yesterday,
Had never gone this relevant.

So if you don’t like these years,
Find another time to get along with,
At least for an hour,
Stop paying attention to all these buzzes going on,
When there’s nothing outthere you aspire to belong.

It may not raise any high hope,
But only if you mistake the praising
Of our finest achievements,
For a stiff rejection of tomorrow’s feats.
When at the end,
What faith or projection might we throw in the future,
Without the remembrance of a nearly perfect day,
An almost ideal song, novel, movie, poem…
Of a near final thought, vision, discovery…
An almost perfect love,
An almost pure living… ?

And the world is full of those memories,
Of our shining pictures in the gallery.
You remember wars, plagues, atrocities,
But they’re only one side of the story.

As the other is filled with reminders
Of whatever great scene early mattered.
Hence if it should be the last reason
That would bring your soul horizon,
If the future seems life prison,
As your days unfold like treason,
Dare refuse the part in your present,
Out of you the past is renascent.

The evening after Christmas Eve

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I like the evening after Christmas Eve,
When all sort of expectations that pressure anyone’s mind,
Whatever plans they made or dismissed,
Suddenly give way to the most timeless and peaceful night hours
We’ve had for months.

Then we can celebrate not having to show anything
More than respect and love for each other.
Out of any previous tension, longing, and suffering.
Then we could both, or willingly alone,
Or rejoining together,
Fall into an endless winter sleep,
Protected by the harmony of our deep nature,
Secured by the frame of this perfectly non-special evening.

It’s the modest eve,
Now we’re past the big one.
And we might even feel like those children,
Always a bit blue when Christmas gone.
But it’s such pure relief in truth
That our love is beyond complete,
And our bodies shape the most pleasant embrace
We could have dreamed of.

It’s the following night,
Few steps later.
As we gracefully surrender
To the simple joy of being at ease,
Free from the last and next oppression,
From the reign of urgency,
From another case of « do or disappear ».

It’s the evening after Christmas Eve,
And I know it will be gone as well.
And maybe sooner than I wish this year.
But for now let’s pretend
We’ve been touched by magic,
By an unknown blessing,

And we’ll dream the same dream
In a bed of good fortune.

Thirteen years of controversial luck…

13
(a very short essay about lasting in a nothern city)

It was written down somewhere that I’d moved in on the 13th of October.
As it turned out, it was the 14th. Which didn’t make any difference to me.
Still, that would’ve been a catchy announcement :
Thirteen years ago the 13th,
I dropped in this town.

But here we are,
Another year, another round,
Another « how did I get here ? » meditation.
The doors of my own remembrance open in a random way,
They cannot be forced on any special day.

I think I have to go to the agency.
I think I have to take a walk, eventually.
Good fortune,
It always seems like a rainless afternoon.

Maybe grab a cup of coffee, write a few lines,
Shake yesterday off from my instant mind.

The barkeep’s put on a few Birthday party tracks,
Which is pretty bold, perhaps a bit vicious too.
After all, it’s not even tea time.

And he tells me something about a following sport event,
Looking very upset.
There will be tension in the evening,
Trouble on the queue list..
Or maybe none of that,
You never know what to expect.

Like I ever had a quiet night in here…

It’s monday’s twilight approaching,
Filled with the smell of the week-end’s muck.
And I really don’t feel like taking out the trash,
Don’t feel like the story can be summing up.

Thirteen years of controversial luck, I’d say.
Thirteen years of being stuck this way.
Well, It’s not like I really give a f*** today.

We will never stand it.

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We will never stand it,
The passing of time over grace and goodness,
Over everything truly worth living for.
We will never understand it,
How what was then, can’t be just now,
What once we pledged, we fail to vow.
So we appeal for reason,
When that’s only a treason.

We will never accept it,
But that’s a secret deal we sign,
For the sake of getting by.
It says if you lose memory,
Then you can repel mortality.
At least for a while.
So we lose our memory,
But never gain eternity.

How dare we stand it,
How dare we accept the deal ?
We should mourn every minute,
Every hour, every day,
Every past age,
Every century,
Every dead person,
From the dawn of humankind
To the post-modern society.

Life should be an endless mourning.
We love because of regret,
We expect because of loss,
And because of death, we live.

There must be some kind of justice in nostalgia.
Whereas melancholy, or any bad mood,
Cannot be trusted from an hour to the next.
Nostalgia is cruel, though rewarding in its way.
It’s just that we can’t get over it,
Unless we forget,
Unless we heal,
Unless we behave like this is the first time.

We shoud never stand it,
But we do, or die.

Kiss the moment.

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Kiss the moment.
Kiss it real,
Kiss it true.
Like this one is the best,
Not just one you break through.
As you honour the quest
Of an early you.

Kiss the second.
Kiss it all,
Kiss it twice.
Make it one of the best,
Not just maybe the last.

And the more surreal, the less feigned.
The more unexpexted, the less trained.

Kiss the evidence.
At a crossroads, on a grim night,
Shadowed by the elevated railway.
In the most unromantic set
Where you thought you might stay.
Where none is safe but the pusher,
Yet it feels like a shelter.

Kiss the moment.
Her eyes suddenly darker,
Her eyes seeing you deeper,
Her eyes are getting closer.
Now you’re the focus of the Spirit,
You have no choice but to exist.

Rekiss the moment,
Again.
Only further,
Wider, heavier.

Love the instant,
Cherish the detail.
Given that the big picture
Ignores you on its trail.

Then let it go, let it pass.
We, travelers, know it cannot last.

Go kiss the moment.
Just kiss it true,
Kiss it real.

Oh yes we do,
We did,
And sure again,
We will.

#1

Now this is what they get,
This is what this city gets.

Something warm and cosy for the winter.
Maybe if it wasn’t so windy and rainy,
They’d look for a greater reason to drink, gather, and cling onto music.
Some even make love and babies on that kind of record…
Such a pretty convenient fitted music.
Some even praise that kind of local celebrity,
Musician, comedian, TV presenter…
Just because they broke national.

This is the worst hype a city can get.
And that’s the one they accept.

But when you think they could have gotten you,
Don’t you feel any little shame sometimes ?
Not for your self-indulgence,
But the fact you let down a whole city,
To end up another gloomy outsider,
Gone for the wild, and the barfly stories.

You let down the devouts,
Cause you thought you know it all better.
And now you know it all alone, mostly.

It’s a shame indeed,
Not the shame of one who’s vain or pathetic,
Who’s flying higher than his wings.
It’s a shame not to be a prophet,
Some corner prophet at least,
When you’re bound to become one.

It’s a shame not to succeed,
When you know someone must and will in the end.
Don’t let the cool bastard run the game,
Don’t let the bad guy take the shy dreamy girl,
Don’t ever let « nice » be mistaken for « great ».
Don’t let the ones who could believe,
Be satisfied with passivity.

DON’T LET THE CROWD GO WITH THE CROWD.