The songs that I sing are of love and of adventure. They are taken from my dreams. From the ruins of every civilisations Literature. from the ancient Greeks to the poets of Lamoux. They are the mosaics of millenniums of life. I build them from the notes on my guitar. I weave words around them. Sung with words flowing with the texture of syrup. I sing of boats that leak. Boats that fill with water as the inhabitants fill with dread. I sing of gods who peer from blue eyes behind the masks of men. I sing of sunshine that dries the water from between shoulder blades of the drowned. I sing of Babies that are born in great towers of Golden brick. I sing the same hymns I sang to the statues in the church of my village as a boy.

It is fool who moves forward through his life looking back at the point from which he came. Yet I shall not forget how I came to end up here. Singing for the spaghetti eating customers of a Cafe. Being paid very little. I am fed and given wine. I have not tasted the equal to the Spaghetti here in this cafe and it is this dish and I that brings people to this little visited part of the city.

I live in a room not far from the cafe. On the way to the Old cemetery and often in the mornings of the summer I will play upon the balcony looking as the grass grows over the hallowed dead. Sometimes I see a young woman there who dances. dressed in pink in the shadow of the churches bell tower and I strum louder so she has a rhythm to follow. She moves her feet with so much grace that I can not help but sing words of her beauty. She is the woman that saves all who are drowning in the leaking boat. She is the Sunshine that dries the water between the shoulder blades of all the inhabitants of Lamoux.


When walking down the Rue d’Bloome towards the Cafe in which I work I can see the true essences of excess, loss, love, lust and all in between. This road, on a Saturday night is the home of Venus and Pan. Mischief covers the population like a storm covers the sky, raining down ideas of vice and the stars sit in the eyes of the young along as the loins of the sky. You see the Negro women dressed in their furs and sequins, you see the Fairy men dressed in their tight suits with curled hair and cheeks covered in blush. The Dancers are seen in the alleys behind their respective clubs and cafes, gossiping, complaining, covering bruises with makeup, smoking cigarettes, you see the criminals running from a crime or else searching for a little lamb to slaughter. This is where I work. In the cafe Babel. Washing the glasses that endlessly appear. The glasses with their lipstick stains, their drained emptiness holding nought but stain and cigarette ends. I have worked here for over sixteen years. I have worked here as a young girl. I have worked as whilst pregnant with my son. I work here while my son grows. It was at the Cafe Babel that I met my son’s Father. I was seduced by him. He, who promised me everything and played on my poor girl’s stupidity. He had me and then I saw him no longer. Not long after the cafe Babel was being bothered by the police due to them believing we were harboring a criminal. A murderer. The Description was that of my lover. I should have known better. Yet I feel no shame, for I now have my son, My happy little Garflough. I was hoping never to see this man again. Yet Garflough ran into my washing station with a silk cravat. Given to him by a customer. This customer I did not recognise at first. He had one badly scarred eye, the other almost covered in cataracts. Then I realised that these monstrous features were simply the manifestations of a monstrous nature. Of a murdering man that had me and left me.


My love she dances. My love I watch as she kicks and prances. My love I imagine flies far into the sky and twists and turns. The hot sunlight lighting her whole body. Shining through her thin pink dress. She flies here to the Bell tower and we spend our lives in each others embrace.

I believed I would never speak to my love but now I know I must. For there have been others watching her. My beautiful love dancing the grass flat in the old cemetery. There is a dark man who watches her from a balcony. He plays his guitar and casts spells with his notes which makes her dance all the more fantastic. She must not listen to him or his magic. She must not fall in love with this man. There is another. He watches her from the churches grounds. Through a hole in the decaying wall. I saw him after the last church service. I knew he must be stopped. I ran down from my tower. Knowing I must protect my love from this man. Padre Daniel was just exiting as I ran out. The man was still there. The Padre told me to stop and walk quietly with him. I did so. we walked to this stranger. Padre Daniel asked him if he needed any assistance. This stranger looked up and I knew then my Love was safe. One eye was scarred with the eyelids melted into one another. The other a milky blue with the cloud of the blind. The man was startled but composed himself well. He said yes, that he was looking for the way out. Padre Daniel took him by his wretched hand that was covered in scars and swollen with the morning chill. Yet it was still decorated handsomely with gold rings. The Padre asked him if he was at the service. This man replied that he had been and it was the first time he had been to the church since his youth. The Padre welcomed him back to the flock and asked him where he was staying. This man, like so many, was homeless.

The Padre then asked if I would go back to my chores as he was going to have a private interview with this man. I quickly ran back to the bell tower and I watched my love dance. I watched as the Padre led the blind man into the church. I watched as the dark man played his guitar. I watched as I planned to save my love from his devilish embrace.


~ by yesknow on August 2, 2010.

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