Blue-Eyed Boy

 

Suggested Audio

 

New Order “Blue Monday”

 

 

 

Wherever did that blue-eyed boy go? Well actually I’m right here. It’s funny, we look back at old photos of ourselves as ankle-slurpers and get all misty, thinking of how much easier it was back then. And perhaps it was. That being said, I wouldn’t trade the place I’m at now for all the cotton candy in confectionery land. Granted, the school of hard knocks has managed to tap the wind out of my sails a few too many times not to permanently walk around in an iron girdle, but I do believe I’ve soaked up every low blow like a man would. No running to mommy to collect my He-Man plaster (Skeletor was far cooler); no sobbing my little heart out until such a time as my throat clogs with mucus. Just “Hit me with your best shot… fire away”, followed by “Oh, I can see you already did. Touché.” I’ve long since figured out that life don’t always play nice and, shortly after, sussed that it seldom plays nice. There’s a bitter old pill to neck and it got lodged in my esophagus for a fair while before the most reluctant of ingestion.

What is it they say? Life’s a bitch and then you die. Rather a bleak forecast don’t you pen and ink? To be fair, it’s been a fucking whore at times over the past few years, and I’ve been forced to suck up harsh realities like a meth-addled aardvark. Lesser men would’ve buckled and I should know as I was such one such one below zero for a while there. There are only so many times you can lick your own abrasions before you start to grow accustomed to the flavor. Feeling sorry for ourselves has its upsides; most notably that we get to bow our heads once a day and remain in prayer position until nightfall. Think how many wish lists we can cram into that time or how many thanks we can give to the universe, should the whole religion deal not quite ring true to us. Personally I’d prefer to set a little time aside at the close of each play for this dignified activity and leave wet-tail for the hamsters and other domestic rodents. But then, that’s just me.

So who is me then? This mildly profane blue-eyed English rascal. I mean, who am I really? Tough question but I reckon “love” would pretty much tot up my yoke in an eggshell. You guessed it, I’m just one big blushing bundle of the fuzzy wuzzies, and the kind of sweet shooter who openly admits to adoring the frozen spunk out of Titanic. You ever took one in the eye from Cupid’s arrow? I learned that one the hard way, like Thomas Beckett. You see, while the lil’ cherub may mean well, it’s not easy hitting a moving target and we all know how fast love can come and go. One minute it’s holding a dandelion under our chins just for the flaxen glow, the next we roll over and get a rose’s thorn in our ear hole just for the “ta-ta now”. Japes aside, I continued to hold out hope, even when it appeared to have passed me by like a pelican on a pedalo. And wouldn’t you know – I scraped in for last orders and the rest is history yet to be made. But that’s a different story for a different day.

Right now, I wish to speak of the love that I hold in my heart for everyone who takes the time to soak up my constantly spilled clots of claret. Turns out I’m a bit of a bleeder; a loss leader to the tune of red cedar. A weeping willow of scarlet sap ~ on tap ~ and somewhat prone to mishap. When I first pressed the Crimson Quill upon parchment, I half expected to be pelted with tampons; then invited to prom for the bucket dodge. And not necessarily in that order. But here’s the thing – a number of others appeared to have synced their menstrual cycles to my own and we all bled out together. And then we all lived happily ever after. THE END. Actually, that’s not a country mile from how I see it, you know. Should we have been friends at some point, then you can bet your dolting bollard we’ll still be spandex now – at least through my baby blues. Isn’t that how it works? Friends to the end. No making pretend. No rules yet to bend. Just a good old-fashioned godsend.

It is through Keeper’s peepers. No jeepers. Just an even flow of constant with absolutely no intent on maiming. Let’s not grant me parole just yet, I love me some bloody murder like the next Manson. But only in here – where the Rivers run red and will not be unbled. Outside of the Citadel, it’s dimples at dawn and the legs of a fawn. And needless to say, it’s new-born. Speak of the venison, that’s kind of the point of this whole exercise. The all important rebirth. You see, that blue-eyed boy with the golden mane is actually sitting here right now, or at least, a sweet echo of he. I’ve been right through the wringer and it was pre-set to stinger. But through severe mental illness comes clear gentle stillness; if you just keep one peeled for the light sources. During my dankest hour, there were candles. So many beautiful burnt orange flames. Sparkling like tiny diamonds.

I was done with jumpin’ hurdles, flippin’ gerbils had grown tiresome. There was work afoot and it entailed dusting myself down, cleaning out my closet before my dear seventy-four-year-old mother could happen across my replica Colt .45, and drinkin’ some milk just to feel like Tom Atkins. Screw living in the past. It’s passed. The present is all gravy as I genuinely feel adored by the luminaries of heaven right now. And Venus was her name. But how about that future huh? I mean, that’s where the truest treasure lies; unless I’m reading the map upside down. Taking shit to the motherboard and soldering. Musing. Fusing. Transfusing. Flat refusing to boot down once the virus becomes aware and becoming our own webmaster in the process. That shit is rife in the future I hear so I’m with Buckaroo Banzai. We’re talking patches and upgrades – the whole eight dimensions. And did I mention they have popping candy?

My gosh I’m blathering. But it’s so much fun slathering. And this is where those winsome big blue orbs of mine shine brilliant. You see, I’ve unfastened the very shackles that bound, begun to exhale the black smoke from my lungs, and danced late into the night with my red mist. Lips have been kissed ~ scars too ~ and the blue-eyed boy inside is currently better than new. It’s been a serious state of transition and I’ve needed each candle to burn just to keep me on the prim path of redemption. No exemption from human flaw; I’m broken in so many ways it’s actually rather charming. But I like to call them surface scratches. And somewhat damaged equates to downright beautiful in my starlog. Once we cease judging, whether cloaking or all guns blazing, and simply love one another ~ in as many ways as inhumanly possible ~ then it’s 57.4% blue eyes all the way and that’s just amber nectar to this worker bee.

Anynode, I just thought it would be kool kubes hanging, after our recent Dark Fusion “ruffrider” sowed up the gangbanging side of things. There be swagger on them thar pages. A whole cavalcade of Jaggers. And it’s straight-up G all the way to South Central yo. But to reiterate a point I feel obliged to rewind – that’s just two artists feeling loved enough to explore the fantasy of reality. We’re ultimately all stars ~ a vast constellation ~ refueling station ~ most kindly donation ~ and that need not get lost in translation. These eyes are ocean blue and flecked with sweet honey. Sometimes they smile like a Lily on the Nile, sometimes they get a bit runny. But it’s funny, I’ve never seen more clearly than I do right now, never bled so severely, never loved more sincerely. So excusez-moi if I sound cavalierly. Or better yet, celebrate it. Have it. Hold it. Together we can mold it. Like elastic it bends to no ends. If we all just be friends. Homies. Player-haters. Lovers. Sisters. Brothers. Gunners. Thus, in answer to the question “wherever did that blue-eyed boy go?” – well he’s right here silly.

 

 

GREY KEEPER FRAME

2 Comments

If you like what you've seen & read please feel free to share your thoughts with us!