Patience

Labour of Love
Film Noir
Just Good Friends
Jeunesse Doree
Traintime
Now More than Ever
Comfortable?
Patient


      

Labour of Love

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You don't remember all the things I've done; you never catch the careful words I choose; your present will not admit my patient efforts... it's a labour of love I offer to you. Unselfishness, does that hold the space between us? A helplessness, a nothing-left-to-prove? A silence more eloquent than any passion? It's a labour of love I offer to you.... It's a gift of love. Take this hand and you will hold its stories; beat, the heart, and find the tell-tale truth; take this gift: - receipt will give it value. It's a labour of love I offer to you, it's a gift of love.

Film Noir

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He casts himself as an adventurer, all foot on floor and hell for leather; she never told him what he meant to her - perhaps that's for the better. She's never clearly seen dividing lines between real life and parts she's chosen, confuses character and rising sign, sex and emotion. She waits in the caravan at the side of the set for the scene with her leading man that he'll not forget.... Things get crazy on location and they had their little swing; only yesterday he told her that it didn't mean a thing. She's in love with the hero of the movie but she's lost herself on some dark trip; she's in love with being in the movie. Call for action! This is it: the method actress and the shooting script. So she waits in the caravan for the film's final scene and her love/hate for the action man will fill the silver screen.... On the dresser is the pistol, in the chamber are the blanks, in her pocket are the bullets with his name upon the shanks. She's in love.... Call for action, this is it: the method actress and the hit.

Just Good Friends

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Drawing back the curtains, sluggish city daylight in the afternoon... here's the special silence, just before you walk out of the hotel room. Each time we're so close I assume that we'll never be again. Oh, how long can we pretend that we're just good friends? A casual affair is all that you can spare from your emotional change; a calendar of meetings, strangers on the street the best we ever arrange. Now I just can't stand all the pain, all the constant make and mend: how long must we pretend that we're just good friends? I gave you my devotion, hiding nothing up my sleeve. If I walked clean out of your life would you even notice me leave? So much tangled-up emotion, should I stay or should I go? If I walked clean out of your life how long would it take you to know? Are we such good friends? You used to say "I love you", you used to say "You make me feel alive and young". Now we're just a habit, a flavour, once a month, to titillate your tongue. How sordid this has become as the means approach the end oh, how long can we pretend that we're still good friends? I gave you my devotion, hiding nothing up my sleeve. If I walked clean out of your life would you even notice me leave? So much tangled-up emotion, should I stay or should I go? If I walked clean out of your life how long would it take you to know? Are we such good friends? Are we still good friends?

Jeunesse Doree

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The youth are voting with their feet, such a shame that the dance-beat gets so complicated. Pretty, pretty it seems... on second glance, the look is overrated. In the hot-house there's a magic potion, timeless motion.... Now and again now lasts forever; jeunesse doree gilding the lily of pleasure. The youth are voting with their clothes, such a shame that the hip pose is so overstated. Round and round it goes: how careless the rapture that's calculated. In the picture lost devotion, waveless ocean. Time and again style goes out of fashion; jeunesse doree taking the heat out of passion. Look at the kid with the golden touch, check out the stony expression; look at the man with the golden arm and the sensational lesson. Follow-my-leader's a game we can play till we swallow the tail without thinking: Catch the hook, toe the line never mind that we're sinking! The youth are voting themselves in... but the wheel takes a fresh spin and they find tomorrow gaudy garments worn thin, all at best rent and the worst are borrowed. Closing orders, fading nation, dissipation... time and again, time's unforgiving; jeunesse doree gilding the lily of living. Now and again, now and forever; jeunesse doree gilding the lily of pleasure. Cut.

