{"id":809,"date":"2013-04-19T22:39:59","date_gmt":"2013-04-19T20:39:59","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/?page_id=809"},"modified":"2013-05-03T02:15:53","modified_gmt":"2013-05-03T00:15:53","slug":"12-patience","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/teksty\/teksty-oryginalne\/teksty-ph-solo\/12-patience\/","title":{"rendered":"12. Patience"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/a>
\nLabour of Love<\/strong><\/p>\n

You don’t remember all the things I’ve done;
\nyou never catch the careful words I choose;
\nyour present will not admit my patient efforts…
\nit’s a labour of love
\nI offer to you.<\/p>\n

Unselfishness, does that hold the space between us?
\nA helplessness, a nothing-left-to-prove?
\nA silence more eloquent than any passion?
\nIt’s a labour of love
\nI offer to you….
\nIt’s a gift of love.<\/p>\n

Take this hand and you will hold its stories;
\nbeat, the heart, and find the tell-tale truth;
\ntake this gift: – receipt will give it value.
\nIt’s a labour of love
\nI offer to you,
\nit’s a gift of love.<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nFilm Noir<\/strong><\/p>\n

He casts himself as an adventurer,
\nall foot on floor and hell for leather;
\nshe never told him what he meant to her –
\nperhaps that’s for the better.
\nShe’s never clearly seen dividing lines
\nbetween real life and parts she’s chosen,
\nconfuses character and rising sign,
\nsex and emotion.<\/p>\n

She waits in the caravan
\nat the side of the set
\nfor the scene with her leading man
\nthat he’ll not forget….<\/p>\n

Things get crazy on location
\nand they had their little swing;
\nonly yesterday he told her
\nthat it didn’t mean a thing.<\/p>\n

She’s in love with the hero of the movie
\nbut she’s lost herself on some dark trip;
\nshe’s in love with being in the movie.
\nCall for action!
\nThis is it: the method actress
\nand the shooting script.<\/p>\n

So she waits in the caravan
\nfor the film’s final scene
\nand her love\/hate for the action man
\nwill fill the silver screen….<\/p>\n

On the dresser is the pistol,
\nin the chamber are the blanks,
\nin her pocket are the bullets
\nwith his name upon the shanks.<\/p>\n

She’s in love….<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nJust Good Friends<\/strong> \"Przek\u0142ad\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Drawing back the curtains,
\nsluggish city daylight in the afternoon…
\nhere’s that special silence,
\nust before you walk out of the hotel room.
\nEach time we’re so close I assume
\nthat we’ll never be again.
\nOh, how long can we pretend
\nthat we’re just good friends?<\/p>\n

A casual affair is all that you can spare
\nfrom your emotional change;
\na calendar of meetings,
\nstrangers on the street
\nthe best we ever arrange.
\nNow I just can’t stand all the pain,
\nall the constant make and mend:
\nhow long must we pretend
\nthat we’re just good friends?<\/p>\n

I gave you my devotion,
\nhiding nothing up my sleeve.
\nIf I walked clean out of your life
\nwould you even notice me leave?
\nSo much tangled-up emotion,
\nshould I stay or should I go?
\nIf I walked clean out of your life
\nhow long would it take you to know?
\nAre we such good friends?<\/p>\n

You used to say „I love you”,
\nyou used to say
\n„You make me feel alive and young”.
\nNow we’re just a habit,
\na flavour, once a month,
\nto titillate your tongue.
\nHow sordid this has become
\nas the means approach the end
\noh, how long can we pretend
\nthat we’re still good friends?<\/p>\n

I gave you my devotion,
\nhiding nothing up my sleeve.
\nIf I walked clean out of your life
\nwould you even notice me leave?
\nSo much tangled-up emotion,
\nshould I stay or should I go?
\nIf I walked clean out of your life
\nhow long would it take you to know?
\nAre we such good friends?<\/p>\n

Are we still good friends?<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nJeunesse Doree<\/strong><\/p>\n

