Autrice Compositrice Interprète : Melusine 
Production & Arrangements : Jean-Marc Boulier

Pense A Eux

Cream

Rampant alien sex fiend shower encounter,
Halloween 2024 extended explicit version.

[0:00] Monster approaching 
[2:25] “I guess I’ll just get naked”
[3:18] Penetration and climax

[ d o w n l o a d a b l e ]

Creepy Time

Where are you - REMIX - 2.mp3

Life is very short (be what your are)

Photo taken and edited by me.
https://www.deviantart.com/leehon/art/Nobody-Else-Was-Willing-To-984867197

Stressful Stillness

Nostalgie Guitare

I see him each morning, hair askew, face needing to be mowed with an electric razor, a face wrinkled and weathered by experience and decisions good and bad.  None the less, I am thankful he is looking back at me; I'm still alive and thankful to have another day.  
Peter's poetic meditation begins like a prayer and becomes deeply introspective into how life has changed the man looking back at him.  His initial inspiration was Arvo Part's "Spiegel im Spiegel" but for this reflective journey, he asked pianist Debra Buesking to accompany him which she does  with great feeling and eloquence.  I come into the picture as the one invited to bring them together for a memorable moment, a great honor and a labor of love for two of my favorite Soundcloud artists.  More of Peter's thoughtful music and spoken word can be found @https://soundcloud.com/user-264930040/tracks, and more of Debbie's beautiful playing can be found @debra_buesking.

Some Words for Mr. Part:

Dear God, just look at the state of you - what the hell happened?
Did time do that all by itself?
Chiselled and scraped with gentle, temporal strength?
Yesterdays now patterned well with telling tales of wear and tear.
Always took such good care that you ticked every health kick box
But all the ticks collect their tocks, bundling up the time we thought was
dangling spare.
And wrinkly skin comes out to play, crafting plots with crumpled neurons
badly frayed, and
Liver spots about the edges worn of happy recollections,
Waltzed away, invisible to the swinging of that penduled clock.
Take your eyes off it for just a minute and you’ve lost a day,
And then a decade’s worth of wry reflections,
Lovingly to fold them up and let them lie in memory’s pocket.
Those lines that contour of your brow, a biography of creases now
And all cut down so very deep.
Each epidermal void crevasse life’s stylus tracks a scratching past
Evinces of a record no mortal hard re-format could delete.
And of your eyes, sallow yellowed at the margins, framed by corvid feet
Rigid-set to well outlast whatever bargained span of life your good Lord
deems replete.
As if your face lampoons of age itself, wrecked and bent
Of scars that trace minutiae, carved in master sculptors’ stone
And none too soon, for just that task and that alone, recording compressed
of the past..
We both know well which ones are smiles and which the pain that heaven
sent,
The former few, soft of the flesh, the many others sunk unto the very bone,
The harshest welt of any sole upon the universal cobbler’s last.
But does it help to so reflect, or but to hurry time’s neglect?
Of such consideration circles wrapped in worry tearing down
All edifice of self respect, the towering pit of pity comes once more to town,
Parades a circus fine of talents, self deprecating jestered clowns
And galloping horses all the while stampede about the rounded ropes
Vespered peace forever sought, just out of reach, concedes of futile, now
confounded hopes.
So what of forward self projection, folding the creases back behind
And out of sight to speculation on future solaced peace of mind?
Perhaps again the crashing wall of fast reality, solid bricked
Determines upward focus but to fall, as if to gravity’s grounded truth
Tricked of consequential solitude, rimed of age, aching of the aged sick
No respite there nor rectitude as once you found in torrid youth.
But perhaps I’m speaking out of turn and out of place,
For though your memories sear and burn as if to carbonise some
worthwhile trace of validity
On that unholy visage lit by lives lived long before….
It matters not and changes nought, not a jot nor yet a thought
For you and I know better than to seek a settled score from comment fair
After all, you are I, staring back at me from the mirror mounted there.

Cream

PLumPooH

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