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These are liner notes to an album that was never made.
The tune circled around in a head for a while, maybe two or three
but was never laid down
to a d.a.t. or a reel-to-reel recorder--
not too real, it seems.
They never found each other I guess;
things never fell into place like the could/should have.

Any resemblance to persons living or deceased is purely coincidental;
it never happened.
Like so many love affairs consummated only in glances
or pretend words typed and then erased,
words that sound better when not spoken aloud/ look strange when written,
like commitment or slowdance, it never happened:
Let's do the math.

If every person who has ever had a thought, has ever come up with a clever line,
has ever smiled in the middle of traffic to him/herself
despite the rain beating down on a windshield,
making it hard to see, impossible to move
but has managed to create a kind of vacuum of sound
(within which said clever line was conceived,)
committed this idee geniale to paper






to music






to videocassetterecorder


or






to photodevelopmentpaper,
what then?

The words are conceived by the vocalist, usually,
that is to say, the guy in the Tommy Hilfiger(tm) jeans across from you on the bus
has been talking to himself again.

Percussion is almost exclusively the job of the drummer,
the plant worker who dreams of stamping presses, even after microwave pizza
has tucked him in to bed,
who works in conjunction with the bass player,
the girl in the red velvet dress, whose migraines have reached
such intricate levels of intensity that she can actually discern
slight differences in tone and pitch in each thump behind her eyes,
to create a rhythm section (false fantasy sexual union).

The producer,
who is almost always late, and is almost never as greasy as he seems
(but none of us ever really are/ we just like to think so)
does not show up at all.
He would only have arrived, had the ideas melded into one.
Somehow.
The luck of the draw.

These are the not-quite-words and the not-quite-score
to the not-quite-experiences that we have with each other;
the only way that migraine girl, stamp-man and little Tommy(tm) boy
ever experience each other:




shared eye contact that doesn't lead to a conversation




realization that you have been touching someone without noticing




and those clever lines that you would record,




if only you could whisper it to the next person you see.
(signs that our bodies are rebelling against us / tired of being isolated behind the face.)

Slowdance to perfection.
It's probably better this way.
Lips moving is never as good as what's behind them.
It's only a question he had to ask:


"Was she really lonely or just singing a song?"

Leave it inside.
You'll only leave the conversation dissatisfied.
She'll only roll away from you once she's fallen asleep.
He'll only stop touching your arm if he is made aware.
The picture will never come properly into focus
and the exposure will be too brief / too lengthy.
People will only play your song on elevators
to keep shoppers from going mad.
It can never be as good as it was when it was only yours.

------
"No, the was no way out and no one can imagine what the evenings in prisons are like"
Camus, from L'étranger


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The following comments are for "Love Songs That Never Flower"
by commercialends





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