When alone I met the voice

In my deserted glassy skies

There was no doubt in me

Whenever I made the choice

It is not within my eyes

But within what’s within me

Once I held my hand to Joyce,

To Jim, John, those isolated highs

For we share blood as we share sea


Albatross and ravens drop redfruits, so many. Long-time sleepers awake of nightmermaids to fall back in dreamlocks ; O but the captain, my captain is on the dock with the roman republic : hail! Hail! We share a destiny. Hail Hail again, for we share a destiny.

Long-time travelers, dust-looking woman playing virginity dices on the banks. But the dice is taken in the sand, but the dice is taken in the sands.

Shall you see, dearest eye, towards deadland eternal open borders, shall you sail and accost with symmetric feet? Or will you go, one fingertip at the time? The question is thrown, but the answer is late ; it happens in the waves of human fates, as past is present in the lines of human face, and reels right on left, heels lipton tighs.

Captain!

The ship is rigged and we see each other from above our natural talents, thus we share but the sight of our mutual tempests, to appease us, in a fraternal horror. For we do not share no language... Hear me! We do not share no language! I hear your screams and shrieks in which you draw your heart, and I know – for we all know – those words, those only we learnt to know from each other. When we gather, we understand, our disharmonious tongues all say but once ‘We do not share no language’. That’s all we’ll ever know for sure.

And a singer drew his breath for us ; a sinking philosopher renamed air water so he would not die drowning ; and the singer drifts in breeze for us ; the ghost of self-belief knived my beatle knight, an killed all worth believing in him ; and the singer drools on *** with ease. Cry! We’ll never be mass-ters again. These stars shone in London, in the plain of Po and in the Pan desert, but no ashes can help us steering our way. Solemnly I declare, Dear Sir or Dead Seer.

Bang shoot the earthbow.

It is the way the word ends, not with a full sound but within a comma,

I was born against my will in a land that God forgot                
My parents didn’t ask me whether I was for or not
Anyway I learnt to appreciate it and to make with.                      
I was a spoiled child for I was loved and also clever                    
Mama’s proud and cooked my food, though already  a liar,    
My dad I did not see him too much, he was a blacksmith.    
If there’s one very single thing I learnt all through these years
About moral, equality, justice, life, about here :                      
There ain’t no point and  you only live to struggle and writhe ;

The world it’s noisy, it’s foolish, it’s random, and it’s torn                
But still, I hadn’t been yet to the place where the buses get born.


The school it’s been a funny place to grow up teacher and child,
They lock you up learning life in a box and still I smiled,
The woman she was **** though couldn’t know what it meant
They stuffed my skull ‘til full and they blew the wind out my ears
With weary new ideas, with politically correct fears ;
After a necessary brainwashing, ready to be sent
Ready for society, for the actual system
You don’t understand it, but It’s made to make you one of them
They don’t even know it’s their own closed freedom that they lent

The greatest of all: it’s in the same school about it you been warned
And still, they keep well hidden the place where the buses get born


All the time I played football, I’s a great swimmer and all
They taught me to respect my body, to keep a plain soul
They told me to be generous and righteous and modest
And I was celebrated as the best, very handsome,
Clever and nice, have friends, don’t be a ****** or lonesome ;
It was fair and I agreed, to earn respect, to hold high my chest
I was proud and fulfilled to be me, you’d call that vanity
But you helped as well the lie, nor missed I a quality
We arrive here naked, my myself ain’t mine the slightest

Against the world’stones which you belong I been carved and worn
If only we’d known  the place where the buses get born

Then on the way I became adolescent and aware
Of the happy merry-go round, of my weight on the chair
They told me I was windlike free, free to serve somebody
Overall to think as they do, as their fathers done before
To hate ******, Ignorance and Hatred and all the wars
To vote right or left and to avoid what they call ****
They gave those names to the different parties for me and you
Having easy to choose, without knowledge, interest too
You don’t need it for sure when you remember the big History

We can tell you what you want, even that chicken is corn
Cause you’d never seen the place where the buses get born


While living and probably others meaningful thingies
Came suddenly that handful of flaming pies harmonies
My brain couldn’t believe  my ears and it tried to tell them
But my mouth’s busy singing what I soon know was Music
Later on behind a folk jew it melted with lyrics
That’s when I bought my guitar,but first I went to ask mum
Some insects were able to write a melody so plain
Like it could  ease me support me and even cease the pain
But half of me died when I realized they’dnever come

I’ve been caught by the thirty years old bullet that shot Lennon
He must lie waiting for me, in the place where the buses get born.


