If I ever catch you acting like a crazy fool again...
In the aftermath of your ashes to ashes The fantasy billows of clouds are all allure To a soundtrack of lanterns on the lake.
Warmth feeding warmth Cold fingerprints in the delicate condensation Tracing faces and absent cares On the glass of beer before me.
Smokey cape shrouds the mountains, drifting through rows of dimly silhouetted trees, rising. Mountains and mountains and mountains thick and sprawling with dark green and with hard sheaths of rock.
The air is slow and close The usual cool evening blush is heavy. (Further weights upon our shoulders). The peal of bells- Wedding, at this hour- Or maybe marking of that, I am not sure.
The rain has passed and I am walking, turmoil, Under this London-grey sky. Snatches of blue pass through a flecked canopy of endless refraction.
The face of the tube Is a stranger Impervious to the last lips I kissed To the mother I love To her hair and smile To me, as I am, every night, as I tremble. I to him am the wall.
Boxer shorts Bottom drawer In a stumble, creased, found.
There are so many pretty faces on the television screen And on the concrete walls of this Concrete town Which you breathe. Conor says, it is simple by the moonlight.
What thunder rolls on the horizon As we lay in our empty beds Cold comfort, this sporadity, This neutrality, This distance between where we lay our heads for the long April night.
Even under the oppressive promise of rain, this place is beautiful. These hills are waiting up for me- Waiting into the dusk.
Your ears perhaps heard some falls Mine could not.
Keep your hands by your side and your eyes free of all clouds. Let no storm ravage your heart of homes.
Can I find in these man-made shapes Some form to say, The dome of light breaking the wondering dark above Surpasses and enthrals me, Crafts and fulfils me, Until I cannot speak beyond...
This world is warm but she is cold; Closed doors until the job demands.