moocow in the city

one cow. many pastures.

2004

open pasture

moocowinthecity No Comments

“And the seasons they go round and round

And the painted ponies go up and down

We’re captive on the carousel of time

We can’t return, we can only look behind

From where we came

And go round and round and round

In the circle game”

open pasture

Sweet Summer Rain

moocowinthecity No Comments

Subject: Sweet Summer Rain

Date: Friday 4/23/04 4:41:00 PM

Music: Show Me The Meaning Of Being Lonely-Backstreet Boys-The Hits – Chapter One

Tags: writings: poetry

Sweet Summer Rain

And the sweet summer rain begins to fall, soft, down through your hair – black, falling:draped:positioned so gently across your chiselled face. The water rolling down past your chin to your stomach, following the trail down through the crevice:the center of your abs. You’re clothes sticking, clinging to the perfectly formed man…I call mine.

The sky grows dark…

And as the summer shower continues to fall, the magic of a mid summers night begins…is this a dream? No. The rain does not stop the celebration, but rather keeps it going on offering reprieve to the overheated men. Out comes the bands, the masks, the hordes of people dancing in the street – lights flashing on and off in the summers thick breeze leaving just enough darkness to the streets: a corner for us to play/a corner for us to hide…

I will always be yours, you will always be mine.

The summer rain continues to fall, as quick as the walls of innocence that sorrounded me; the summer that I left behind being a boy and transcended into a man. And as prometheus gave the fire to man, you gave something to me while taking away something of mine that was so personal…

Holding me close, not willing to share, we join the throng of people out enjoying the misty air. The smell of you musk:cigarrettes:booze forever ingratiated in the passages of my mind as my head lay on your chest, never to

forget…to forget what is:was mine.

The bluegrass and rock running through our spines; adding a soundtrack to the stories, our stories, meant to be held within. A dirty little secret/a personal internal high.

Hours pass and the planets continue to move:orbit:callide on the universal stage until we can stand no longer and we retire to the home that we, both you and I, have made.

Viva el Pueblo Oeste.

open pasture

Sweet Summer Rain

moocowinthecity No Comments

Subject: Sweet Summer Rain

Date: Friday 4/23/04 4:41:00 PM

Music: Show Me The Meaning Of Being Lonely-Backstreet Boys-The Hits – Chapter One

Tags: writings: poetry

Sweet Summer Rain

And the sweet summer rain begins to fall, soft, down through your hair – black, falling:draped:positioned so gently across your chiselled face. The water rolling down past your chin to your stomach, following the trail down through the crevice:the center of your abs. You’re clothes sticking, clinging to the perfectly formed man…I call mine.

The sky grows dark…

And as the summer shower continues to fall, the magic of a mid summers night begins…is this a dream? No. The rain does not stop the celebration, but rather keeps it going on offering reprieve to the overheated men. Out comes the bands, the masks, the hordes of people dancing in the street – lights flashing on and off in the summers thick breeze leaving just enough darkness to the streets: a corner for us to play/a corner for us to hide…

I will always be yours, you will always be mine.

The summer rain continues to fall, as quick as the walls of innocence that sorrounded me; the summer that I left behind being a boy and transcended into a man. And as prometheus gave the fire to man, you gave something to me while taking away something of mine that was so personal…

Holding me close, not willing to share, we join the throng of people out enjoying the misty air. The smell of you musk:cigarrettes:booze forever ingratiated in the passages of my mind as my head lay on your chest, never to

forget…to forget what is:was mine.

The bluegrass and rock running through our spines; adding a soundtrack to the stories, our stories, meant to be held within. A dirty little secret/a personal internal high.

Hours pass and the planets continue to move:orbit:callide on the universal stage until we can stand no longer and we retire to the home that we, both you and I, have made.

Viva el Pueblo Oeste.

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