Now look here:
I don't want to shock anyone,
That's not what I'm about.
Electrification is, beyond doubt,
a sensational way of catching attention,
but, in the end, it numbs the senses.
The body is dulled,
Over time, degraded.
No, if I am to surprise you,
it will be with the surprise of revelation.
I generally don't create stirs
for the sake of stirs;
if that which needs to be said will cause
a stir, then there we go.
But these are rich stirs,
ones that spin us back into new life,
Ones that shake us awake.
And it will be a rich pang,
if I must hurt you with my art,
like that of a gilded arrow
straight through the pounding heart.
It will rush you back to reality,
back to beauty.
I just want to show you something
that's good and sweet,
something that's worth living for.
Something that's bigger than
either of us.
I go by way of
the well-brewed cup of tea.
The handmade coat you've worn
since age twelve.
The way your mother
dresses her hair every morning.
Made new, because
here we are, doing it all over again.
We're drawing back the curtain once more.
The room beyond this hidden door
grows in beauty with a second glance,
So, I'm not here to shock.
Well, I'm not here to play games, either.
There's no time.
I'm here to stretch out both my hands
upon the table, palms-up,
my sleeves pulled back,
my wrists pale and fragile.
I'm here to show you
how wildly I can speak,
and how much I can mean it.
How solemn I can be,
how solemn joy can be.
So, try me.
Come a little closer.
You look at me,
and no doubt see a small, tired
pilgrim whose words are not nearly as
exciting as whatever it is
they're chanting outside the window.
Only, know that this is the
path that I have freely chosen,
and that, as yet, I have no regrets.
Please, just give me your ear,
give me a chance.
Listen to my whispers, and
let the feathers of the firebird
fan the flames bright within your ribcage.
Listen, and let your blood turn to liquid gold.