Waiting, for a feeling to subdue in the evening hue of pinks and blue. Patiently, holding on to a long gone longing at dawn, tired hands reach up into the air to stretch and they yawn. The day is gone.
Perspicaciously observant, of surroundings about towns, in and out, up and down, with a keenly astute sense of smell like a hound. Tracking it down. Following what I heard, it’s absurd placing head between my wings like the essence of the Angel Bird. She sings songs of sorrow, deeply cut wounds no tourniquet could mend because the invisible is impossible to heal. There is no food for that meal. The feeling can be surreal and ideal comes with and without appeal; all for a bargain price to you right now – really it’s a steal.
All the while…
Attuned in to, the wheel turns and we keep on and on spending time listening to the lyrics in our songs and when we find we can relate the release of that feeling is gratifying like the meal you had on Thanksgiving day and we continue to play the tune on auto, though we disdain auto tune. We know the difference between good music and bad music, pop music and sad music; artistic talent and recycled bullshit – we have lived through all the cycles of it. Give me something meaty with a beat that’s dreamy and a sultry voice to strut her long legs all over the track and albums like that have my loyalty to go along and add to their royalties – over and over and over again or ‘On and On’ like Ms Badu said, chilling with three dollars and six dimes, but you shouldn’t laugh because she’s asked you to do the math. It is so nifty that it adds up to 360.
I love it when they make me think.
Sensing, the goosebumps rising on fleshy, folded hills, ample and supple and smoother than milk being poured over freshly churned butter that’s been laced with honey. Bands of gold folded, intertwined and making love to the spread all in a sensuous flap of bare, exposed skin. A visual vision for the visionary; singing birds like the yellow canary creating morning dew droplets on window sills and beads of water form in the mesh like the beads of sweat upon your forehead telling your stories to me while laying in bed. It’s impression simmers in my mind on a low, slow boil and the memory coils and uncoils whenever I visit. Like a slinky coming down each step, one by one by one by one by one … consistent, predictable patterns unfold.