Friday, January 31, 2014

Gnosior: Gone, baby.. Gone.

What do I want?
A strong, enduring mind?
A simpler soul be sheltered in my deserted heart?
]Chorus: Noooo..
A war on self, not even that
- a fierce, strong non-sense I cling to,
for all the reasons wrong.
Chorus: No, noooo..
A silent, slow genocide of the better times,
better mes,
hidden in memory graves.
Rotten, dried out ideas – forced forgotten.
Chorus: Stop!
My departed voice shouts,
behind the muted glass.
Chorus: Don't!
Brian & the Chorus together: Life,
Brian & the Chorus together: can be more.
I close my eyes so I can hear the breeze.
The sounds of the sea come in waves,
breaking into the shores of my ears.
A poem without words.

As I listen to the words of The Worbers, and keeping away the realization of their slight nonsensical quality I keep whispering, This is music! Which is weird because I hate this kind of music – something I cannot easily describe. There's trumpets and a jazzy feeling to it, and some grudgy drums, but other than the voice, lingering unexpected, the song is almost baroque in its rhythm. Whatever. Playing it again for the hundreth time today. [...]