Terraces Love You

Out on a lone, near the shoreline, circling trash cans, behind the ancient galleries, the racing mind cradled in the photographs of yesterday, the aspirations of today, and the heavy hope sailing for tomorrow. Hung in the deep current, prickled in the flesh, with furious eyes coloring the room, opining that the woods are upon the places you enter to spectate the outside. Strangeness fades into the odes and opuses you compose, and you’re of perfect gravity in the real world, the real world. The light knows I love, lie, live, borrow, and I cry in the beat of the night, among whispers and caressing hands, in divisions and in lonesome crowds.

Sequences of carousels, consequences of carnivals and open air – CONTEMPLATION.

Marooned in the methods of courtesy, those will be, who in the flicker of crying cigarettes contend with erosion of monetized life, turn to vagrancy. They’re always fundamental in times of adversity, always alluding to their rusting age and the cruel, unforgiving world. Its a cruel world, a cruel unforgiving world in which he unfortunately walks. And he might insist that the rain gives the best baths, and that the cold wind is the best way to catch your falling self and there’s nothing softer to the nestled head then muddy grass. All the windows that are subjected to his peek have shutters, he doesn’t know better, that’s what I say, what I think, where this thought was made- somewhere in between urgency to present and to venerate the whiteness of his dins.

Panegyric panacea for the gentleman whose lurking shadow is Joyce, and his dream is impoverished by the stricken maternity.

25 thoughts on “Terraces Love You

  1. Sounds like poetry, the lady has said. Sounds meaningful. And I’m with her. I loved the words, every single one.

    But they rolled off me because they do not add up together to a meaning I can grasp. Nor a memory, perception or experience.

    So my nerves are jangled now in this early morning and I have grown anxious a little because here are words which sound but I can’t probe them.

    Did you want to say something particular in this text whose meaning slipped the surfeit of your words?

    Your admirers may comment on my comment. But words mean everything to me and I grow anxious when I am addressed and I don’t come away with anything deeper than a cadence.

    Respectfully, Sarah

    Liked by 2 people

      1. Ok. But you have still lost me because Beckett, a deeply political person, was not about nothingness. And I suppose that, fundamentally, I am not so comfortable with the use of a person’s style, eviscerated of its content, for fun.

        These are harsh words, Poet. Don’t take them harshly, please. Just my point of view from a different life from yours. And what do I know anyway. Sarah

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      2. No of course not! I love that you care about my work enough to criticize me. Thank you for that.
        And yes Beckett was profoundly political, but post world war two his writings entailed the abstractions of minimalism, remember Waiting for Godot. Also, my favorite of Beckett’s work are the short stories he wrote about vagrancy. So I only touched the parts of his that appealed to me. I didn’t try to imitate him, but merely channel the idea of him, my own perception of him.

        Liked by 1 person

  2. I love how this feels like that piece of wrapper tossed aside and I catch a glimpse of it blowing with leaves like a mini tornado around trash cans and up alley ways. Traveling in the wind sort of. Past all the closed blinds and stopping to rest at an open window and seeing a sad person all alone. It feels like that to me. I felt it instantly. Beautiful piece, Iโ€™ve read it several times. ๐Ÿ˜Š

    Liked by 2 people

  3. Love these words, Watt, Iโ€™m not particularly erudite, but phrasing like, โ€˜And he might insist that rain gives the best bathsโ€™ really struck a note conjuring up memory from my childhood on the farm and the tramp that slept in the hedgerows, ๐Ÿ˜€

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  4. This is superb, beautifully it moves us along like a river, a tributary one never wants to leave. It reverberates with echoes of other writers, but is unique and entirely its own and ends just as it should:
    “thatโ€™s what I say, what I think, where this thought was made…”

    Liked by 1 person

  5. My favorite lines:

    “The light knows I love, lie, live, borrow, and I cry in the beat of the night, among whispers and caressing hands, in divisions and in lonesome crowds. ”

    I feel the loneliness of it all. The nothingness in freedom.

    My heart is now happy to find such incredible poetic work. Your writing is tremendously gripping and visually stunning with a deep truth of our reality.

    Liked by 1 person

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