“You can keep what’s left on the juniper tree. No need for numbing, let loose the restraints, I’ve kicked the sleepwalking habit and I’ve woken up in the best dream yet.”
When we last heard from Softboy Bukeepsie, aka pillowman, he released ‘Hope’, and then he was gone again. I needed to track him down. I needed to learn more about his ability to defy the laws of time and space in search of love, wisdom and inspiration.
Bukeepsie affectionately issued me with a clue in the photograph that accompanied his last release. After months of deliberation, I deduced that in the picture, he was looking out onto a street in Berlin. I knew I needed to go there.
Many loveless months of weekends were spent delving in exercises of mental expansion as I attempted to embody pillowman’s ethereal omnipresence, all propped up by a dead-end job.
Nearly every morning on the way to work, as I made my way down the escalator from the platform to the station exit, a filthy grey pigeon flew above me, tracing the descent of the stairs to land on a bench at the bottom.
Today though, the pigeon had a companion; a larger pigeon, with a tube attached to it’s leg – the words ‘Cher Ami’ inscribed on the side of it. Softboy was back:
O boy Barra, you beautiful bard to the bright and bold in this beastly baile. I’ve heard your cry in the deep autumn night, louder than the call of an auld come all ye. You’ve wondered where I’ve been. Well tell those gremlins in the gaff overstaying their welcome, those parasitic plants that never leave, tell them all Bukeepsie lives, and no longer in the liquor cabinet. Forward all post to 342, Lovebug Avenue, Paradise, Dublin 6. You can keep what’s left on the juniper tree. No need for numbing, let loose the restraints, I’ve kicked the sleepwalking habit and I’ve woken up in the best dream yet. O Barry baby, I found her.
Softgirl Soliloquy. Sweeter than a stolen kiss. Serene as the cloudless sky of a sun soaked summer. Delectable as a digit dampened in the sea spray of sensuality. The sublime drop of sambuca that swims in my shooter.
O Ohwen! Have you heard her? The voice that launched the misfired missiles, that shook the fruit from the trees, that sent me in ecstasy over exercised to the summit of my serotonin. All it took was a whisper and I saw before my ears the shape of emptiness that had for so long occupied my bed.
I found her as I lost her. At the turn of an evening, as the cake of the party collapsed into crumbs. We clicked on career astrology and snapped up what stars we could see. She saved me from the punchline and showed me, under the slate, the secret key to the kingdom of pillowland.
O boy o boy o boy this girl. A sound design. If I had to pick a chord she would be Cminor9. But I don’t want to have to pick a chord, she beats music any day. All semblance of rhythm and harmony sounds arbitrary, juvenile, mediocre in the shadow of her minuet moan. I would go happily deaf to all the world’s melody if I could just bathe in the polyphony of her thighs.
I have seen
The face of God
But I’d rather
Look at hers.