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• The Two Minute Warning
• We Were Born
• Ground Hogıs Day
• divertissement
• My Evil Twin
• waiting for the Big one
• The Truth Comes Out
• Andrew Taylor 4
• 2009
• silence/is/voluntary
• Once I was blind now I see

...the best independent ISP in the Twin Cities

So where do we go from here?
All the wicked kingıs promises
were nothing but lies.
At least we have our souls;
at least we have our lives.

Her ex-husband was a movie star
with an affinity for foreign cars.
He wrapped a vintage Bugatti around a tree
to prove he wasnıt a materialist.
Now we just think heıs crazy.

These are people with something to prove;
stories of people with nothing to lose.
Trying to fill the hole in the soul;
trying to reconcile themselves with the world outside.

Married to a man she hasnıt seen in months,
thoı he calls every day and writes once a week.
He says heıs "preparing a place" for her,
a new home theyıll both live in.
She believes him.
She loves him.
She gave up her self destructive lifestyle to be with him.
She doesnıt regret it, but sometimes
sometimes she longs
for one more night of revelry.
Sometimes she fears heıll never return.
Hell, sheıs only human.

At one time he wanted to be real.
At one time he celebrated
both the ups and downs of life.
Once he got the courage
to get up and leave,
but not for long.
Reality is a bitch in heat.
But everyone there is happy
and all their dreams come true.
They know itıs a lie but
they prefer the term ³consensual reality².

Something keeps bugging him;
the sensual reality
of real life.
But he hasnıt time for that now.
His life is full of virtual fun
one pocket full of money,
the other full of cocaine.
Heıs either killing himself
or going insane.
Whatıs the difference
when everyone there is so happy.
All their dreams come true.
The whole thing leaves him unsatisfied.

Then
thereıs this Jesus person
who said he was the way.
He left a bunch of letters
that no one understands
and a promise to return.
And where does that leave Mr. Taylor?
Waiting.

In twenty-five years
he cannot remember
ever being outside this room.
He cannot ever remember
eating,
drinking
or relieving himself.
He is surrounded
by piles of clothes
he canıt remember wearing
and magazines
he canıt remember reading.
Although he smokes constantly,
his stash remains full.

He cannot remember his past.
He looks forward to no future.
He is happy
only because he doesnıt know any better
or any worse.

Now Iım tapped out.
I have no more songs to sing
save those that arenıt my own.
Even words are few
and far between.
I am not speaking now
even though I try so hard.
My thoughts are incoherent
and my voice nonexistent.
I wish I could tell you how I feel
like a frame without a photograph
but I canıt even tell myself.

At least I can truthfully say
that I havenıt sold out.(?)
Silence is preferable to speaking
when your words are contractual obligations.
Praise God!!!
I am free to keep my mouth shut.

What a strange freedom have I.
Like the freedom of one
who doesnıt need to be free;
the freedom of one
who doesnıt need to be equal;
the freedom of one
content to be loved
by the biggest love in the universe.

(yeah, you say that now)

And Iım not sure
just how to love you.
For so long
you were only a voice
on the phone,
a scribble on paper.
Back then
I felt on top of love,
I knew what I was in for.
These days,
more often than not,
love does itıs own thing
and leaves me
to wonder what happened.

Once I was blind,
now I see.
But I have no understanding
of what Iım seeing.
I am the man
who mistakes his wife
for a hat
or a steak
or a spectre
from the distant past.
Somebody tell me,
what colour is ³yellow?²