I spot the hills With yellow balls in autumn. I light the prairie cornfields Orange and tawny gold clusters And I am called pumpkins. On the last of October When dusk is fallen Children join hands And circle round me Singing ghost songs And love to the harvest moon; I am a jack-o'-lantern With terrible teeth And the children know I am fooling.
Jon Hopkins - "Singularity" from the album of the same name, out now on Domino Record Co.
Production Company - Academy Films Director - Seb Edwards EP - Medb Riordan Producer - Ash Lockmun Cast - Aliashka Hilsum Cast - Jarkko Mandelin Head of Music - Leah Joyce Production Manager - Gemma Priggen DOP - Khalid Mohtaseb Supporting Photography - Bjorn Charpentier 1st AD - Nick Shuttleworth Production Designer - Robin Brown Lighting Designer - Filip Marek Choreographer - Hofesh Shechter Choreographer Assistant - Sam Coren Stylist - Bratsk Casting - Philippe Elkoubi @ OhmStudio Paris Editor - Sam Rice-Edwards @ Assembly Rooms Sound Design - Mark Hills @ Factory Studios VFX by Mikros-MPC VFX Supervisors - Stephane Allender VFX Shoot Supervisor - Laurent Creusot VFX Producer - Xavier Questel Grade by MPC London Colourist - Jean-Clement Soret Shot on location in Belgrade, Serbia Local Service Production Company - BAS Productions, Belgrade Local Line Producer - Uroš Lazič Local Line Producer - Rastko Petrović Local EP - Rok Ban
It is late and he isn't even there to tell you this in person but instead from a car ride home from a bar in Chicago he is there on business
And of course you will smile
Because he sounds like he means it
Because you believe him
Because a boy has never handed those words to you like crushed black berries in the palms of his hands
Firm, young, full
Waiting to taste sweet with you, his arms, creeping vines begging to touch the sun, and your face saying; here
Take everything I have ever touched to be closer to you
His breath waiting to be folded into a love note passed in between the nape of your neck and his front teeth
He will remember the time you told him you felt safe in his mouth and he will never grow hungry...
When a boy tells you he loves you
You will hear music
The voice of your past lovers dancing up your throat
Your stomach, in after hours cabaret, still waiting on the last call
That was when you learned that when a boy says "I love you" he means I am getting ready to be inconsistent with you now
This boy will tell you that he loves you
Not long after he had you waiting for 2 hours in front of a cocktail lounge
Patience is something you are working on
But no, not for him
When he asks you to tell him that you love him back, you will be in a car in the parking lot of a late night diner
You will watch the words fall into your lap like a spilled glass of white wine
You will remember the day your courier pigeon heart got lost in the wind because that was a message it did not know how or where to carry and one by one the boys have fallen as silently as the birds do
So eloquently they used to speak until I asked the questions that broke them into ghosts
That bled me into a corpse with so many questions of my own for the soil but they're tongues do not know simple
The things I should be hearing, the things that will make us living men in this time of insatiable yet dying lovers
When a boy tells you he loves you
Only to become silent like a folded sheet of tissue paper
Not wanting you to decrease him into the truth
Do not crack your face into the fullest crescent moon of the tapered bottom of a blackened sky
The masts are mostly gone, Walt. Pleasure-sailors ply the harbor, piloting fiberglass forty-footers down from the North Shore, one at the wheel, one to haul sail and sit, staring over the water’s face.
A swimmer, strong and lucky, might make it, cutting an angle across the current, ebb up, flood down. Jumpers, too, are rare, these days: a train is more reliable, that third, electrified rail, half-covered, always visible.
On the river, among the boats, you rode the ferry low against the water’s breast. If you mean to stand in the same place today, old man, it’s moved. I would not find you on the Brooklyn boat, but browsing over the east-facing rail of the Staten Island Ferry.
Coming back, you stand in the docking end, grasp the safety chain, hold the mass of Wall Street towers in your encompassing gaze.
You know me, standing at a window twenty stories up, whether I recognize you or not. Your curiosity seeks me out, its bare and ample limbs embrace me. There is that between us that lets me know you.