Traintime

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Along the tracks the wires are humming in bursts of code like far-off drums. Fathering the message: further up the line someone's shouting down the passage of time. The corridor restrains the window, no view without the eye within. Bold upon the threshold but holding on the line we're shouting down the passage of time. Relatives speak on the phone, on the train, talking before they have thought to explain; voices pitched wildly on tracks in the night can't pick the pace up... oh let there be light! How light becomes the soul. You know yourself the centre of attention, you see yourself the locus of event. I'm sorry if it's painful quarrying the lime, stage centre, shouting down the passage of time. The corridor retains its shadows, its secrets compartmentalised. Damping down on ambience, clamp the teeth and grind, shouting down the passage of time. What's there to see or make clear? What's there to know when the voice is right here? What's there to promise or vow? What's to believe, when the time is right now? Relatives spoke on the phone, on the train, talking before they had sought to refrain; voices projected, spears in mid-flight frozen forever.... oh let there be light!

Now More than Ever

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Between coma and consciousness no hard and fast line, no chance to vote on the motioning eye. A mystical vision or a fall from grace, the chase in slow motion through alien space? I don't know what to make of the dream-time: it seems as though I'm me, but I'm now more than ever happening inside myself - I don't know whether I need anything else. Stored information or secretive clue, so much will fit the design.... one field of life where free will won't cut through: the dream and the unconscious eye, in real time. We surf between waking and the breakers of sleep the unconscious ocean, still waters run deep. We lay down all logic, all sense of control, suspend disbelief in the window of souls. I don't know what to make of the dream-time: it seems as though I'm me, but I'm now more than ever happening only in thought... I don't know whether any sense is caught. Stored information etc.... ...the dream disappears in the light. In the laboratory they're waking him up: the dreams on the lips but they smash the cup. A psycho-experiment, and there is no doubt -- the dream's an experience I go crazy without.... I don't know what to make of the dream-time: it seems as though I'm me, but I'm now more than ever happening inside my head... is this a forever with the ego dead? Stored information etc.... ...the dream and the unconscious eye. In real time it's now more than ever.

Comfortable

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She likes to keep God out of church, especially when she prays: all in its place, all safely stored for some rogation day.... the paradox is so apparent, the sense absurd, but all too real; the nonsense is arrant but she just wants to feel comfortable. A pound in the collection-box, a name-plate by the aisle; she always wears a hat, for He'll appreciate the style. Pays no attention to the sermon, Christ in himself has no appeal, the social custom is the turn-on and she just wants to feel comfortable. Treading not on her illusions, I will not walk upon my own: we stand among the creature comforts; we're standing on the stockpiles of first stones. We stand on the brink of the Ultrapower, assume it's a proper place, view the living hour by hour in the first person singular case. On with the usual, complacent, wait for the mortal wound to heal when the abyss is adjacent... what right have we gotto feel comfortable? On with the usual complacency, on with the customary zeal; she doesn't need to match a valency, she just wants to feel comfortable. It's her blindness and her blessing that the thought will not occur that heaven, when it comes, might have no special place for her. She'll never look at the enigma, she doesn't want things quite that real. Oh, that's some kind of stigma -- What right has she got to feel comfortable? She doesn't want to think about it, she doesn't want to talk about it, she doesn't want to look at it. It makes her feel uncomfortable.

Patient

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A system in the making, self-healing for the blind, sitting in the waiting-room of the patient mind; raging at the illness when the rage may be its cause, the purpose of the will is lost in the search for an escape clause. Fatal convalescence, the wound becomes a weal; the poison is in essence just the virus of the real. But there's sympathetic healing, the power of the soul bandages, concealing all that we can't control. Waiting for the doctor to come. A system in the making, self-healing for the blind, sitting in the waiting-room of the patient mind.... but there isn't any answer the consciousness can quote when the loaded dice of chance are there, rattling in the throat. Waiting for the doctor to come. You put your faith in others; the fear could not be worse, but Nature's not your mother now, just your suckling nurse. There isn't any doctor, there isn't any cure... that might come as a shock to you, but can you really be so sure? Can you really be sure?

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