Lost, lost as a child's first thought. I must have arms to hold me.
Lost without lovin' care. I must have my fair share.
Fair, fair is a changing word. Fair is an honored promise.
Justice if you're still there. I will have my fair share.
Justice is a lady. Lay me down with justice in a long white gown.
With a breath of love, we can share.
Share, sleep with me if you dare. Celebrate my fair share.
Fair, fair is a changing word. Fair is an honored promise.
Justice if you're still there. I will have my fair share.
Justice is a lady. Lay me down with justice in a long white gown.
With a breath of love, we can share.
Share, sleep with me if you dare. Celebrate my fair share.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Forced resurrection
The old "nick name" I used is surfacing again.
This "Jester" had chosen to lay low for over twelve years in order to survive.
This "Jester" had started his journey filled with love, heartache, deception and hope.
This "Jester" indulged into politics, and lost his purpose.
This "Jester" is now remembering why he was shunned by many.
This "Jester" is now aware that the tears he once shed are no longer applicable.
This "Jester" now knows that he took the easy way out.
This "Jester" regrets having succumbed to the threats.
This "Jester" is in doubt with regards to his own wisdom.
This “Jester” still recalls why he called himself a jester.
This “Jester” still has the tattoo to prove it.
This “Jester” is now being resuscitated.
I will, from now on, revive the “Jester” within me only for those I love and who believed in me. For the rest of you out there I will remain Marillionlb.
For the very few, you will eventually make the correlation.
This "Jester" had chosen to lay low for over twelve years in order to survive.
This "Jester" had started his journey filled with love, heartache, deception and hope.
This "Jester" indulged into politics, and lost his purpose.
This "Jester" is now remembering why he was shunned by many.
This "Jester" is now aware that the tears he once shed are no longer applicable.
This "Jester" now knows that he took the easy way out.
This "Jester" regrets having succumbed to the threats.
This "Jester" is in doubt with regards to his own wisdom.
This “Jester” still recalls why he called himself a jester.
This “Jester” still has the tattoo to prove it.
This “Jester” is now being resuscitated.
I will, from now on, revive the “Jester” within me only for those I love and who believed in me. For the rest of you out there I will remain Marillionlb.
For the very few, you will eventually make the correlation.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Senses
A crowded place filled with strangers, a soul half asleep numbed by recent events beyond comprehension. Bodies intertwined packed like sheep perfectly groomed within the confines of yet another nameless watering hole.
It has been a while since I ventured within the dark alleys of local debauchery.
‘En connaissance de cause’ I agreed to go down for what was supposed to be nothing more than yet another night out. Half asleep (from lack of interest and not from sleep deprivation), with an inquisitive eye wondering across a two leveled room; my senses were awakened.
It all started with the vision of a bad episode of Dr. 90210, when a clean swoop across the room made me realize that the common denominator amongst the female crowd was that of: nose, lips, tits, and tummy tucks. Little attention was paid, for I was happy just to watch from afar. As the night went ahead, and alcohol was consumed (by me and all the crowed), the vision became clearer; and the “filter” on the “eye camera” was removed. From so called friendly gestures to drooling smiles on perverted faces, the evening progressed , on an even happier tone. Who is with whom, and moreover, who’s returning with whom?
The microphone is being passed from one punter to another, in an attempt to impress; not the one you came along with; but those YOU can pick up and add to YOUR black book of conquests. The song ends (thankfully in most cases) and everyone applauds out of politeness. Your table of four quickly becomes of six, eight, five, nine…for those sharing your euphoria, are sharing it with others as well.
A non intended brush of a skin, a masked smile, a whiff of a smell; transport you for a split second into a not so imaginary world. You try to recollect and auto analyze what was the reason that brought you here.
A sense of guilt which you refute; for you haven’t done anything wrong YET; allows you to enjoy it even further. It is just another boost for the ego you say. But in the back of your head the bitter truth sets in. A voice inside your mind keeps on telling you that although this chapter of your life has come to its painful conclusion, you won’t regain your youth.
So you go back home and scribble your thoughts on paper.
