Musing With Leonard Cohen.
I foolishly passed on the opportunity to experience him live recently when I saw an advert for his concerts in London in the papers, and failed to go and see him.
This evening I followed up on a whim and sat until the dark hours watching documentaries, concert footage (some from the concert I would have seen if I'd had my head together enough), and recording artists (or media notaries) compare their love, of the man himself.
Sitting here (in my lounge) at times in tears, at times laughing out loud, I remembered what it is, and why it is, I write.
The clipped phrases, the rhythm, the obvious beauty that he finds in his own words. The grace and modesty with which he performs. The stripped down nerve end rawness, the emotion laid bare for you to see and to experience if you can dare to risk the exquisite pain, and the brutal honesty.
I sit here now like a newly flayed nerve ending, raw and exposed, but wanting to write again with passion.
Cold as a new razor blade.
It's so long since I thought of you last.
Red hair shining in the summer sun.
Staring at me with those big green eyes.
At your less than subtle attempts to seduce me.
As if I would resist.
I took your drinks,
As you tried to get me drunk.
Not knowing there was no need to try.
I took your hand,
When you offered yourself to me.
With your suggestion of mutual pleasure.
And I took your heart,
With a graceful ease,
That even now makes me blush.
I never promised you anything,
But never contradicted the hope you showed me.
Just to play the game.
I held your hand walking down the street,
And felt nothing of it.
Even when spotted by someone else.
You offered me your everything,
You did whatever I asked,
When I asked for it.
I took what I wanted from you,
When I felt like it,
Which only fed your delusion.
Did you think introducing me to your mother would change my mind?
I gave you nothing.
You came running back for more.
You begged me to stay,
But I kept my word
And I did what I told I would.
I broke your heart,
And just walked out.