99CentDreams
10-08-2009, 05:15 PM
Very abstract...it's a focus on life in London as a teenager. Drinking underage is the main focus.
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The sole of my shoe met night dream, green. And I met them.
The palm of my hand met day thin, skin. And I met her.
The beginning of my life met road crowd, town. And I met it.
Known as Londoners.
Sun is a feeling. It caresses behind the ear as it warms the skin and wakes the kid. It wraps the two as they sit in idleness in a park, on a street. It is what I want to feel as its lock of golden hair drops from the sky, decorating the city and meditating the life of its dwellers. Fever rises as winter gives to an intense, mild summer and the dwellers crawl from their hibernation in the affectionate Soho cafés. They slowly tumble onto the grass in circles small and large. Scattered around the green, we share stories and thoughts. This is where my life happened. Under a feeling.
Soho at night and one of her rats is perched on the top of The Astoria. She remains there for a while as she leans over the ancient, closed theatre. She spies on us as we walk through her streets. She lives with us as we stumble over our lives and then apologise as we change our fate. Her voice is sweet and simplistic like a young man with an acoustic guitar spending his nights on an open mic.
The bricks are worn through performances past. The soot smears down 12 Bar wall to give an embodiment of our grey heavens, which floats above us through our years. Through tears, through fears, through a guitar the youth is here. One of six he performs to a blasé crowd. In vain his six strings shake and his hands gyrate and the weight of the crowd sighs. One of six he is forgotten and removed from sight, except from the stranglers, the passers by, the crowd of teens with fake ids.
Looking for another liquid night beneath the cool jeweled moon.
I'll tell you about our wasted youth. It was soft driven, slow, and fast. Bar men and corner shop proprietors act as dominions, and the Good Samaritans, as they bask in the irony of their good deeds. This is our ignorance of newborn life of what the past has brought and how the future remains.
We and the loss of God beneath a star-less night. Stoned under the jewel. Girls run feral down a street and tremble dreams from their skull as the vivacity of glowing windows fog and turn the mind. They live through their night.
Is time wasted?
When you're getting wasted?
The wet beast journeys us more into the nightmare. The scars of our youth will never show. Nor will they ever grow old.
I sipped and death smiled at my lust for life.
---
The sole of my shoe met night dream, green. And I met them.
The palm of my hand met day thin, skin. And I met her.
The beginning of my life met road crowd, town. And I met it.
Known as Londoners.
Sun is a feeling. It caresses behind the ear as it warms the skin and wakes the kid. It wraps the two as they sit in idleness in a park, on a street. It is what I want to feel as its lock of golden hair drops from the sky, decorating the city and meditating the life of its dwellers. Fever rises as winter gives to an intense, mild summer and the dwellers crawl from their hibernation in the affectionate Soho cafés. They slowly tumble onto the grass in circles small and large. Scattered around the green, we share stories and thoughts. This is where my life happened. Under a feeling.
Soho at night and one of her rats is perched on the top of The Astoria. She remains there for a while as she leans over the ancient, closed theatre. She spies on us as we walk through her streets. She lives with us as we stumble over our lives and then apologise as we change our fate. Her voice is sweet and simplistic like a young man with an acoustic guitar spending his nights on an open mic.
The bricks are worn through performances past. The soot smears down 12 Bar wall to give an embodiment of our grey heavens, which floats above us through our years. Through tears, through fears, through a guitar the youth is here. One of six he performs to a blasé crowd. In vain his six strings shake and his hands gyrate and the weight of the crowd sighs. One of six he is forgotten and removed from sight, except from the stranglers, the passers by, the crowd of teens with fake ids.
Looking for another liquid night beneath the cool jeweled moon.
I'll tell you about our wasted youth. It was soft driven, slow, and fast. Bar men and corner shop proprietors act as dominions, and the Good Samaritans, as they bask in the irony of their good deeds. This is our ignorance of newborn life of what the past has brought and how the future remains.
We and the loss of God beneath a star-less night. Stoned under the jewel. Girls run feral down a street and tremble dreams from their skull as the vivacity of glowing windows fog and turn the mind. They live through their night.
Is time wasted?
When you're getting wasted?
The wet beast journeys us more into the nightmare. The scars of our youth will never show. Nor will they ever grow old.
I sipped and death smiled at my lust for life.