Song Of The Day 8/8/2015: Phil Collins – “Sussudio”

Week of Lies – Sussudio, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Sus-su-di-o: the tip of the tongue taking a bumper car of four turns down the palate to tap, at four, on the teeth. Su. Ssu. Di. O.

Oh, let’s not start there. Enter my equipage, my noble lady of the subdivision. Let’s leave this partition, this florid summer napalm, this wretched victory of real estate. I’ll provide you the velvet bootstraps, you simply supply me with the regard of your almond eyes. We’ll make haste for the fixtures of the convenience bazaar. I’ll dance you to the dispensary of flavor powder and soft ice – passion in a packet, ardor in 64 ounces. No, no! I’ll say. Allow me – revert your coinage to your purloined satchel, tonight I am your horseman and your financier, in one, as one!

You’ll rest your head on your undulating forearms and say in your sweetest, tartest phonation: “Whatever.”

Our chariot will skate through wide boulevards, lurching through the cathedrals of laissez-faire and stubble culture, interrupted every fortnight or so by shrinking Arecaceae. Summer dollops of orange and brown settle into our visual compasses, the air currents scented with the crumpled flowers inside your mother’s yearbook. Would that I could remand the crass captains of these gimcrack favors, shoving their wares into our expanse. We have no trade with you today! Our mission tonight? I could respond, but allow the divinity on my right to tell you, for not only will you then be informed, but it will allow me to hear her dulcet, enticing aire!

You’ll reach for my hand – or, that is, you’ll wipe your brow – and say, “Let’s get something to eat.”

Victuals! Of course! How could the idea have eluded me, my dainty blossom languishing in your father’s flinty hand-me-down sweater? Let’s cross the threshold – and may I confess a small phantasy of my own devious whimsey? May I exchange our immediate corporeality with dollars from my naughty billfold? I am a man of such romantic impatience that I dream of us initiating our congress here, so we could share our erotic exponents with appreciative audience. We careen across the tabular arrays, we bounce upon the produce bar, we enact our ne plus ultra of desire in rushes and thrashings, and the very skies echo back our untamed, fortissimo song of completion and reward!

In the arena around us we hear the ancestral chorus of love gods and goddesses, witnessing our spectacle and crying out as one, “That’s the last time we take the kids to Olive Garden.”

Forgive them, Lord, for their mundane parade of moral legislation. Tomorrow they’ll return to their tea-time bloodsport and their laminate packagings. Such paper incentives do not impress us! Their necktie democracy means nothing to us! For my beloved and I strain for something above your touch-tone renaissance! But while our legend is being writ upon the porcelain of the immortals, shall we witness the displays of other heroes? Shall we find our safe ground in art and fables, while the Etna of their tedium foams and unravels? Yes! What do we say to the broker who shall allow us entry with goodly form?

I should have realized you knew the charming piece of code: “Yeah… two adults for Labyrinth.”

Finally, the glazed brick of the strip mall releases us – enchanté, buster! – as we return to the improvised skate-carriage ramps, the faux rainbow sprinkles, the stunted ambitions of the cul-de-sac. False atmospheres our forebearers have purchased and mantled, with garish monikers such as “Mountain Berry” and “Country Garden” and “Angel Whispers” and “Vanilla Breeze.” But there will be no frank mutterings between us, not this eve. The morrow may tell us its enigmas, but tonight we retreat to our sole casings, to do insomniatic curiosities while we wait for sleep to come and show us our concealed aspirations. But as for tonight? Have I bided your time well? Have I earned a reprise in your presence at your next convenience? The armies inside me have ceased warring as I anticipate your craved approval – or your craven disavowal! Let the answer be! Say the word! Could you just -- say the wor-herrrrrrrrrrrrrd!

But ’tis a happy threshold I move from now, as you turn up one side of your countenance and say, “Yeah. Laser tag sounds great. See you tomorrow.”

What fortune! What completion! Sated and enthralled, the night can now dissolve – as will this extended run of potboiling, this festival of invention, these seven days of crock – indeed, this…