Jacob Davies
POSTCARDS - Every Night is November - Jacob Davies
A reading of 'Postcards' from Jacob Davies’ new book ‘Every Night is November’, out June 3rd and available exclusively on JDVSWriter.com.
Words – Jacob Davies
Music – Rand Aldo, Jay Varton, Hampus Naeselius & Jacob Davies
Edit – Jacob Davies
Image – Nic54
With huge thanks to Hannah Marsden for spoken word lines.
Words
‘Eerily, it is night
On the tight, twirly Victorian little road
Both months before and after the snow
Looming, gangly trees extenuate the shady grasp of the night
There is a meeting, in a secluded area
Between two secluded, separated hearts
As she enters the scene, reality departs
He’s not hiding away his face
He’s so very happy to embrace
That old complexion of both hope and home
That quickly got away
How far is too far?
Your answer is written on a postcard
Why in the year 8052 in the second December?
Are you still dreaming of her?
You got your day of fame
And then, of course, you lost it again
But it’s somewhere hidden here, amongst the rubble
Written on a postcard, asking for trouble
Spilled out drunk, onto the table with
All of your past scars
She re-appears, and smiles
“Hello”
As if nothing at all had changed
And tells some nice stories
“You wouldn’t believe what happened next”
To make it all, somehow, fit together
And make sense
To listen and believe is to ignore the present tense
To ignore the past tense
“You mindless, unwise child!”
Tripped, fallen so far
Head first again.
A car windshield, shielding from the battering rain
Accelerate to Nottingham
Accelerate towards Notre Dame
Accelerate with me, anywhere, that isn’t here.
Accelerate to Nottingham
Accelerate towards Notre Dame
Accelerate with me, anywhere. Take me anywhere.
Here in this dream
Wave eagerly the only true desires of this man
The long-lost, desires of this man
Hear her say
“Now he’s gone, I love you”
Hear her silly voice say again
“Now he’s gone, I love you
I love you
I love you
I love you.”
So, you wrote your pompous little poetry
And sold your pompous little book
But it didn’t solve anything did it?
You took all your thoughts
And you threw them to Jupiter, until you felt so alive
You wished you were dead
You published your tactless little book
And no one understood a single word you said
So, you smiled and smirked
And felt mildly irked
That you had less days than nights
Time will always grasp and reappear
The very saddest days of your life
Have surely been and gone
The streetlights, leading on, tell you
There are still many more left to come
On the tight, twirly Victorian little road
Merge the terms bleed and bled
Fragile, emotionally bendable, to be teased and played
The trees change to postcards, until you suffocate
Your chest caves in
Again, heart open wide for the world to see
But this Victorian plain is conceived in the scheming eyes of she
The lights of the Victorian set crash your way and illuminate
Everyone claps and hollers, and laughs cruelly at you
You’re just so desperate to ask
If any of the champagne-tasting madness was true
Eerily, it is day
As the curtains, the projection of the road is snatched away
But she is still there, for now.
Have you really been Mr Burbank all this time?
Open your eyes, remember you are wrong
Now, she is gone.
It’s far too late to care about what’s real
Does anyone really care what is real?
Your answer is on a postcard
Your thoughts are all half-hoped delusions
But your tears, back on planet earth, are real
Your tears here and now, are real.'