“Fucking fuck fuckfuckfuck!” Ian mutter-shouted to himself under his breath, frustration oozing from every word. “This is not going ‘according to plan’.'”
I wrote a story using the entire (at that point — June 26, 2003) discography of The Cure. Each paragraph is dedicated to a single album.
For all of the following, here’s how this will work, Album Titles and Song Titles.
When I was little I had some friends, three imaginary boys. Around 10:15 Saturday night, I was reminded with amazing accuracy of the details. It brought my whole world to a grinding halt. I thought it was just another day, but no, the object of my affection, reminded me of the old subway song we used to sing together, she really was a foxy lady back then. Now, she’s just a meathook. So what? It’s not like I started a fire in Cairo or anything. It’s not you, she’d say it’s those three imaginary boys you used to play with, especially the weedy Burton.
I never liked him. But, boys don’t cry… so why not, I’ll be jumping someone else’s train by next week, remember, boys don’t cry, right? No more “plastic passion” for me. 10:15 Saturday night ... I’ll remember forever. The accuracy, total object refusal. The subway song… Who is killing an Arab? Nobody! Is there a fire in Cairo? Of course not! It’s really only just another day. Brought to a grinding halt, as though there were a major world war or something. So what! all because of three imaginary boys.
After only seventeen seconds of silence, I knew it was all over. A reflection in the waters of the lake, “Play for today” was always my philosophy. Secrets were for other people, never in your house, or mine. But those three… those imaginary three… “I love you.” was the final sound I heard from your lips, before you ran off into a forest. “M!” I called out after you, but at night, seventeen seconds of silence lasts forever.
I have enough faith for the both of us though. The holy hour is less than two hours away, and it is primary on my mind. The other voices in my head all fade away, “All cats are grey” floats through the mists of those voices. The funeral party, or “wake” as the Irish would call it, for our relationship should start soon, but I doubt it will help the drowning man I am inside. But I have faith enough for the both of us.
Pornography. Our early relationship. One hundred years. How much later it feels right now. A short term effect. How long the fun lasted. We used to sit beneath the hanging garden and gawk at the siamese twins in the freak show. The bearded lady was just the figurehead for the show. Back then, a strange day was a good day, but now, it’s all just cold. I want the pornography back again.
So, here I am, just standing on a beach, staring at the sea. You’ve left me feeling like I was killing an Arab or something. I gotta stay together, “boys don’t cry“… I’ll be jumping someone else’s train by this time next week. You walked off into a forest. We were the primary focus at one time. I still think of Charlotte sometimes, when I visit the hanging garden… Let’s go to bed, one more time to walk the walk, be the lovecats, do the caterpillar again… not just on the inbetween days… I want you to be close to me again… but, ever since that moment, at 10:15 Saturday night, “Play for today” just won’t work anymore. the other voices in my head won’t let there be a night like this ever again.
Shut up and just kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, dammit! I long for the kiss… the one that didn’t come with a catch…the one that was exquisite torture. If only tonight we could sleep together, without me looking at his life and thinking “why can’t I be you?“… I used to look at you and think of how beautiful you are … but now, it’s like the snake pit. Hey you!!! are you even listening to me? It was just like heaven once, all I want is to have that back again. It was so hot hot hot!!! Just to be like that one more time. Screeching like cockatoos, licking the icing sugar off those most private of parts, the perfect girl… a thousand hours of watching you shiver and shake with each quaking wave. But now, all we do is fight.
The disintegration of what we had can be summed up in a plainsong. The pictures of you that I used to keep have faded. When we closedown for the night, it’s not a lovesong, or even a lullaby. I walked down fascination street, but all I have anymore is prayers for rain to wash away the pain. If you could be in the same deep water as you put me into… this disintegration may yet heal, the untitled chapters of our life could yet be written. Just one last dance, and maybe I wouldn’t be so homesick for another’s arms.
I’m all mixed up. The lullaby, the feeling of you, close to me, another trip down fascination street, to take the walk, to be sung of during a lovesong… but you had to walk into a forest…my pictures of you, looking hot hot hot!!! fading into the waters of the sea. Looking at him, and his life, thinking, why can’t I be you?… A memory… you and I doing the caterpillar… these inbetween days are killing me. There is never enough to go around.
I entreat of you for the pictures of you to be like they were. The closedown we are going through is our last dance, our last walk down fascination street. I still have these prayers for rain… watching the disintegration of our lives, that homesick feeling I get, even when I’m home. The untitled chapters will remain untitled.
I wish we were more open, our love could soar high, not fall apart. I call out to you, from the edge of the deep green sea, Wendy time to come home! I’m tired of doing the unstuck to straighten things out. I want them to stay fixed. On or before Friday I’m in love with someone else. Trust that I still love you now, but a letter to Elise can cut us apart forever. Is it really wrong to wish impossible things? Or is this the final end?
I went to the show the other day. I still have the tape. At the open, they all came out, high as kites…the pictures of you were like a lullaby, as if angels were singing just like heaven. The trip down fascination street on a night like this. Where we can trust in never doing the unstuck again, where we can take the walk. Let’s go to bed, it’s Friday I’m in love. No more inbetween days. I’ll call you one more time from the edge of the deep green sea, to say it is never enough, you cut me and this is the end.
One time, in Paris, the figurehead was watching us. It was one hundred years ago. At night, the years seem longer. Play for today just doesn’t mean what it used to. We are apart, never to be in your house again. Never to have a lovesong written about us. I’ll never again catch you. All with simply a letter to Elise. The whole world changes. Dressing up is an option again. Charlotte sometimes could visit without you. Someone new will be close to me.
Here’s the deal: “choose one Cure album, and make a story, using every track on it.”
And here’s my story:
*The kiss* is the key, but there is a *catch*, it could be *torture* … *If only tonight we could sleep*, then we would be rested for the journey. Your role in all of this is by far easier, *why can’t I be you* this time? I know, I know, it is all because of *how beautiful you are*. I’m the ugly one, so I get the crap job, I have to make my way through *the snake pit* and the other perilous tasks. *Hey you*, your task is *just like heaven* in comparison. *All I want* is a refrigerated suit for the next task, after all, you wouldn’t believe just how *hot, hot, hot* it is going through that oven *one more time*. You, you get to sit and just look pretty, *like cockatoos* on display. Licking the *icing sugar* off the silver spoon. The perfect job for *the perfect girl*. *A thousand hours* later, and all I can to is *shiver and shake*, and hope that this *fight* has been worth the prize.