(c) Geoffrey Wren
In 1961…In 1961
In response to “Seems So Long Ago, Nancy” by Leonard Cohen The Parallels began when she was born in the House of Mystery. Just like our Nancy dear, back in 1961. Which was very long ago. Freedom left her bones, with the quickest slice of a razorblade. I believe she cried to herself, while sitting on the opal stone. Wishing she was forever, or forever in someone’s heart. She had been waiting for the necromancer, to put a spell on her ideal imagery. When the parties began at night, by morning guilt had overcome. Strangers would become forgotten, and her anger would build the mirror. The prescription for her pain, was castaway in the pebbles of mysteries. And medicine to distort her beauty, and mind-bending remedies to blush away her gems. There are clouds looming over the big-top, does your circus dare? Maybe not in danger, the world is just an Emerald Green. The clock burns another tick-tock. Born in ’81. Though retro in her fame. She’d dress like Edie Sedgwick and Natalie Wood sharing the same brain. The hoodwinks would use her, they’d mind read her away from her pearls and jewels. The prosaic alleyways would rob her of her strut, and she would be left in the palms of her hands. Planning suicides in privacy. Planning suicides in the shores of a billiards room. Planning suicides outside of gentlemen’s clubs, or a bastard’s hideaway. A tiny spider hiding in a web spun a million miles, hoping to never face the shame. The viral night ripe to the taboo thoughts. That suicide was the light on a beaming beach. From the numbness in her feet, to the fingers, to the bosom, to the neck. From the mouth to the deadening eyes, to the mind with freedom on the brink. She was a Capricorn. She was inside the constellation, in prayer that night. Her labor was trying to find faith through long pages of a dusty diary. As songs begin to outro. Surviving another day. At peace for a moment in tears staring at a cupid-arrow weathervane. For a while feeling the stress strip away her identity. Sitting in her mystery. In the welcoming arms of the Noctilucent clouds of the Baltic Sea. Calling out to Geneva from the salons to the brawn of a whipping post. The evening begins to creep in with many masks to beset her surface. Lacerating herself over the waters, ocean sips back into the vacuums in her house of mystery. In 1961…In 1961 To now. In a new twilight. We still fade away. To a hideaway. That we only know of. Current bio for Fevers of the Mind’s David L O’Nan editor/writing contributor to blog. Available Now: Before I Turn Into Gold Inspired by Leonard Cohen Anthology by David L O’Nan & Contributors w/art by Geoffrey Wren Hard Rain Poetry: Forever Dylan Anthology available today! Bare Bones Writings Issue 1 is out on Paperback and Kindle
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