The agony letter to freud

The Agony Letter to Freud.

Elizabeth says, "She's disturbed inside."
Though "She doesn't know why, she's never been in love"
It's amazing how she cries over everything
...... and nothing. How she relies on "Him" above.

At thirty-five it isn't easy
to admit to being alone,
to admit to being alive.
Elizabeth believes she died
and went somewhere at twenty,
when she left us behind.

She came from New York
Seeking so much perfection
She'll never find it.
(She believes it's like
something you have when you're born)
That I suppose, is perfection
It leaves.... I think. Before dawn.

Elizabeth passed onwards over the sea. She sprinted ahead of me on the
road when I stopped at the library of memories, that's why I didn't
notice, I had my head buried in a book, It was dusty and it told of
Italian Pasta. Cappuccino's and pizza, I was remembering my time spent
in Rome with a friend of mine who fell along the wayside long before
Elizabeth left
.

I sat in a coffee lounge today
Eating tuscanian Pasta.
On gold rimmed plates,
me and jimmy were talking of fame,
We were playing cards
and we were staring at the rain. .
"If people sing my songs, then I will never die,
If people adore my songs, then I
Will never lie, alone.

I say "I won't be alone ",
"I have files of empty friends,
All of them just love me"
and "we're never off the phone ".
"All I want to be is a big rock star"
I live to be alive,
`I want to be just like Neil young
and be loved at fifty five."

"I want to sing Puccini
`I want to sing like Luciano"
But instead I play my wooden guitar
my memories in minor chords

I sit and write these
long long nonsense words,
I rest on my windowpane,
watch whitened streets wash,
in the rain

"Roam if you want to. Roam around the world."
-The B52`s(Part II.)
In a cafe in Paris
where I sit, drink coffee
smoke cigarettes
and lie that I'm healthy,
forget that I'm poor.
As I write of insecurity by the door.

By a rain swept window in Rome,
I see the rain swept streets
upon the flooded pavements
outside upon the floor
reason floats down the road
under the bridge, past the bar,
falls out a hole in my head
like so many times before,
Raining Paris,
raining Rome,
Don't let insecurity carry you home.

in Rome.

.

Jim Disappeared on a different road and I tried to find him but I
could not. Often he would speak in a daze of natural things. He used to
say he "Liked the sound of rain falling on the ground, walking on snow,
ubiquitous around. "That is where I believe he now lies. Walking in the
rain on the snow. The clouds have chased the melancholy thoughts from
my head and I rise, to walk back into the forests where the ruins of
long ago stand reclaimed by nature

"The long and winding road, that leads to your door,
Will never disappear, I've seen that road before."
-
"At odd times we'd slip, slither down the dark hall..."
-Neil Finn

Memory Wood. (C.1995 Jonathan Mutchell)

Slipping through Darkened halls,
Singing Paul Weller's Wild Wood,
Trickle down Ivy falls down the walls,
brown paper of dried up blood,
faded technicolour drops fall from the window
like fingers pointing down to the gate,
an invitation to return from years ago
forgotten memories trapped within fate,

these chipped bricks and boarded windows,
locked doors and fallen in ceilings,
dust laden forgotten where only the wind goes,
filed secrets in this houses feelings,
return over the buried drive,
and see the rain fall where you just stood,
whisper the rosary as you arrive,
through the door made of memory wood,

walk right through and leave,
let the sun avoid the woods features,
rise and fall with the house as it breathes,
walk to the forest with memory creatures,
this darkened place, this house of fun,
wade through arrow river to reach mud,
results of past things you have done,
rise around you in memory wood.

Blinds close and you walk on. Voices and songs fill the air like a
skeleton with immaculate teeth.
Dead things with colourful reminders of how life used to be hang on
the wall. Phantoms roam wild in the garden and faeries sing in the
trees. Illustrated cells shine through, depicting youths singing and
dancing around a strong fire playing folk songs on wooden guitars. A
time of laughter and contentment, tension seeming to be a dusty legend
that people mocked and dismissed.
In the sun during the day, folks would tend the garden or pick wild
flowers, the aroma of wild rosemary filling the air whilst in the
house, people hid away amongst broken furniture reading or telling
tales. The summer was cool in the open spaces indoors. Much wine was
drunk and many a jest shared, as hearts were broken and loves lost.
This indeed was a time of bitter contradiction. For every cherry there
must be a stone, yet here you could forget for a while, the dichotomy
of life.
Poets sat in the gardens by a fountain, intoxicated by the scents and
distracted by the laughter Scraps of paper were thrown in the air and
ink thrown into the pools.