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Jan. 16, 2007 The life in between is the atmosphere everyone is in, but pays not much mind to. The life in between is the tiles on the pool wall, and the yoga mat discarded or blue. Perhaps the life in between is the snow being blown by the wind down across the road, but it is moreso how it looks against red brick, fleeting and light. It goes like that, and the life in between holds dreams, and in the dreams there are women, and in the dreams there are astral colors that delight. The life in between. The life in between are the big plexi glass doors in the dangerous part of the insane asylum, and the bench below, where you might lose your mind in the beautiful city or on its outskirts, where cars roam, and foxes roam. It is also fish and chips, and big platters too, and diet Cokes with lime, and the graffiti girls, and gangs. It’s those old bathrooms in bars, and the rickety stairs, and the paintings and pictures they put on the walls there. The life in between. It is really all that is there, as you move through it, and think that this time, you will have a better angle than all the rest. But that is what millions are thinking. The life in between. It’s full up of codeine and subterfuge, and Gods and green frogs, lumberyards crying at dawn, and the discarded condoms of the night. There are soft blonde women, and one is tall, and she has the most beautiful and sexy eyes, and perhaps she is full of wanton happy lies. There are bottles of woe, and there are tall ships and there are misfits Cockroaches and pins, big trees of fruit, and the churches in summer. Small motels, and hardware store alleys of rain, and bridges, where the boats sit and smile. Hills and dime stores, and the clouds overhead. Necklaces, and shoes, or the chocolate bars of dread. There is salt, and there is milk, and the whole Milky Way too, there are drinks, there are rumors, but there is no place for you. There is moonlight and dust, on the old tethered bible; there is laughter and crumbling, as you lay down beside her. This life in between. There are dead writers, with a pen in the pocket. There are pool halls, with a ball in the pocket. There it is…the life in between. It is yellow, and red, blue and so green, that life in between. There goes the music, and there goes the spider, there goes the lily pad, right there beside her! - Oh the life in between. Defrost the window, and close now the door, the saints and the sinners, they don’t come here no more, - to the life in-between. Grocery stores, and boxer shorts, rude ways, and highways. Big transport trucks, and they are all lit up, to see and be seen in the tumbling, rumbling, no holes barred, barren electric rolling along night, where nobody sees, all the wonderful things, of the life in between. ------------ Email Brian Michael Barbeito: Brian1750@Hotmail.com Comment on this article here! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com and are not allowed to be posted on other websites. ARTICLE THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED! |
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