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Black and Right
Black and Right
Published by Nemonymous
Black and Right

Black and right, black and right,
Back to night, back to night,
Empty well on the left, coloured in light.

What did he say? Sounded like lines from nonsense nursery rhyme verse. But does a nursery give out sounds like nonsense? Quite easily, she replied. When a nursery full of toddlers hold sway. A whole sway of tiny human beings learning to speak for the first time, speak if not talk. To talk is to interact. To speak is to hold forth as if to oneself and if anyone speaks back, so much the better. However speech as noise can impart emotions at least, he says, a sort of communication more meaningful and target-seeking than real words. Even music means things. Sheer music with no words.

White and left, white and left,
Hard right then left, stood bereft.

What did she say? Sounds like a couple of lines from a song, a recent one by Scott Walker or by David Bowie from the depths of Heaven, he says. She looks askance. Can Heaven have depths? She stares at him. He stares at her. Silence can hold a wealth of meaning, richer than noise, richer even than targeted meaning itself. We have regressed to nursery school, he with a shyness, she with an arrogant look. We then return to the grown-up world, wondering what was said last and which of us said it.

Empty and middle, empty and middle.
Hard nothing, then a muddle of middle.

We had said it together. He with a swagger of pride, she crestfallen and done. The words matched, but our emotions did not. School sweethearts, now we are old. But who will be the first to go? Who will be the first to never come back?

Back and light, back and light,
Dark is black, sometimes white.

Back where, he asks? She is silent and sad, so silent and utterly sad. He had not spoken at all or she had not heard it.

Black is not black, white is not white,
And wrong the only middle between left and right.

The nursery is empty, the nonsense is dead, and meanings have left the room. Talking is unheard, speaking unspoken, and faces just the ghosts of those we once hoped to be.

I know Iím right, I know Iím right.
Back hard on the left, stood bereft.

Which of us is me? Which of us is either him or her? And who asked you to ask us, anyway? Nonsense is best, after all. That is what we do best, after all. After all is said and done. And what is left is just the music. Sheer music in the middle of muddle.

Neither left or right.
Nothing is black, nothing is white.
Black to write, black to write,
Empty well on the left, coloured in night.
Leave foot forward, left then right.
5 Thanks From:
Dr. Locrian (01-16-2018), miguel1984 (01-17-2018), Nigromontanus (01-16-2018), Uitarii (01-16-2018), Zaharoff (01-16-2018)



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