89. From beyond the eyelids and tears (June 2015)

I’ve been sat on this for a couple of months without a satisfactory title presenting itself but now I’ve got tired of sitting. So I’m just going with what’s here.

I recall spending half the gig with the seeds of this rattling round, trying to remember enough to piece it back together once I was home and still enjoy the show. I quite like how it turned how, and the show was damned good too. Good ole Mr Cleaves, and thanks to the Pleasance for putting him on that night.

As is my way sometimes, there’s some unused parts that didn’t quite fit presented here under the “Outtakes” heading below the signature. Though the obviously surreal bit did feel just right on the night as part of this whole, but it has ended up as it’s own stand alone piece with an extra line.

89. From beyond the eyelids and tears (June 2015)

She closed her eyes,And let the old memories in,
From the inside,
While new ones came in from the outside,
From beyond the eyelids and tears,

And Slaid sang in the bar,
Like Luke the drifter come back from afar,
A lonesome troubadour travelling,
Through the crowd and into the dreams,
Of the smiling girl with the pink hair,

And she closed her eyes,
And let the old memories in,
From the inside,
While new ones came in from the outside,
From beyond the eyelids and tears,

And she smiled,
A smile of dry tears,
And relief, that they’d begun,
With a good one.

© Jim Laing 2015.

 
Outtakes.

And the bucket of steam,
Got up and took a long stand,
Where it leaned against the cold windows,
And pulled itself together again,
Then she looked up and smiled,
A smile of dry tears,
And relief, that they’d begun,
Flying in on a Bluebirds wing to show,
These new ones, could be fun.

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About Jim Laing

The Buddha said there were four kinds of people. Those who run from dark to dark, those who run from light to dark, those who run from dark to light and those who run from light to light. From a life going from dark to dark to having a few years running from dark to light, with scuffed hands and knees from sometimes falling, I may be getting the hang of it now. How it began is not now how it is, I need a quiet space, After the noise of the day, So I take sanctuary in the creativity, And my soul feeds, On sometimes dark, Sometimes light fantasy, And I dare like many to work, But stay up off my knees, To dream, perchance to suffer, But always still to dream. Here are things mostly lyrical and poetic, with nonsense sometimes, reviews and personal musings. The coffees hot and always black. The words not necessarily so.
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