Melancholy Melody #1 Suzanne – Leonard Cohen

Suzanne takes you down to her place near the river
You can hear the boats go by
You can spend the night beside her
And you know that she’s half crazy
But that’s why you want to be there
And she feeds you tea and oranges
That come all the way from China
And just when you mean to tell her
That you have no love to give her
Then she gets you on her wavelength
And she lets the river answer
That you’ve always been her lover
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that she will trust you
For you’ve touched her perfect body with your mind.
And Jesus was a sailor
When he walked upon the water
And he spent a long time watching
From his lonely wooden tower
And when he knew for certain
Only drowning men could see him
He said “All men will be sailors then
Until the sea shall free them”
But he himself was broken
Long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human
He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone
And you want to travel with him
And you want to travel blind
And you think maybe you’ll trust him
For he’s touched your perfect body with his mind.

Now Suzanne takes your hand
And she leads you to the river
She is wearing rags and feathers
From Salvation Army counters
And the sun pours down like honey
On our lady of the harbour
And she shows you where to look
Among the garbage and the flowers
There are heroes in the seaweed
There are children in the morning
They are leaning out for love
And they will lean that way forever
While Suzanne holds the mirror
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that you can trust her
For she’s touched your perfect body with her mind.


Existence Is Too Loud

I can’t stand this sensation.

Every hair a needle, bugs crawling,
zapping me all over.
Pain in my head like brain freeze, zero to suicide every hour.
Graphic images flashing through my head,
urges that scare me with shocks shooting though my heart.
Jaw aching from biting back anger and tears. Lump in my throat choking me,
a bitter taste burning my mouth.
Pain racing through my hands and feet.
The constant holding back of hateful outbursts
and panic attacks. Disgusted with myself,
the feel of my hair across my face, the clothes against my skin,
repulses me. A desperate cold in my chest.
Flushes of heat have me tearing at my clothes, convinced I am being burnt
or fearing I will pass out. The fear is back, the guilt, the self-loathing.
Faces loom over me, distorted judging stares, whispers behind hands,
people on the wrong end of the binoculars.
Acid trickles down my back
as shadows creep up behind me, frightening forms in the dark.

In a puff of smoke

Don’t let it go out.
You fought so hard to light it. Twisted and contorted
to shelter the flame from the cruel licks of wind. Keep it alive
with steady gentle breaths. Use the pale emitting heat
to thaw your frozen bones. Hide from the aggressive blows until it admits defeat
or the flame burns strong enough to survive it.
Eventually use the attack as fuel to conquer it.

His Checkered Shirt

It had slipped behind the couch in a long forgotten passion. Crumpled into a corner of cat hair and superfluous cigarette papers. She came across it while vacuuming the past out of the carpet, a punishment, a penance, a relief. As the vacuum squealed and choked on its greedy meal she rushed to the shirts rescue, drawing it slowly from the machines throat like a magicians never ending scarf.

She gathered the crumpled shirt into a ball, meaning to add it to the ordered pile by the door, but the familiar feel of the fabric, softened by wear, caused her to hesitate. Guiltily darting into the half emptied wardrobe, she daringly pressing her nose and mouth into the folds. A bold attack of scent and memory flew through her and she stifled an animal cry.

I want it all. I want it now.

Like rushing towards the peak of an orgasm but you need one more stroke. Denied, denied.

Like you have already been shot up with all the speed in the world but it’s a ticking time bomb you have to continuously top up.

What can you take, what can you smoke, what can you devour, what can you fuck.

What do you care? About the stares. The stairs to the heavens.


This Chocolate Cake Is Too Rich

Heartache, it is an acid permeating throughout my body with each beat.
Fighting to rise in my tight throat,
an ache in my hands and feet.

Tears wait just below the surface, in between lives is a strange place to be.
Missing something that no longer exists
is easier than being cut off from the source of enrichment.
I find myself caged by my own bitter mistakes, desperately reaching through the cold bars for what used to be sustenance. I am left,
to slowly starve the loss from my bones.

I Stare At The Sea


The waves are noisy children, pawing for attention,

tumbling, bickering, showing off.

The solitary seagull turns its head, too mature for such antics.

They race up to a potential playmate,

the nervous child curls her toes at their eager approach,

then runs back to he shelter of a nearby man,

whose gaze is distant from the shore.

The waves bring offerings of broken shells and tangled seaweed,

tossing the proud collection at his feet.

As a last attempt they band together, rushing

in gleeful excitement towards his sun warmed skin.

The icy embrace draws a squeal of delight from the child,

the man returns like the rush of the wave.