The fourth part of this enclosed song says it all:
"It's getting late, for scribbling and scratching on the paper
Something's gonna give under this pressure
And the cracks are already beginning to show
It's too late
The weekend career girl never boarded the plane
They said this could never happen again
So wrong, so wrong
This time it seems to be another misplaced rendezvous
This time, it's looking like another misplaced rendezvous
With you
The parallel of you, you ."
It has been a while since I ventured within the dark alleys of local debauchery.
‘En connaissance de cause’ I agreed to go down for what was supposed to be nothing more than yet another night out. Half asleep (from lack of interest and not from sleep deprivation), with an inquisitive eye wondering across a two leveled room; my senses were awakened.
It all started with the vision of a bad episode of Dr. 90210, when a clean swoop across the room made me realize that the common denominator amongst the female crowd was that of: nose, lips, tits, and tummy tucks. Little attention was paid, for I was happy just to watch from afar. As the night went ahead, and alcohol was consumed (by me and all the crowed), the vision became clearer; and the “filter” on the “eye camera” was removed. From so called friendly gestures to drooling smiles on perverted faces, the evening progressed , on an even happier tone. Who is with whom, and moreover, who’s returning with whom?
The microphone is being passed from one punter to another, in an attempt to impress; not the one you came along with; but those YOU can pick up and add to YOUR black book of conquests. The song ends (thankfully in most cases) and everyone applauds out of politeness. Your table of four quickly becomes of six, eight, five, nine…for those sharing your euphoria, are sharing it with others as well.
A non intended brush of a skin, a masked smile, a whiff of a smell; transport you for a split second into a not so imaginary world. You try to recollect and auto analyze what was the reason that brought you here.
A sense of guilt which you refute; for you haven’t done anything wrong YET; allows you to enjoy it even further. It is just another boost for the ego you say. But in the back of your head the bitter truth sets in. A voice inside your mind keeps on telling you that although this chapter of your life has come to its painful conclusion, you won’t regain your youth.
So you go back home and scribble your thoughts on paper.
The fourth part of this enclosed song says it all:
"It's getting late, for scribbling and scratching on the paper
Something's gonna give under this pressure
And the cracks are already beginning to show
It's too late
The weekend career girl never boarded the plane
They said this could never happen again
So wrong, so wrong
This time it seems to be another misplaced rendezvous
This time, it's looking like another misplaced rendezvous
With you
The parallel of you, you ."
Friday, September 12, 2008
On a personal note
Not a day goes by without frustration in this nation of ours. Fanaticism and hatred (although sometimes masked) is predominant. Turning a blind eye is no longer a feasible cure, nor is it a solution. For those fortunate enough to have had the chance to leave for a while and encounter a hint of civilization; reality is bitter. Bitter in a sense, that upon our come back, we believed that we could actually make a difference. Little did we know that such a difference meant that we were to be looked upon as “new born hippies”, “traitors”, “high on illegal substances”, “dreamers”,…etc; even “mentally challenged”. Nevertheless some stuck to their grounds and beliefs, and tried their hardest to live up to their new found morals and ideas. In order to do that, they professed what they deeply believed in; mainly tolerance and understanding.
On a more personal note:
When the shit hits the fan (and it did), having come back to the motherland in all good intentions; reality hits you hard on the head. One deception after another on all levels, you find yourself slowly drained from all that is human within you. The “animal” takes over, and just like a “Dhamer, Bundy, Manson,…etc”, you apply your own personal frustration to your geographical context and long for “blood”. Some even will go as far as to wish for yet another war in order to justify their own perverted way (the only way they know) to vent their frustration, and feel empowered again. For in your (Lebanese that is) darkest hour, the trend has always been to grab your weapon and use it, regardless.
For a split second lately I belonged to that category, I was aching for blood, death and destruction, as a stage that would alleviate my own shortcomings (but then again, I am Lebanese); and for that I ask forgiveness.
