I told you not to worry, everything’s alright.
I’m here, watching raindrops trickle down the window pane,
Making mountains out of molehills, hidden only by the night.

Upon Primrose Hill, the city in sight,
I’d live this moment again, and again.
I told you not to worry, everything’s alright.

I fear sometimes that all you see is a glowing red light,
You’ll notice and whisper ‘don’t worry, fear is my domain’.
Making mountains out of molehills, hidden only by the night.

We’re two magpies that come together in flight.
Your incandescent heart is a match for my incandescent veins,
I told you not to worry. Everything’s alright.

My words sometimes stutter, a sort of stage fright
That sets in from my stomach through to my brain.
Making mountains out of molehills, hidden only by the night.

Under this blanket of stars, darling, sleep tight.
This feeling I hold shall not wane.
I told you not to worry, everything’s alright;
(We’re just) making mountains out of molehills, hidden only by the night.

The Intersection
of Interruption and Intermission.
Act 2 has been delayed.
We will come right back
After a word from our sponsors.

Remember when
Remember when meant
More than just a week ago?
When the hill was only
30 years high,
And still,
nothing held the urgency
that seems to permeate
our every desperate action.

I swear we had time, then,
It seems,
So much more than
Aging naturally eats away.
But the multitudes
have multiplied,
as they are want to,
And as the telegraph cables
Come down for corridors of Light,
The speed of time Grows,
Relatively accordingly.

And so, the second part
Of this two part play
Starts 10 years later,
while we dash madder than ever,
racing each other,
to first summit the Crisis Peak.

Rotating bodies, confusion of sound
Negative imagery holding us down
Social delusion, clearly constructed
Human condition, morals corrupted
Trapped in reaction, lawlessness, war
Dissatisfaction from bowels to core
Devils technology, strategy for
Human mythologies, urban folklore
Sick of psychology, counterfeit cure
Wicked theology robbing the poor
Scheme demonology mislead the pure
Strict and strategically, studying war
Light shown in darkness, image exposed
Few can see through the new emperor's clothes
Lustful this hussle turns humans to hoes
When the blind lead the blind
Just more trouble and woes
It's the mind that they chose
It's designed to stay closed
Standards of jokers, court just a logic
Sick looking cosmics, from schoolyards to college
Primitive man with civilised knowledge
System collapse and he still won't acknowledge
God is the saviour, studies behaviour
Trying to fix the mind that he gave ya
Stiff-necked scholars on prescription meds
Wishing their problems were all in their heads
Moral dilemma, pride is the root
Misguided from youth, heart divided from truth
Egyptians and Grecians, spiritually dead
Imperially led, by the gods in their head
Motives and thoughts
Industrial wealth
Global economy, in for itself
Heart full of madness, covered with kind
Pleasure designed to take over your mind
Furnished in godliness, painted in good
This talented priesthood got real saints misunderstood
While classes in government, set up the veil
And cultivate minds for more mythical tales
Typical Hollywood follies good girl
While vice and corruption take over the world
Motives and thoughts
Check your motives and thoughts
Blind with the wickedness deep in your heart
Modern day wickedness is all you've been taught
Lied to your neighbours, so you get ahead
Modern day trickery is all you've been fed
Motives and thoughts
Check your motives and thoughts

there is a blackened land mass
lying between
the Atlantic
and Pacific
and it is not America.

you are a cathedral
I am woods.

the kind that are peaceful and inviting,
tall and knowing
from the outside
in the light.
once you step inside
and journey deeper,
it gets darker,
more consuming,
and you can feel
their isolation,
their severity,
their boundless
emptiness
that both fills itself
and eats itself.
only they are able to know their own expanse
and those that make it to the center
cannot be released.

your sanctuary,
it holds stained-glass windows
that let in tainted light,
turning everything
a shade
of rose.
pristine architecture
that stands against the sky,
challenging it--
all that is visible
when looking up at you
from the bottom of the hill.
inside,
there is a tenderness
that can be felt at certain angles,
a coldness
a sigh
that cannot be released.

At the third street on the left
from Bourbon Street,
the reddish brown waterline
follows us to the hotel

The sleek white walls appear
to be from ‘after Katrina’
like many here

In the spring sun
the pale green lies deserted
in the shadow of
a long line of soot
coughing cars

Where Sachtmo's park
seems forgotten
after cleaning and renovation

is the home of this
other musician with worldly
allure, like a fresh blueberry
on a flat beaten hill
full of loose ends