Foreword
A pair of eyes hides where it cannot be seen. They see a golden ocean of beauty, where there is nothing but truth and love, and where truth and love are just the same thing, faces of the same coin. It’s just a gaze, long enough to appreciate the iridescent reflexes of the waves, short enough to be painful, as if one of those golden rays turned sharp.
That pain lies right at the core of these verses. It is the very ink that prints them on paper. That says something not only about that pain, but also about the person who decided to write about it. Such a pain is of the kind that makes you grow, and indeed, these verses are a trace of that growth. They suggest that those eyes are not those of someone observing from a hidden corner anymore, but of someone living their life from its centre. Someone who has grown strong enough to share memories of the rapid gazes that once were so enchanting and scary in their beauty and sorrow.
These verses tell the story of the heart of a young boy torn between the light of truth and an inferno of contradictions, who finds his steps in the rhythm of music.
Giovanni Guicciardi
Him and Mrs. Jones
In a room rich in rouge,
Discrete lovers sit and smooch.
With smoke trails floating in the air, a lady without much of an accent, rests in her lonesome chair.
Bossa Nova, reverberating through the bar.
Country Music, blasting from a passing car.
Collective chatter and placing down of spoons,
Watching them, dream and speculate underneath a full moon.
“Could it be?”
They say.
Hopeless romantics and silly semantics,
Fill the endlessly glimmering ashtray.
Reminiscing over couples photos by the bay,
And reflecting on their misty May,
They sit together gracefully,
And live, yet another day.
A golden truth for a silver sinner
A golden leaflet,
Soft to the touch.
Silver plating beneath it,
Humbling,but not too much.
The sound of distant guitars,
A quiet storm fading in the
distance.
Ambivalence to clutch,
Seemingly unsettling at an instant.
A shelter from society,
Refuge from the modern world.
A straight line that will never
be curled.
Strut and groove,
Flaunt and move
across that carpet filled floor.
Vice,
Not yet taken in vain.
How nice,
If truth was an attribute that had never even been contained. Left behind
when all else, remained.
Leaves and departure
How ironic it was,
Laughable in its own right.
Its all but predictable to look for what it may cause,
When it is in fact Might
That stands in your way.
Trembling at the thought of rejection
Regardless of whatever non-existent chance you could squander.
Perhaps you are a rare exception,
In a land lacking romantic wonders.
Help yourself for the sake of others,
For when they inevitably run out problems
It will be **your** sins that shall be dug up from way back yonder.
Escape the rotten restraints of decaying dissidence.
Ease the pressure from your petulant ways of whining and follow what once was a follower.
To roam in an empty closet with everything to ignore,
Is an ambition held by those who account for a life of empty spaces and fields.
Love and war in a tormented pile of leaves,
Departing carefully amongst a sea of restless thieves.
nowhere
Following a stream of misty waves,
Down a cloudy alley of smoke coming from a distant tent,
You’ll find a world without graves,
Without spite,
Where people have never taken back what they have said.
No rules,
Just common sense.
Only LIFE,
without death.
Only disappearance,
Shining through a steamy lens.
Plants are in the air
And fermented fruits sit on Persian rugs.
Recklessly soul warming and worth any cab fare.
No weakness,
Only Perfect Flaws.
Upbeat! Groovy! Going faster and faster,
Drums and strings dominating the flow of combusted soundwaves.
Rythm and feel,
No emotion lacking fretting claws.
Culture of no definition,
Mysteries of a stimulating kind.
No chairs, no stairs, no drawers.
Secrecy is of no concern.
Love in the tripped-out air,
Romance linking warm hearts,
I can’t really grasp this place,
Because it is nowhere.
The fire
Step aside young squire,
For I don’t want you to tread in fire.
Don’t ask where the fire is,
Or it will make you stare hopelessly into the abyss.
Can’t you see,
Love has escaped my grip yet again,
And it is always prevalent, but not for me.
If you ask one more time what fire I mean,
Then I shall crack the whip until you’re sorry.
Don’t question it, do not make a scene.
For the love of God, do not make a scene.
The rhythm of the jester’s ballad hath struck me,
Why must irony be the anthem of my existence?
Could it not instead be the sound of the sea?
Not in the name of persistence at least.
Read your poem to me again young squire,
I want to hear it again.
Because if I can’t evade the fire,
Then I would like to die like honourable men.
The findings of the town
The walls are spinning,
And I wonder why.
Its probably due to all the sinning,
That shall haunt me when I die.
The hillside has been raped,
Of any exotic beauty it may have saved.
Fraudulent and lonely developers came here for unknown reasons,
Perhaps they came here thinking about the heathens.
The floor is aching my spine.
A boy passed me by earlier today,
And as I asked how he was, he shrugged and said that all was fine.
Have you seen the town tavern?
It seems to be aging quickly.
Haunted stalls of drunken Edwardians,
Preying on nude women, just like they did in 1929.
Carson remembers the war,
And all the sadistic things he saw.
Maybe you should ask him,
What evil forces have sabotaged the tavern’s floor.
The air is too heavy for my restless mind,
As later on today. Regret will be the only force, you my son, shall find.
Beauty saves
I threw your love around my heart,
And heaven knows it’ll soon be lost.
My thoughts of you and those you have of me,
Are far apart to such a daunting degree.
Fields of roses, empty of any graves,
Flaunting their beauty,
Because they know that beauty saves.
Will this desolate pantry ever grow old?
After all, I’m starting to really discover this room’s mold.
But as an odd nerve struck me,
It is you my dear, that I wish to hold.
If I were a rose you would care,
For beauty saves and I’m blissfully bound,
To your beauty and ocean blue glare.
And after all, it is another meaningless day I have found.
My eye spots you heading away from the grey,
Is it them? Is it me? Is there anything you’d like to say?
Oh well, who am I talking to?
Silly me…
Magazines, Movie-Stars and Fridays
Infatuating infernos, placed between our eyes,
Cause our egos, to grow in size.
Your aesthetic is appealing,
But warmth, comes from the inside.
These dynamics, which I am revealing,
Can spark a flame, that can often be deceiving.
Smoke-break semantics enthral,
And by the virtue of praise, any man can stand tall.
Lovely and euphoric,
Your looks are an amorous acid.
And the synergy has become, arguably historic,
By no means, carelessly tacit.
Thrown off fervently by glamour,
Your presence strikes me, pardon the grammar.
Blind dates had passed,
And the uncertainty grows fast.
Like a lush and fine Amsterdamer,
In theatre, it’d be you that I’d cast.
Discomfort, in Desire
Desperately upholding sights,
That tire any honest man.
Futile bickering and fist fights,
Do not simply make one understand,
The strife of love,
The strife, of those far away heights.
Like a drug, I yearn for a fix.
Making hasty arrangements, for quarter-past six.
One need not break my heart with stones, for now, it’ll be easily done with sticks.
And even as I hurt and moan,
There will come a time,
When I finally get you home.
Morrison Meyer