Armalite, street lights, night sights
Searching the roofs for a sniper, a viper, a fighter
Death in the shadows hell maim you, hell wound you, hell kill you
For a long forgotten cause
On not so foreign shores
Boys baptized in war
Boys baptized in war
Morphine, chill scream, bad dream
Serving as numbers on dog tags, flak rags, sandbags
Your girl has married your best friend, loves end, poison pen
Your flesh will always creep, tossing turning sleep
The wounds that burn so deep, burn so deep
Your mother sits on the edge of the world when the cameras start to roll
Panoramic viewpoint resurrect the killing fold
Your father drains another beer, he’s one of the few that cares
Crawling behind a Saracens hull from the safety of his living room chair
Forgotten sons
Forgotten sons
Forgotten sons
And so as I patrol in the valley of the shadow of the tricolor I must fear evil
For I am but mortal and mortals can only die
Asking questions, pleading answers from the nameless faceless watchers
That parade the carpeted corridors of Whitehall
Who orders desecration, mutilation, verbal masturbation in the guarded bureaucratic wombs
Minister, minister care for your children
Order them not into damnation
To eliminate those who would trespass against you
For whose is the kingdom, the power, the glory for ever and ever
Amen
Amen
Amen
Amen
Amen
Amen
Amen
Halt who goes there! - death!!
Approach ... friend
You’re just another coffin on its way down the emerald aisle
When your children’s stony glances mourn
Your death in a terrorists smile
The bombers arm placing fiery gifts on the supermarket shelves
Alley sings with shrapnel detonate a temporary hell
Forgotten sons
Forgotten sons
From the dole queue to the regiment a profession in a flash
But remember Monday signings when from door to door you dash
On the news a nation mourns you unknown soldier count the cost
For a second you’ll be famous but labeled posthumous
Forgotten son
Forgotten son
Forgotten son
They’re still forgotten, they’re still still forgotten
Peace on earth and mercy mild, mother brown has lost her child
Just another forgotten son
On a more personal note:
When the shit hits the fan (and it did), having come back to the motherland in all good intentions; reality hits you hard on the head. One deception after another on all levels, you find yourself slowly drained from all that is human within you. The “animal” takes over, and just like a “Dhamer, Bundy, Manson,…etc”, you apply your own personal frustration to your geographical context and long for “blood”. Some even will go as far as to wish for yet another war in order to justify their own perverted way (the only way they know) to vent their frustration, and feel empowered again. For in your (Lebanese that is) darkest hour, the trend has always been to grab your weapon and use it, regardless.
For a split second lately I belonged to that category, I was aching for blood, death and destruction, as a stage that would alleviate my own shortcomings (but then again, I am Lebanese); and for that I ask forgiveness.
Armalite, street lights, night sights
Searching the roofs for a sniper, a viper, a fighter
Death in the shadows hell maim you, hell wound you, hell kill you
For a long forgotten cause
On not so foreign shores
Boys baptized in war
Boys baptized in war
Morphine, chill scream, bad dream
Serving as numbers on dog tags, flak rags, sandbags
Your girl has married your best friend, loves end, poison pen
Your flesh will always creep, tossing turning sleep
The wounds that burn so deep, burn so deep
Your mother sits on the edge of the world when the cameras start to roll
Panoramic viewpoint resurrect the killing fold
Your father drains another beer, he’s one of the few that cares
Crawling behind a Saracens hull from the safety of his living room chair
Forgotten sons
Forgotten sons
Forgotten sons
And so as I patrol in the valley of the shadow of the tricolor I must fear evil
For I am but mortal and mortals can only die
Asking questions, pleading answers from the nameless faceless watchers
That parade the carpeted corridors of Whitehall
Who orders desecration, mutilation, verbal masturbation in the guarded bureaucratic wombs
Minister, minister care for your children
Order them not into damnation
To eliminate those who would trespass against you
For whose is the kingdom, the power, the glory for ever and ever
Amen
Amen
Amen
Amen
Amen
Amen
Amen
Halt who goes there! - death!!
Approach ... friend
You’re just another coffin on its way down the emerald aisle
When your children’s stony glances mourn
Your death in a terrorists smile
The bombers arm placing fiery gifts on the supermarket shelves
Alley sings with shrapnel detonate a temporary hell
Forgotten sons
Forgotten sons
From the dole queue to the regiment a profession in a flash
But remember Monday signings when from door to door you dash
On the news a nation mourns you unknown soldier count the cost
For a second you’ll be famous but labeled posthumous
Forgotten son
Forgotten son
Forgotten son
They’re still forgotten, they’re still still forgotten
Peace on earth and mercy mild, mother brown has lost her child
Just another forgotten son
Monday, September 08, 2008
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