I was told about the religions, lies and confusion
My dad always believed in Nothing without exception
God ain’t something but a joke, a lie, a drug, and a tool
Created by mankind and used and believed and deceived
For explaining and getting all that he hadn’t received ;
But the invention became the master and put the rules
The expert they tell you now it’s good story and advice
It is love and light for the humans, just like the green mice
Do you think we need it, d’you truly think we're such a fool

We don’t want you ages twisted manufactured gods to adorn
For the only truths reside inside the place where the buses get born

Thinking a while, it’s just matter of interpretation
When you speak with hidden words, expect incomprehension
I’m not the one to decide if either the terrorists
That we so truly abhor are even right or are wrong
Nor am I to say using violence is to be strong ;
But time is a big wheel, and for instance the communists :
Ain’t we all looking for equality between men and more
When it will stop turning, when truth’ll be knocking at your door
At the trial of History they’ll be hung or utopists

The movie can’t be finished  by the end of the popcorn
Nothing never ends except in the place where the buses get born



Let’s talk about *** now because we are all here for that,
The dwarf, the Jew, the tall, the black, the women and the fat
Sometimes the disabled, excuse me if I had a laugh
Stupid instinct, horrible animal-like, true love so
When two lovers so entwined forget a while the sorrow
We learnt sciences freely and openly on photograph
I lost half my time thinking about and trying to get it
Maybe more, I’m a man, I’m a ***, I’m a stupid ***
If I have a ***** if I’m gay, now I can choose my path.

Although I don’t like it, it’s normal, I can even watch ****
But I haven’t been excited since in the place where the buses get born


T’was a long time and now, I met that rainbow-voiced bird
We tried to talk, we tried to sing,  although nothing was heard
But as Lea says ‘you cannot expect too much, can you’
I went to the cupboard where she keeps well seen all her secrets
Some daddy’s book and cried photographs for my fake cigarettes
She held a handful of her soul and french fries necklace too
Fortunately I was blind and could only read the words
I wanted to talk about Wednesday afternoon, the third
Now I got my hopes in my pocket, and my pride to chew.

And these visions of Keira, they keep me up past the dawn
The night never falls in the place where the buses get born

My stand-up dreams are haunted but for a colorself ghost
It keeps on coming and going, either the train’s there or lost
The thief he’s on the flight but on his back still lie his lies
The Ladies of the game play quietly their tricks until night
‘Pleasure is the aim’ they argue, and me, I’ve stopped to fight
My body it’s wired and distant, like wish were my minds
The commander-in-chief he’s busy with thoughtful statements
The memory lays far with her, in her kitchen, in her basement
And on the paintings, on the screen, in each and every line

There’s something beautiful and suicidal and full of scorn
With that kind of love that doesn’t matter in the place where the buses get born

When Love ain’t love when a pile of regrets lies on your floor
And you’re patiently waiting Forgiveness to cross the door
Where will you turn to, who will you ask and where will you go
When you’ve lost only the chorus of all you need is love
When your clouds have hidden from you the faithful stars above
What will be left, what rope will you hold and what will you know
You could try alcohol, drugs, meaningless ***, try to have fun
You could buy forget  yet doctor ain’t cheaper than a gun
There is hardly no mistake you regret less than a blow.

Everyone must have a conversation with the father of the sun
No cries ever come out  the place where the buses get born


The truth is still present  you know, it lies beneath the waves
You should’ve seen her face when she told me Eleanor’s been saved
Likewise images of she and her impregnate my skin :
As the masterpiece unmatched socks near a pile of dead books
She hadn’t read them-she needn’t- I can tell by her looks :
I know her well, I had little time with her and two evenin’
When Celine burnt a cigarette-shaped unclosed scar in my heart.
All those pictures I recollect preciously since we’re apart.
She’s the reason and the ends of all my thefts, ‘f all my sins.

