On Tame Impala’s ‘It’s Not Meant To Be’


Multicoloured rings of insipid thoughts
A change of form
Blurred lights that fly past like plantation trees
Cracked tarmac revealing a never ending line of piercing moments
Honesty slowly dissolving into varied forms of self condemnation
The smoke trail followed the crack religiously
Within me, beside me
A tunnel, a hole, a stone ring, a desire

“But in all honesty,
I don’t have a hope in hell.”

No, it’s not meant to be.

Colour me your shade of purple
Paint your thoughts on my canvas heart
Wring the desolation from my limbs
Trace the edges of my despair
Dissolve my unrelenting gaze into a string of Polaroid pictures.
Capture my fall with your pride (a full  circle ensues my love)
For you, for me, for us…
An ending paradox of floating signifiers
I beseech you, capture my fall with your love.

I boast that it’s meant to be.
An illusion of a fading reality
Hear me out.
Fervently do I pursue every emotion
Constant in my mind, in my blood stream.
The green high permeates my every cell,
rendering a partial intelligence to me.
I talk without thinking, words flowing unceasingly.
When I’ve exhausted the words, I bring forth the illusion.
The illusion of the past.
In it I dwell – laugh, cry – exist.
Takes a couple of hours to knock myself out of the illusion.
Here I drop back into a disenchanted world.

I boast that it is meant to be.


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