The youth are voting with their feet,
\nsuch a shame that the dance-beat
\ngets so complicated.
\nPretty, pretty it seems…
\non second glance, the look is overrated.
\nIn the hot-house there’s a magic potion,
\ntimeless motion….
\nNow and again now lasts forever;
\njeunesse doree gilding the lily of pleasure.<\/p>\n

The youth are voting with their clothes,
\nsuch a shame that the hip pose
\nis so calculated.
\nRound and round it goes:
\nhow careless the rapture that’s overstated.
\nIn the picture lost devotion,
\nwaveless ocean.
\nTime and again
\nstyle goes out of fashion;
\njeunesse doree taking the heat out of passion.<\/p>\n

Look at the kid with the golden touch,
\ncheck out the stony expression;
\nlook at the man with the golden arm
\nand the sensational lesson.
\nFollow-my-leader’s a game we can play
\ntill we swallow the tail without thinking:
\nCatch the hook, toe the line
\nnever mind that we’re sinking!<\/p>\n

The youth are voting themselves in…
\nbut the wheel takes a fresh spin
\nand they find tomorrow
\ngaudy garments worn thin,
\nall at best rent and the worst are borrowed.
\nClosing orders, fading nation,
\ndissipation…
\ntime and again, time’s unforgiving;
\njeunesse doree gilding the lily of living.
\nNow and again now lasts forever;
\njeunesse doree gilding the lily of pleasure.<\/p>\n

…Cut.<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nTraintime<\/strong><\/p>\n

Along the tracks the wires are humming
\nin bursts of code like far-off drums.
\nFathering the message:
\nfurther up the line someone’s shouting
\ndown the passage of time.<\/p>\n

The corridor restrains the window,
\nno view without the eye within.
\nBold upon the threshold
\nbut holding on the line
\nwe’re shouting down the passage of time.<\/p>\n

Relatives speak on the phone, on the train,
\ntalking before they have thought to explain;
\nvoices pitched wildly on tracks in the night
\ncan’t pick the pace up…
\noh let there be light!
\nHow light becomes the soul.<\/p>\n

You know yourself the centre of attention,
\nyou see yourself the locus of event.
\nI’m sorry if it’s painful quarrying the lime,
\nstage centre,
\nshouting down the passage of time.<\/p>\n

The corridor retains its shadows,
\nits secrets compartmentalised.
\nDamping down on ambience,
\nclamp the teeth and grind,
\nshouting down the passage of time.<\/p>\n

What’s there to see or make clear?
\nWhat’s there to know
\nwhen the voice is right here?
\nWhat’s there to promise or vow?
\nWhat’s to believe, when the time is right now?<\/p>\n

Relatives spoke on the phone, on the train,
\ntalking before they had sought to refrain;
\nvoices projected, spears in mid-flight
\nfrozen forever…. oh let there be light!<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nNow More than Ever<\/strong><\/p>\n

Between coma and consciousness
\nno hard and fast line,
\nno chance to vote on the motioning eye.
\nA mystical vision or a fall from grace,
\nthe chase in slow motion through alien space?
\nI don’t know what to make of the dream-time:
\nit seems as though I’m me,
\nbut I’m now more than ever
\nhappening inside myself – I don’t know
\nwhether I need anything else.<\/p>\n

Stored information or secretive clue,
\nso much will fit the design….
\none field of life where free will
\nwon’t cut through:
\nthe dream and the unconscious eye,
\nin real time.<\/p>\n

We surf between waking
\nand the breakers of sleep
\nthe unconscious ocean, still waters run deep.
\nWe lay down all logic,
\nall sense of control, suspend disbelief
\nin the window of souls.
\nI don’t know what to make of the dream-time:
\nit seems as though I’m me,
\nbut I’m now more than ever
\nhappening only in thought…
\nI don’t know whether
\nany sense is caught.
\nStored information etc….
\n…the dream disappears in the light.<\/p>\n

