Lost in a Roman wilderness of pain And all the children are insane All the children are insane Waiting for the summer rain
Some days, certain songs resonate better than others.
I can almost smell the napalm as I recall the beginning of the movie of which this was a part, the whirr of helicopters flying through the jungle. I can almost smell whiskey on the breath of the person standing next to me in the empty bar, the air heavy with summer heat and sex drive drumming. There was sandalwood and chimes and, in that dreamtime, the bright colors blinded even in shadows and the magnolias spilled perfume into the night, the darkness shattered by a kiss and we tumbled tumbled into the unmade mattress on the floor — the closer to the earth, we said, closer to mother’s embrace. We meant death; and we made a shadowplay of our death in the grunts and thrusts and sweat and sighs. Sure, there were drugs, but none were needed, high as we were on each other and the songs and the night. Locust drones and the cooling dripping sweat as we slumbered past dawn stretching warm fingers through cigarette burns in the curtains, drinking from Lethe as it pour from your lips to mine and back to yours, heady and full lipped love-bites full of delicious pain.