Wednesday, November 25, 2009


Illegal lonelinesses. Substanceless despair.

These are the songs you smuggle through customs, carrying them in your gut, taking care not to let them touch you.

These are the poems they shall cut with raw grief.

This is the language they will sell on the streets, your words whispered in the ears of unsuspecting strangers, or offered at parties to careful friends, every line an invitation.

These are the phrases they cannot get enough off, an addiction to meanings, mouths writhing at the end of every hook.


Piggy Little said...

"your words whispered in the ears of unsuspecting strangers...every line an invitation"

reminds of Murakami and even Ishiguro's Chirstopher Banks (when we were orphans) where we derive a lot of solace from unburdening ourselves to stragners.

pretty. evocative


rakhi said...

Reminds me of Gaiman's Brief lives. :)
Seemed distinctly Gaiman for some reason.

Anonymous said...

Falstaff, please write something, it's been a while!