Oh I do like to be in the countryside
where the branches bash against the windows of the bus
where the leaves on the boughs of the trees bow so low
that I feel I have to duck.

Where people know me almost better than I know myself
I can gesture to my figure when Brigitte says
"have you eaten?"
and she will reply
"but that means nothing."

Where I can tell Tracy all about my life
and she won't judge,
will look at me with the same quiet smile,
the same laughing acceptance
as she ever has, since the day we met.

Where Cindy and Cathy sit talking about the world
and tell me of their troubles
because they know I'll understand.

Where the sea pounds gently in the distance
whipping the wind sometimes into a frenzy
and molding my hair into a salt-ridden sculpture
on my head.

I don't miss it
when I'm in the city
on the contrary, I love the beat of the sun on the concrete,
the thrash of the trains in the distance,
even the wheezing exhaust fumes
feel like they fit somehow.

But it's nice to be back sometimes
where the trees still grow on the roadsides
where the fields are green even in winter
where the pubs are cozy and quiet
like their clientele.

I went back there today
and I loved it like always
I loved it as ever
I love it still.

Chamomile lines
In a cup filled with sorrow
As they swirl, rise and burst your eyes burn on.
Ice-blue, yet warm
As the morning in winter
Feels like I'm breathing dragons and walking through fields of silver.
Spider web catches
The rays of the sun
Rising on the horizon, is it called a horizon because of the rising?
Hawks drop and whirl
It's all so romantic
And it makes me feel sick to my stomach because I'm just a wandering girl...

You're a beast in the den
You're a wolf in the lair
You're the wood for my fire
You're the breeze in my hair

But I never asked for a den
And I wanted the lair for myself
And my fire should be burning with coal not wood.

And the breeze in my hair? Well that's just annoying
The affection you lavish on me feels like cloying
Reproaches from some kind of horrible clown
All lathered and slathered in wet eiderdown
It's leering towards me, its horrible face
Lifts into a smile, an ugly grimace

And I realise suddenly
That my mind is painting grotesque scenes
Over the beauty of the one that I love

But then how do I stop it?
How do I stop it?
How do I stop it?

You make me feel putrid
We laughed when he said that
Yet love lies niggling at my insides like a blister
That I don't want
And yet it's mine
Mine
All mine
And I want to keep it
Forever.

But what is a full moon anyway
When you are not with me to fill it?
And what if philosophy leaks from my brain
All the time you're not there to instil it?

Can I speak my own thought, can I hope my own dreams
Can I tread on a path that's been torn?
Can I carry the mountain right here on my back
Or sit on it to welcome the dawn?

If I torture you first will you confess your sins?
Will you scream if I stretch you out here on your back?
Would you tell me such secrets I couldn't have made up
If I just ensure you have time on my rack?

If I save myself for you will you spend your time on me?
Your silver is not what I need at this time
But if you were to keep me wrapped up in a blanket
I'd come to you midnight like Mary divine

And I'd stand with my candle and call to the angels
We all would assemble the shepherds of old
For I know how you love to see men working nature
Freeing other young creatures from nightmares untold.

And when nighttime is over and my dawn is broken
I'll swallow my stories back behind my chest
I will remove the nails with which I had bound you
Roll back the great stone and lay you to rest.

Of a night on a battered red leather sofa
It's moved with us three times
It sits in a room with a broken bay window
And we sit on it too
And we sit on it too

Drinking yellow anise from mismatched glasses
With ice, not warm water
Singing stories, spinning yarns with broken bottles
Of girls with leopard-print hands
And the straw man in the moon
The straw man in the moon.

The cord hangs on the wall:
A symbol, but not symbolic
As chords rise, break off and fall
All a sham, but not shambolic
A sham, but not shambolic.

Swapping tales and anecdotes of cars parked between cake stalls
And days with names that don't suit them
People dying for causes they don't understand
And war is an island; a land hyperbolic
A Green land, a war land; unplanned hyperbolic.

Linguistics are twisted and brass tales are dropped
A cork is unwrapped from the web where it popped
But the darkness is rising, the hours are ticking
The side is hitched up so we all know we're doomed.
We hear children singing in the guitar strings,
Their screeches rising as they fall,
Our speeches diving as they fall.

And speaking of speeches, he says, a performance is mine
But in France, man... in France the markets are open
And the fields of Provence roll down to the menhirs of Carnac
And Brocéliande lies to us all,
And Brocéliande lies to us all.

Beware the fuzzy rolligog
That smithers in the myre
(Confuse it not with golliwogs
In fuzzy blue attire)

Beware the rolligogan wrath
(They can breathe fire, you know)
Just feed them up on tigermoth
And bathe them in the snow

Beware the rolli appetite
Which consumes dozy trees
Where zigazots and clambermites
Weave pathways through the leaves

Beware the rolligogan song
There’s poison in its tune
As rolligogan night grows long
Prepare: they’re coming soon.

I lift it up, I plunge it down
And bang! There goes my childhood
Open my heart, yet make no sound
And bang! There goes my life.
I sit through life, I watch, I breathe
And bang! There goes my innocence
I turn, I spin, I help, appease
And bang! There goes my life.
I poke, I ****, I read, I write
And bang! There goes my memory
I lose my hearing, breathing, sight
And bang! There goes my life.
I touch, I tear, I bite, I kick
And bang! There go my youthful dreams
I run ‘til I make myself sick
And bang! There goes my life.
I hear the door swing back and forth
And bang! Remember vividly
A million times I’ve run this course
But bang! There goes my life.
I surrender, I wave my flag
And bang! My soul inside a box
And from the depths my self I drag
To bang! My way through life.

Lithium, light they write,
Like it’s right, white delight
Striking bright, better tight:
Fine and dandy.

Glamourised in our eyes
The surprise as you rise
****** heroised,
Bitter candy.

Pump the ***, dump the dot
******* it hot, spatter spot
Sing a lot, dream but not
Craving luncheon.

Skagging sweet sweaty meat
Blisters well under heat
Take a seat, come compete,
Beating truncheon.

Vie d’artiste, or at least
Rising yeast, bubbling beast
Trickling triste down your cheeks,
Ever daring.

Rising up, sup the cup,
Acid drop, fizzle pop,
Shoobie-doo-doobie-***,
Death to caring.