Waltzess poem.

Waltzess of Duchess Hill

The first wasn't much of a dancer
The murmurs hushed down through the hall
young, naive, fun-loving, equipped, with
the freedom to thrill or enthrall.

no frills, no messy after-talk
she'd ask the men for their hand
and turn the timid ones gay
as the music was struck by the band

the second somewhat more subtle
although you couldn't tell from her glance
she'd stand in the corner behind the crowds
simply too terrified to dance.

to the other me of the crowd
she charmed me more than the first
perhaps the looks, and the quiet
deep down my throat, this thirst

for someone i truly loved
yet i never knew what it could be
the first changed me, yet she was nice
but i didn't lose myself completely

what now, some asinine comment?
in a bid to grab her attention
with each piercing look
she loves me, she loves me not, ooh the tension

but i'll leave it all till tomorrow
if only it were just a dance
i attach too much worry too much pain
but darling we're not in france.

the last a one as yet to come
not just fun, nor crazy, nor obligatory
you just have to get off your bum
and dance damnit, dance and make merry.


Evidently, something is wrong. After 3 days of off-in lieu. You need time, and here comes creativity. No one likes you they browse


This is not exactly a waltzess story. Just could be the prelude. Let's call it cool chick.

There was a dancer I loved, who lived on Duchess lane, where I'm sure there were trees and a lovely apartment, and where I ran past from time to time.

Ever wonder where we came from? It's hard to know where we came from, but it's certainly easier to know where they came from! No I'm not mad, if you'd only listen to me this bit. Give an older man his due.

Boom - pa - pa. Boom - pa - pa. Boom - pa - pa.

1 and 1 and 1 is 3. 3's the magic number, for the past, present, future and waltz. the 3rd relationship. and the 3 men I admire the most.

It snowed torrentially, and the sign of a true madman is whether or not he'd go in this or t
having typed so much it all disappeared. Oh well it was just a draft. Again.

Fury. 1. and 1 and 1 is 3.

"A glass of wine, a loaf of bread and Thou"

But thou art gone now, and I have my wine and bread.

I do not know you
I do not know you
I do not know you.

And the cock crew, wondering why you call me only by a sobriquet you invent or not at all.
Yet He did not wonder. He knew, people are themselves, they have them and their loves to protect.

Remind me again, why I torture myself so.

Do you? You have a laptop at least, and some air conditioning.

Back again at this time of asking, how prodigal.

Can't you be more normal! And not be the guy giving away Pulitzers to yourself in your brain. This blog is yearning for it.

Some semblance of normalcy. The everyday description of the weather, your loves, your anxieties. Not for you to return, to demonstrate your power, to say, I renounce you words, I consign you to the flames in an overreaction to these same words which are your friends, but used by your enemies.

Enemies. I have none.

You claim not to. A spade is a spade. You have the power to kill. And hate. Even for just 5 minutes.

My life cannot be defined in 5 minutes.

Stupid philosophical dialogues attract little interest, romantic ones do. I know, you've been talking to your waltzess. it has kept you sane, away from me.

I'm not romantic.

The problem is you have the wrong heroes. Or you have too many. You to yourself, say oh 'What strength, what beauty', his ability to sacrifice, to live without love and you think you can do it too, when every ounce, every ounce of you demands that you suck dry every bit of love you need, to nourish your self, to placate your choler.

Tant pis.

You like French, the way it looks on the page. Tastes better then the umlauts. You, even words on a page, not spoken, can seduce you. You're too soft.

But I like the strong and the sentimental.

The strong are always sentimental. That's what gives them their strength.

I am beating around the bush. I need to interlocute my hate and frustration.

You can't, you're too soft.

I can't.

No you can't. You love drama. Now. Just count silently. Write me a waltzess chapter. Cover it up. Tolstoy thought he solved it all, and writing the biggest fattest book in European literature didn't make him happy. He had to turn to THE Big Fat Book. And it was right.

Why have you forsaken me?

To love, twenty cents and love. Not with love, but yours sincerely.