Margarita Blues
Pretty much feeling like a rusted can. Kicked about, tossed around the streets by strangers. The sky above is still blue and it takes a long while to become that evening star. Not much on the streets but a few people still selling cigarettes and newspapers to the old and forgotten. Crumbs are being thrown for the birds that will be eaten by cats. Women from balconies cheer the endless fights; the boys know what they will win to the price of death.
What could it be? It all be? The endless horizon or Virgiana Woolf's death. The trained doctors are booked till the end of season, a city's being found to be lost again. If all that glitters ain't gold; why does princess still keep her jewels. There's music of course, the stillness is still her friend. The ancient army has come down knockin', happiness is still as proud. The moon and her sisters look around, they haven't found you as their most suitable bride.
Now the doors are being left open, no one dare to come inside. The philosopher and his cat are drinking vodka and preparing for the show. The mystery will die, while Margarita sleeps in her bed and the Master has gone around town telling tales. Of how the times were, and how they will never be. Ever since Woland's story was told. The same story that was burnt in a furnace till the Devil put things right.
Faust, miserable as he was is he now. Mephistophilis and his conversations are being documented, the case is lost; there is no justice in the story of rich and famous. But none dare ever believe, what the Old Man has to say. he doesn't speak much. But when he does, it puts the crowd to feel the world of sleep. So I'll hum along the whistle that I used to hear from the cottage of the woods, while you write that song.
Pretty much feeling like a rusted can. Kicked about, tossed around the streets by strangers. The sky above is still blue and it takes a long while to become that evening star. Not much on the streets but a few people still selling cigarettes and newspapers to the old and forgotten. Crumbs are being thrown for the birds that will be eaten by cats. Women from balconies cheer the endless fights; the boys know what they will win to the price of death.
What could it be? It all be? The endless horizon or Virgiana Woolf's death. The trained doctors are booked till the end of season, a city's being found to be lost again. If all that glitters ain't gold; why does princess still keep her jewels. There's music of course, the stillness is still her friend. The ancient army has come down knockin', happiness is still as proud. The moon and her sisters look around, they haven't found you as their most suitable bride.
Now the doors are being left open, no one dare to come inside. The philosopher and his cat are drinking vodka and preparing for the show. The mystery will die, while Margarita sleeps in her bed and the Master has gone around town telling tales. Of how the times were, and how they will never be. Ever since Woland's story was told. The same story that was burnt in a furnace till the Devil put things right.
Faust, miserable as he was is he now. Mephistophilis and his conversations are being documented, the case is lost; there is no justice in the story of rich and famous. But none dare ever believe, what the Old Man has to say. he doesn't speak much. But when he does, it puts the crowd to feel the world of sleep. So I'll hum along the whistle that I used to hear from the cottage of the woods, while you write that song.
posted by jairaj at Friday, September 29, 2006
2 Comments:
Is this kind of writing not appreciated?
jerry ~ such poetry in your prose. i like your style. i hesitate to speak, however, as the editor in me lives large, and poetry begs not to be touched by outsiders, begs our care in walking where angels fear to tread. so i read and re-read it, tasting your experience, rolling it around in my mouth and swallowing its treasures...
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