Let me paint you a picture…
A farm house full of harvest gypsies,
a French frame of mind.
Half haven, half half-way house
to a right race of ravers
on ‘three strikes you’re out’
I abandoned my assertions- ‘I don’t think I’ll drink’
As the boudoir was transformed
from French new age Zen, to opium den
in a blink.
Before you could say
’Vouz papiers monsieur, s’il vous plait’
we submitted to folly and fumes,
were consumed in a haze of days,
assumed the role of lost coins down a hole!
What year is it anyway?
Even the donkeys wheeze
as they whisper ‘hedonism’ to me,
then turn away in silent disdain
as the bottles mount and the money drains.
Drum and bass- the basis of this race
like an omnipresent present from the creator of time and space,
providing a life-blood, as we harvested life from the ground
dancing with decadence as if no humans were left around.
A festival of the senses,
Of love and life endlessly spiraling through
until….
Until cold, steal way ground
and ice on the window sills
Until autumn leaves, all crimson in the green
and the winds alpine embrace.
Until the days end before they begin…
I had a feeling
that became a thought
that became me.
Forever caught between the future and the past,
present in theory and not practice.
I asked for a path, a route to take,
with each road an endless unknown-
my choice to make,
as I lay awake
in the doubtful, dubious, dawn
of the unwarned hidden side of hedonism.
thefrontliein 