In the laboratory they’re waking him up:
\nthe dreams on the lips but they smash the cup.
\nA psycho-experiment, and there is no doubt —
\nthe dream’s an experience I go crazy without….
\nI don’t know what to make of the dream-time:
\nit seems as though I’m me,
\nbut I’m now more than ever
\nhappening inside my head…
\nis this a forever with the ego dead?
\nStored information etc….
\n…the dream and the unconscious eye.
\nIn real time
\nit’s now more than ever.<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nComfortable<\/strong><\/p>\n

She likes to keep God out of church,
\nespecially when she prays:
\nall in its place, all safely stored
\nfor some rogation day….
\nthe paradox is so apparent,
\nthe sense absurd, but all too real;
\nthe nonsense is arrant
\nbut she just wants to feel comfortable.<\/p>\n

A pound in the collection-box,
\na name-plate by the aisle;
\nshe always wears a hat,
\nfor He’ll appreciate the style.
\nPays no attention to the sermon,
\nChrist in himself has no appeal,
\nthe social custom is the turn-on
\nand she just wants to feel comfortable.<\/p>\n

Treading not on her illusions,
\nI will not walk upon my own:
\nwe stand among the creature comforts;
\nwe’re standing on
\nthe stockpiles of first stones.<\/p>\n

We stand on the brink of the Ultrapower,
\nassume it’s a proper place,
\nview the living hour by hour
\nin the first person singular case.
\nOn with the usual, complacent,
\nwait for the mortal wound to heal
\nwhen the abyss is adjacent…
\nwhat right have we gotto feel
\ncomfortable?<\/p>\n

On with the usual complacency,
\non with the customary zeal;
\nshe doesn’t need to match a valency,
\nshe just wants to feel comfortable.<\/p>\n

It’s her blindness and her blessing
\nthat the thought will not occur
\nthat heaven, when it comes, might have
\nno special place for her.
\nShe’ll never look at the enigma,
\nshe doesn’t want things quite that real.
\nOh, that’s some kind of stigma —
\nWhat right has she got to feel
\ncomfortable?<\/p>\n

She doesn’t want to think about it,
\nshe doesn’t want to talk about it,
\nshe doesn’t want to look at it.
\nIt makes her feel uncomfortable.<\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nPatient<\/strong><\/p>\n

A system in the making,
\nself-healing for the blind,
\nsitting in the waiting-room
\nof the patient mind;
\nraging at the illness
\nwhen the rage may be its cause,
\nthe purpose of the will is lost
\nin the search for an escape clause.<\/p>\n

Fatal convalescence,
\nthe wound becomes a weal;
\nthe poison is in essence just
\nthe virus of the real.
\nBut there’s sympathetic healing,
\nthe power of the soul bandages,
\nconcealing all that we can’t control.<\/p>\n

Waiting for the doctor to come.<\/p>\n

A system in the making,
\nself-healing for the blind,
\nsitting in the waiting-room
\nof the patient mind….
\nbut there isn’t any answer
\nthe consciousness can quote
\nwhen the loaded dice of chance
\nare there, rattling in the throat.<\/p>\n

Waiting for the doctor to come.<\/p>\n

You put your faith in others;
\nthe fear could not be worse,
\nbut Nature’s not your mother now,
\njust your suckling nurse.
\nThere isn’t any doctor,
\nthere isn’t any cure…
\nthat might come as a shock to you,
\nbut can you really be so sure?<\/p>\n

Can you really be sure?<\/p>\n

\"Przewi\u0144<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Labour of Love You don’t remember all the things I’ve done; you never catch the careful words I choose; your present will not admit my patient efforts… it’s a labour of love I offer to you. Unselfishness, does that hold … Czytaj dalej →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":659,"parent":519,"menu_order":12,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"sidebar-page.php","meta":{"_sitemap_exclude":false,"_sitemap_priority":"","_sitemap_frequency":"","footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-809","page","type-page","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/809","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=809"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/809\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":811,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/809\/revisions\/811"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/519"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/659"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/vdgg.art.pl\/portal\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=809"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}