Yet often her dark
shade swills me;
this is not a dream,
it’s reality

Love is not discerning,
hate is unconcerned with outcome,
her blank beauty siphons my soul

Like the beach and its sand,
the ocean and its wetness,
the air and my breath

I dream that my heart is not lost
when I recant our conversations.

Sick, she is weakened by unforeseen illness, alertness is vacant unknown to her now, she drifts to charade of her lost sister’s call in gathering gloom sacrosanct in this cellar.

Kingdoms fall vacant in weathering seas as Marlene lies helpless, trying to rise, yet fallen in cloud-covered forgotten moon. Can an eye-flutter chase grasping demons away? – in this gathering madness of lost disarray, her head lies soft pillow in drifting dismay.

“Who is she to us?”

“A path out? – now, perhaps nothing …”

“What do you think, Franz?”

“She is dying.”

Yet the flit of a finger like hummingbird lost, a slight catlike purr from the crumbling garden, a cold caste of misery heralds accord to those paying notice, now all of them here, as breath seems to leave her – but sweet in the air.

She’s the gaggle of the moment, the vanity prize, the embarrassing hair between unshaven thighs, the succulent breasts of sweet maiden prize, replaced by a dwarf who spins bottles on stage on ivory candlesticks. Now all the rage.

A black silhouette.

“Lay upon me my leather with inverted cross,” says Marlene as she rises, arms reaching upward. “I shall not lie here dying without even trying and we shall as one abandon this place.”

And they dress her all in black.

And the stars bring their glow to each of these faces, and still they don’t know what to think or to say.

“There is nothing to say, now just gather yourselves, we shall out in this night and away.”

And thus they do.

A black silhouette with five children behind her abandon this cellar, into the streets of the Ruined City, and into the moonlight of sweet Marlene’s dreams where the doors have no hinges and cannot be closed.

Restless tonight is the Ruined City where the streets pacify feathered silence obscure. Mercy relents to the beating of wings of the birds that will fly here forthwith.

They slip through the street seeking path through the mud, cold now in balance of dripping moonlight; yet away from the crumbling garden, the cat leads silent, purrs finding balance to prowl in the night.

Process notes:
Parts 1 – 8 can be read here: http://wordsandthoughtspjs.wordpress.com/marlene/

Small scoops of rain
sprinkle leaves,
filling split, dry earth,
cutting through the land,
giggling in gullies

A crazy chattering of colours
wakes with morning,
falling on senses,
never shattering,
only to fill with hope.

Well, we blew past the army motorcade
Abnormal load haulage
And the gravity of the situation
Came on us like a bit of new knowledge

The bubbliest bubble bath
Broke down on the bank
The gravity of the situation
Is why our old thought bubbles sank

Humble and gracious
The gravity of the situation
A humble and gracious
The gravity of the situation

Humble and gracious
The gravity of the situation
Humble and gracious
The gravity of the situation
The gravity of the situation

Well, a fat, hungry English crow
Picking at a carcass
The gravity of the situation
Is hard to focus and harness

Well, we met Bill Lowery
At the Queen’s Hall
The gravity of the situation
Became apparent to us all

Humble and gracious
The gravity of the situation
A humble and gracious
The gravity of the situation

Humble and gracious
The gravity of the situation
Humble and gracious
The gravity of the situation
The gravity of the situation

Read more: VIC CHESNUTT – GRAVITY OF THE SITUATION LYRICS

My sweet lord
Hm, my lord
Hm, my lord

I really want to see you
Really want to be with you
Really want to see you lord
But it takes so long, my lord

My sweet lord
Hm, my lord
Hm, my lord

I really want to know you
Really want to go with you
Really want to show you lord
That it wont take long, my lord (hallelujah)

My sweet lord (hallelujah)
Hm, my lord (hallelujah)
My sweet lord (hallelujah)

I really want to see you
Really want to see you
Really want to see you, lord
Really want to see you, lord
But it takes so long, my lord (hallelujah)

My sweet lord (hallelujah)
Hm, my lord (hallelujah)
My, my, my lord (hallelujah)

I really want to know you (hallelujah)
Really want to go with you (hallelujah)
Really want to show you lord (aaah)
That it wont take long, my lord (hallelujah)

Hmm (hallelujah)
My sweet lord (hallelujah)
My, my, lord (hallelujah)

Hm, my lord (hare krishna)
My, my, my lord (hare krishna)
Oh hm, my sweet lord (krishna, krishna)
Oh-uuh-uh (hare hare)

Now, I really want to see you (hare rama)
Really want to be with you (hare rama)
Really want to see you lord (aaah)
But it takes so long, my lord (hallelujah)

Hm, my lord (hallelujah)
My, my, my lord (hare krishna)
My sweet lord (hare krishna)
My sweet lord (krishna krishna)
My lord (hare hare)
Hm, hm (gurur brahma)
Hm, hm (gurur vishnu)
Hm, hm (gurur devo)
Hm, hm (maheshwara)
My sweet lord (gurur sakshaat)
My sweet lord (parabrahma)
My, my, my lord (tasmayi shree)
My, my, my, my lord (guruve namah)
My sweet lord (hare rama)

[fade:]

(hare krishna)
My sweet lord (hare krishna)
My sweet lord (krishna krishna)
My lord (hare hare)

Where the watch never falters and the doors have no hinges.

