Nothing left to mention? Nothing left to quip?
I barely pay attention to anything anymore,
(although I have starter to notice the way that
the colours slip off of the houses
and coalesce around us,
tearing the night to shreds.)
You don't seem to notice.
You look far away.
What were you quoting when you turned to me and said
"My the streets are black tonight. The streets are
talking back to us. I hear them in my head. They
claim that their coat pockets are full of tears
and cures and keys..."?
I'm not sure that I agree with you about the streets, but I'll hear you out while
the neighbourhood around us feigns blindness.
Everybody here is a friend of mine.
I know what they need to forget about:
the crooked working week.
***
People say curved things about you. For example, they claim that you are especially proud. (I can hear it
when you speak about the history of
mysterious glances and they way
some people rhyme 'I've Been Having Visions' with 'Meet Me In My Room', although you're in no position to critique those rhymes as vehemently as you do).
The streets are turning
white. Has the night come home
for the night? It feels like that time
when you came in from the cold and told me about the new language you had created. Did you have an address prepared? Were you reading from a sheet? I can't remember.
Yorkshire songwriter and guitarist Kindelan explores life's in-between moments on a debut EP of soulful and sweet jazz. Bandcamp New & Notable Jun 1, 2023