Music has always played a role in my life. From singing soprano at weddings for $20, to hitting a bong of hash while "Scotland the grave" wafts from the pipes, to wallowing in the self-pity of unrequited love while "Desperado" comes from the juke. It has occurred to me that fatelike and timely messages via music come to me as often as lovers do. For I've sat next to the grave, crying and begging for the angels to come. I didn't want to be here anymore. I was not built for this world. And come they did.
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Not the lovers who come to me as I sit alone in the corner writing the story of my life. They come for the cage. Nothing more. They desire the body without realizing they can't have it without the accompanying mind.
I see her out of the corner of mine eye. Curls bounding on her shoulders as though they were glad to be a bouncing mane framing the angelic visage. She's practiced this walk many times I see... on lesser men.
What she doesn't know is that I've been charmed by true masters of the heart, and then jilted...
I know the hunger in her eyes. They're carnal and sparkling ice blue. Hers speak to mine the same story mine own have spoken to many others'.
"No Lover, I don't need to know your name."
Mine eyes roll from these chronicles to meet hers.
She's taken aback. For while hers are carnal yet tender; mine are savage. I've been told manitimes that I've the most intense eyes, and if they're truly the windows to the soul then so must mine soul be...
The Lord of the Flies of the heart, and my conch is the pen.
"Whatcha doin..?" She asks playfully. Flashing a grin that has, no doubt, won many a heart, or caused many a hard on.
"Bleeding through a pen lover," I drink her in, "What are you doing?"
I ask as she squirms in time to the music blaring suggesting, not so subtly, how fantastic it would be to fuck her.
"Lemme see..." She says, as she reaches for the leaves, & I sit back awaiting her response.
"Cool." and she goes...
At this moment she has no time for words, and so they become a defense mechanism of my heart. To keep the unworthy out. For, while this body can be tortured, loved, hit, sucked, pierced, licked... there is space for but one for my mind. I fear one that can have the penultimate prize, the elusive grail to my heart.
And so she shrugs, walks away, and moves to the next who would be a sucker for her sophmoric charms. I appreciate her! I'm grateful she chose me first. For she has eyes... but not to love me.
I've been to more operas than concerts. I've seen B.B. King, and the Beastie Boys. I've been to a ton of live performances in clubs, etc. Saw Manson in a tiny nightclub in North Carolina. Funny story,
it was round about Christmas time my eyes wer painted like Alice Cooper, and my friend's was that of the film the Crow. We both had shaved heads and Santa hats.
Before it even began this goofy kid comes bounding up to us and slams my shoulder,
"FUCKIN MANNNSON MANNNNN!"
I wanted to break his friggin' arm.
Benny said it'd be best to wait. Wait for the plan. Which was to be smack in the middle of the pit, and not slam. Don't move atall. Take the shots. Once Manson came on the first crescendo of the first song, we would remove our hats, and it was on from then on. So we jammed, drank, and got in the middle of the pit. When the time came Blade (Benny) looked me in the eyes, and slowly tore his hat from his head. I did the same. I could feel the energies flowing. It was at that time the kid from outside the club came up and pushed me. I got his left shoulder, Blade got his right, and we choke slammed him. Then we went off and slammed for a good four hours.
But to speak of the musics... is difficult to explain. Whenever I'm in love, and a love song comes through the speakers... then yeah. It's dedicated, mentally, to her. And when I break up the same goes. The beauty of music, to me anyways, is that it's a complete expression of the state of humanity. Depending on the song, of course.
And boxing to "Fucking Hostile" by Pantera... there's nothing like it.
Watching the Phantom of the Opera on stage, and seeing it unfold as I had completely pictured it to be using the music as my guide. I cried like a bitch with a skinned knee.
But the crescendo. The crescendo is what does it for me. So long as the tune is decent, the words should be ... well they shouldn't suck. But the crescendo makes it for me. The best one I've heard, offhand, is from Queen's "Who wants to live forever?" I suppose it didn't hurt Freddie to be gay, as the crescendo needs a good sense of the dramatic. That could be a clue.
I always listened to music when I wrote, or painted, or shot a gun, or basically I listened to music all the time. Literally. I s'pose I should come up with a lifelong playlist.