Post by Juan Castrocafe on Sept 8, 2006 16:29:30 GMT -6
three hundred faded roses ago,
it was the nervous boy, pounding heart
wind in the face and fire in the heart
and the girl, light skin and brown eyed
like some sweet heroine taken in by
the mind or lips, once touched
it was the simmering high as you landed
awkward to the world, speechless before
a curved up pair of old Levis so worn out
with innuendo, that words were mumbled
in the hopes under the moonlight, in the heat of a summer's night
baptized in the sweat of heat and anticipation,
just being there was already a half drank bottle of bliss
and somehow, being in the passenger seat watching
me watching her, the embrace, a soft upper lip to suck on until eternity
was over and we all need some water..
that boy, wind in the face and fire in the heart,
some longing and hunger, fast pained, never explained,
continuous and fleeting the sweetest moment is often in the
come-down, when you know soon you gotta get back on your feet,
that last five minutes of tingle and buzz, like some high
you never get alone...and never in a house, such a fragile moment
when intent has no reason and hope is only hunger, no sandwich can fulfill,
no liquor can quite quell...like just in some moment
to rip off the shirt, bare chested and flexing and climbing high on the old bridge rail
high above the water in the spotlight of a moonlit
watery oasis of eternity and rising vapor,
you grab your balls spit and scream like you are some lost simeon
just making sure you take inventory to see everything is still there...
and into the tenderness of the girl, brown eyes, black hair
and that awkward stoned feeling that only drops you at lips' first light,
the wonder of one nervous boy, on a hot summer's night,
when something came together,
when something got worked out right...
that bliss of being, something more than a lump...
and fourty eight things that give life a sweet, sweet thump...
yeah, that little nervous feeling, with two ballooney hands
and the quivering shakes of wanting. not as to have
for just to be belonging......
and to steal from ole Steve Winwood on last line to be,
call on me, I am the same boy I used to be...
so many things, I might not understand,
like the rush to loose that nervous boy,
to become the calloused man.
john moseley
it was the nervous boy, pounding heart
wind in the face and fire in the heart
and the girl, light skin and brown eyed
like some sweet heroine taken in by
the mind or lips, once touched
it was the simmering high as you landed
awkward to the world, speechless before
a curved up pair of old Levis so worn out
with innuendo, that words were mumbled
in the hopes under the moonlight, in the heat of a summer's night
baptized in the sweat of heat and anticipation,
just being there was already a half drank bottle of bliss
and somehow, being in the passenger seat watching
me watching her, the embrace, a soft upper lip to suck on until eternity
was over and we all need some water..
that boy, wind in the face and fire in the heart,
some longing and hunger, fast pained, never explained,
continuous and fleeting the sweetest moment is often in the
come-down, when you know soon you gotta get back on your feet,
that last five minutes of tingle and buzz, like some high
you never get alone...and never in a house, such a fragile moment
when intent has no reason and hope is only hunger, no sandwich can fulfill,
no liquor can quite quell...like just in some moment
to rip off the shirt, bare chested and flexing and climbing high on the old bridge rail
high above the water in the spotlight of a moonlit
watery oasis of eternity and rising vapor,
you grab your balls spit and scream like you are some lost simeon
just making sure you take inventory to see everything is still there...
and into the tenderness of the girl, brown eyes, black hair
and that awkward stoned feeling that only drops you at lips' first light,
the wonder of one nervous boy, on a hot summer's night,
when something came together,
when something got worked out right...
that bliss of being, something more than a lump...
and fourty eight things that give life a sweet, sweet thump...
yeah, that little nervous feeling, with two ballooney hands
and the quivering shakes of wanting. not as to have
for just to be belonging......
and to steal from ole Steve Winwood on last line to be,
call on me, I am the same boy I used to be...
so many things, I might not understand,
like the rush to loose that nervous boy,
to become the calloused man.
john moseley
