...a deathly serenade...

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
Hoping to swim amongst doves and birds
Our dreams reign out the seams of our unconscious
minds.
...she sat there like a song; the violence of the first
acts in the play, which would become more than I
could have known, awaited me, awaited us, as the
rain falls. An empty bar, an empty night and as I
walked in, mostly empty handed, there sat Leila. Get
the fuck away from me, she violently flayed to a
hopeful lothario, how poetic, I remember. I knew
her face from the picture in her book, of course; A
Deathly Serenade — her long dark brown hair, big
eyes and black eyebrows. She looked so alive. In
reality, death happened yesterday for Leila,
therefore any form or veil of happiness was always
too late. That joke came too late, the rain was always
at the wrong moment and the milk was always spilt.
Instead, for Leila today was the over spilling or the
belated serenade, in that it’s all a forgone
conclusion, all that keeps one here is reluctant
distraction: distraction with a spouse, distraction
with a pet or distraction with perfection. Artistic
perfection was our bond, Leila, Yashu and I — we
became acquainted through this perfection, which
in a way acted in the eventual serenades we all felt
obligated to sing. Yashu and his masterpiece that
nine years later failed to materialise, illustrates this
more perfectly than any of our words could muster.
Always speaking with his rather oddly shaped head
fixed to one side, whilst stroking his head of hair —
the same hair that even at twenty—three he was
losing and sat with a bald partition. Are you that
Poet? spluttered the tipsy Yashu to Leila at the bar,
9