an open letter to syd barrett:rest in peace.

the fingers of an englishman
have died and stopped.
the fingers that scratched the surface of the sun
and itched at the moon.
i knew him through the songs,
the playful hollowed jugs,
the skipping gnomes
and the wind in the willows.
i knew his bike and his scarecrow too.
somehow,i am feeling the emptiness.
my paintbrushes have emulated his beautiful face
so many times
that my mind was warm
and relaxing to the sways of sound.
i miss the tea parties,
and the p-coats.
i miss the purple and orange painted floor boards.
everything surreal i ever knew came from
the fountain of one syd barrett.
he was a mentor of dreams,
the father of fantasy.
i will listen to him now
and do my best
to kiss every last cloud,
as if it will eventually float
all the way to his grave.
syd,
thank you for being alive.
thank you for showing me
the beauty in the underbelly.
for having me entrusted to the bottled messages.
i wish you were here.
you are already a legend in my eyes,
and now the machine will lift you up,
and everyone will take heed.
if it means a whole new batch
of nimble ears,
then so be it.
but i knew you when i was young.
and i knew you when i was afraid.
and those are the things that will never change.
i hate to say it,
but roger was right on,
shine on you crazy diamond.

jeremy szuder
copywrite:jeremyszuder
07.11.06

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