the absurd
and the cynical
the elegant
and the beautiful
have all spoken here
voices raised in secretive hope
of being the one heard above all the rest
being the one to rise and soar
unfettered and unleashed
the night is filled with these
thousand fold whispers
these untold tales
clothed in the fine silks
and filthy rags
a ballroom dance of silent partners

the grand opera house
its silent hall so strange to tread
where hours before was filled with
the rushing stream of chatter
now echoes the hard shoes of the nightwatchman
the empty seats mute witnesses to the
loneliness of this passage of hours
the passages backstage
filled with absent bustling labours of
the arts lovers and
children of the arts lurid steamy affairs

the art itself
lingers all around this hallowed ground
it is more than the lines and scenes
of thouse who nobly take the stage
more than the curtains and lights
of the labours of its love
the art itself is a grand and
beautiful creature
a dignified and noble creature
hard taskmaster and passionate lover
for which time itself has no meaning
it is here in the wood of the stage
it is here in the bones of the world

the nightwatchman
treads this quiet place
and sees a face of the art few get to see
her quiet home while she rests
her repose before the curtain of
tomorrow is raised
before once again they all gather
for the art of live performance

vapour locked
her vacant eyes looking
up at the falling stars
at the laughing cowgirl riding a
rocket to the moon
a hero to her generation
a pin up girl flashing a bit of skin
but the intent is betrayed by the feeling
that this endless road has consequences

she wanders the shopping mall of our world
with a loose credit card
as her only symbol of belonging
as her only connection to humanity
guard your purchases against theft
guard your heart against pilfering
but she just looks through you with
a dazzled distraction
that defies definition
she's happier there than most of us
are here

a white picket fence
surrounds the ruins that she picks through
the rubble of her thoughts in a scattered pile
while the tatters of her former life
now decorate the walls of a fools parade
now is the poster child of the loosing war
but she endures the winter rain
and stacks the broken bricks of her former world
neatly into the categories she was shown
as a child
and that's all she wants to return to
the innocence of childhood
no complexity's  
no hangups

vapour locked into the
moment she escaped all the things
she thought
and the things she almost but not quit felt
when her man came round
trying to convince herself that
if she fakes it long enough
she be happy someday
playin the housewife and mother
playin the well adjusted and smiling face
she has plastered on every morning for twenty two years

but in her heart
she's with that cowgirl
riding rocket to the moon
and kissing all the girls
kissing all the girls
then she'd be happy
and in her heart she knows it
so why is she lingering here ill never know
ill never know

i dreamt
i moved into a apartment
with an old brick wall
and its decaying face
the old light hanging from a thread
swings on the open breeze
from the window
time seems to slow down to a crawl
so i can see each and every flaw
so i can feel each and every thing she wanted me to feel
so i can know each and everything she saw
and so i see the the moment captured in ink
on her sketch pad
a drawing of the wind in the trees
a image of the smell of the fresh cut grass
the thoughts of the passer-by
who looked with such stark wonder
at this open display of what we have all taken
for granted we could never achieve

the old brick wall
leaned into the wind
and held
for one more day
kept safe the world she held so dear
safe for one more stormy night
the old brick wall
with its spray painted messages
like how joe loves daisy
and how we should make love not war
the old brick wall
holds back the world
from coming into her quiet soul
into the paper flowers and lace curtains of her life

the old brick wall
was once the west most piece of
the boxers rebellion
he was sad all his life
torn from his violent profession
and forced to retire
and his fists lay idle
with objections written on them like scars
but after years he came to terms
with the reasons great and small
with the rationalizations made up and real
and found peace
he found his fists could be hands
and hands can pet a cat
hands can paint a masterpiece
write a love poem
hands can touch another person without hurting them
and he suddenly he didn't want to hurt anyone ever again
because he loved having hands
and all the beautiful things they could do
he would never have fists again
and that change in him  
was so profound that it became magical and
part of the old brick wall

so it will endure past its years
to protect her little scavenged world
her delicate life
her frail thoughts
because beauty isn't always
what the world thinks it is
a boxer can tell you that