Thursday, July 3, 2008

Ressurection of the Musical Ghost

with a guitar,
between his legs;
he sings.
she loves.

"where do you put your lips?"
he puts them on the lip of the hour glass.
he smells.
he visualises.

Red star dimly diminishes,
becomes the white land.
and the hour glass shatters on the string less guitar.

And then,
the sandy wind blows over the silky magic.
and the lovers part under it,
to sing two songs.

and then the harmonica,
bleeds on the iron violin.
sweet ,sweet.
by gone baby!

Cigarettes and cocaine,
my harp has become sane.
the ghosts come and sing me lullabies,
stories of slumber and dream.

blurry visions of the sub conscious.

Leonard, Leonard.
Dylan and misDylan.
love the others as well,
my strings burn.

produce the lover,
produce the music.
sleep her songs.

My music god never,
you never sing,
my art god,
never loves.

he dreams Jibanananda singing with Freud.

My music is a ghost,
tends to die.
but each time the ears sing to them,
they come alive.