June 2011

What if we could have lived
five hundred years, seen
the last starlight bursting between fingertips and cheeks,
time begin as sleep fades away while
eyes sparkle skyblue in the morning rays
exploding through the aluminium blinds as hearts
skip one thousand beats, two for each year.
What if we could have let
dreams latch on to the smell
of freshly brewed coffee from next door
breaking into our world four walls large.

Five hundred years we could have lived
and eventually I wouldn’t have missed
the old home that crumbled under scorching moonlight
with a pearl slowly trundling down meadows
in a small city somewhere far down south.

What if we could have lived
five hundred years, seen
questions emerge between gradients of black and blue
to the answers we had and couldn’t
put into little boxes to store them away with
the perfumes of past loves blazing
through our memories like cigarettes through coffee stains.
What if we could have let
our futures share their hopes of
weaving woolen scarves for each other encapsulating
an innocent love still five hundred years from then.

E megalomanesche Märder, Prostitutioun, an en DCI Luther deen dem Alice beim Ausbriechen hëlleft. Wat ee Staffeloptakt!

Wat fir ee wonnerbaren Film! A wat eng positiv Iwweraschung, dass den Zach Galifianakis eng serieux Roll spille kann.

Aus wat fir engem Grond och ëmmer, ass den Trailer esou geschnidden dass de Film ausgesäit ewéi eng Komödie…

Ëmmer wann ech Lidder vum Ólafur Arnalds lauschteren, fillen ech mech onvirstellbar roueg. Well et ënnert iech eng ganz Rei Sigur Rós, Jónsi an generell Frënn vun islännescher Musék ginn, a well ech momentan einfach net d’Zäit hunn vill ze schreiwen, ass et wuel un der Zäit iech ee vum Arnalds senge schéinste Musékvideoen virzestellen: Hægt, Kemur Ljósið.

I’m running around State Circle with a blindfold
and feel the moonlight pervading the world around me.
10,684 miles away from where it began, occurred, ended
and I remember the life inside of me
when I knocked on her door for the first time.

Punks at heart like us we don’t belong,
with our hearts always lined up against the wall
and no news ever reported about our sacrifices.
Addicts at heart like us we don’t belong,
with our hands always holding injections of unrequited love
and no social worker ever caring about our hideouts.

I’m stumbling up Brisbane Avenue with handcuffs
and hear the morning silence break the dreams around me.
Twenty-five hours away from where it began, occurred, ended
and I remember the death inside of me
when I knocked on her door for the last time.