As day breaks o’er its streets, forsaken cries lie in smothered dismay. Of a king, yet no Solomon, tried then and true as furnaces glow in the cold morning dew.

A doomed place for sure, a place no-one walks without dead-eyed countenance, a place no-one visits – alas, not even the birds sing true, no longer able to breathe or endure.

Marlene stands silent, holding hands, touching forbidden hope, trembling, but slightly, she won’t let them see that; as smile borders ecstasy, she holds her tongue entwined, as madness fingers decay in eyes that cannot hide the fear of faded, lost regret, nor batter dreams of solitude in stars, Marlene shuns hope’s illusion like some queen who never ruled, seeking refuge in a touch, thus seeking something more.

The stories of this room decry the fashion of the moment, the unassuming patriot lies frozen in the yard. The ever-flitting hummingbird lies motionless in thorn. Locusts schedule meetings, and black heart rules the day.

But it had not always been this way.

Once there were spring-wells of gilded distraction, artists and writers held court in the light, magic flew vibrant in silken-star night, supple transitions now lost in some breeze, sickened by torment of darkened disease.

But as day creeps its light into cried room and hovel, she closes this door singing soft-comfort song and sits in her chair as Franz sits beside her, and taking his hand, caresses his held black leather embossed in sickening twist of inverted cross.

“It will fit well enough, and we do have a tailor.”

“We must get them from here,” says Marlene. “Catastrophe beckons its scream.”

They sit in the dark, neither wanting to speak, as day gathers gloom and the wind moans the street.

“Tomorrow, we leave,” Marlene mutters at last, lying head on soft pillow as daylight retreats. “We have wasted this day.”

Border of depression, Marlene has come prepared, this lesson not unshared, in movement inspired by twilight relentless …

As the cat prowls cold the yearning garden, misplaced figurines lie hidden in grass’s trodden path unknown.

Welcome to the Ruined City.

Where the watch never falters and the doors have no hinges.

Women of freedom
lie naked
in the night.

I risk myself and
the one perfect
place in paradise,
an unintentional
sacrifice.

Tomorrow’s unseen
from here, happiness
is a helium heart
traveling on soft sound,
a sign the river runs swiftly
through the lilies,
covered in morning dew
atop the river.

Happenstance is
a sad silk
that covers
the moon,
where peace plays
when the world
revolves in dust.

Shimmering svelte neckline
drips sweat onto his collar;
saltiness and cotton blend.

We sit in a bougainvillea moment,
yards join concrete to curb,
leaving their status to discern.

Our words spill
in silent air pockets
on unturned pages,
never knowing the outcome.

Still, I don’t miss thunderous sounds
spewing the Saturday morning air.

Bricks are dirty, lakes are dead
The family dog is mad
Baby brother’s science beakers are all broken
Now the yard peacocks are all sad

Board games are boring
May they rot on the shelf
Big brother’s at Columbia University
Quote unquote, he’s tanning beaver pelts

Subtle as a billboard, oh, so refined
Smoking through my chimney
Burning up this life of mind

Free of hope, free of the past
Thank you God of nothing
I’m free at last

Free of hope, free of the past
Thank you God of nothing
I’m free at last
I’m free at last
I’m free, free at last

A chip on the shoulder usually means
There’s wood up above
But no man at this shiny oblong table
Is very, very fibrous

Picnic demographics
I’m scorched and corn fed
Leaning on the banister
I knew it’s just another 20, 20 years of sweat

Making up his milk dud mind
Gnawing on a Charleston Chewooh
Look inside his hothouse eyes
See his budding youth

Free of hope, free of the past
Thank you God of nothing
I’m free at last

Free of hope, free of the past
Thank you God of nothing
I’m free at last
I’m free at last
I’m free, free at last

Read more: VIC CHESNUTT – FREE OF HOPE LYRICS

Her love is confusion:
when he says it’s the night and it’s the eagle,
when she says it’s the tower and it’s the wind.

Time increases or decreases,
navigating through screams and
fog in the aura of her world.