I shout for her, strumming madly , blowing my hollow horn
For her to hear me there, in the place where the buses get born

Louise is still in bed.
     It is almost eleven, Louise lies in her bed.
     She lies, entangled in the multiple blankets that shape with lights and shades the delicate curves of her body.
     Her hair flows softly on the pillow where they lay.
     One of her leg, skinny but still forceful is spread out of the warm shield of the covers : A white arrow against the crimson mattress, and her smell fulfills the room.
    It is a drunk sensation, that smell, like a rough rush of desire as a perfume.

    Her white complexion distinguished itself clearly on the brass pillow, her sleek blond hair shining, her head hangs slightly on the left and she wears a dreamy face. And again that heady smell of her.
    A man has taken his clothes and escaped by the window a few minutes ago, or more. The sound of a ragman praying in the distance is still ringing through.
    The window open wide allows the breeze in, throwing the red curtains billowing. The chill is there too, engaged in a mighty fight against the protection of the blankets. The sun is pouring like burning coal inside, all of gold and beams.
    The flowered wallpaper, yellowish now due to the ages’ action, emanates a soft warmth ; an old lady has just sneezed somewhere ; the picture of the madonna peers quietly over the room, all over the big brass bed, half-drowned in a vivid light.Oh, and that unwearable smell likewise a goddess body, entrancing.
    
     Louise, she’s just near, she moves, rolling tenderly on her side, in an endless struggle against the reawakening. Stretching a leg now, crunching on herself then, the mouth slightly open ; a sugary breath blows between her ivory teeth.
     The bed seems too big for her, she could have shrunk during the wild blazing nighttime, though I doubt it.
     The murmur of the blankets rippling can be heard to the advert ear. The sandman is on a beach in Florida now : only the defense of her fragile eyelids remains. A deck of cards has been scattered on the floor, the jack of hearts swimming flat in a pool of hopes.
    
     Outside, across Greenwich Village, nobody can guess that baby isn’t blessed, but that’s all our fate too. A man is sliding, a hat on his eye, round the corner of the avenue, God knows he paid some dues but now it makes it only seem so cruel.
    The lamppost mule is holding up the skies, folding upon the world, that makes the dogs bark but they are only dogs, remember it.
     What if Mona Lisa was not smiling and the Chineses were blind ? The highway happy, and the rumbling thunder shivering ? Like a roar, those questions still echo in the air, but she does not care, just like a little girl.
     Her pearly fingers run across her face, through her hair and down her eyes. She bridges languorishly her back to the ceiling and falls back featherlike, lying now straight.
     Two spotlights of blue and mist opened, staring at the ceiling, the dreadful ceiling. Images of past and future, of lovers and crooks swirling in front of her : she’s awake.
    
     A fat budgie sings like silence from a corroded cage in the darkened corner ; A bra and a shirt hang from it but no one really cares. The rumbling of the crowds, the soundtrack of our life. A tree near the window shatters the blinding light that bursts in the room. And that smell… it’s so hard to get on.
     Likewise the leopard, she stands out her nest, softly, without any noise and with great grace. She grabs a shirt that she let on her shoulders floating to her hips, to protect the body from the haunting chill, and she strikes the fat budgie.
    The floor it is cold, she walks, she floats on her tiptoes to the window ; as she walks, the sunshine draw ghosts of valleys, hills and forests upon her flesh. Dignity is carved in her features, meanwhile the spirit of sensuality howls in the bones of her face.
    A strand of hair taunts her eye as her mane seems to follow every breath, every pace she takes, timelessly. She removes that strand arrogantly. An eternity had just passed when she arrived at the window, an eternity of elegance that no school can ever teach, that no one can ever learn.
    
   She stands, framed by the pouring light, bathed in clarity, like an angel on the window ledge. A restless memory of him has disappeared : she said she was called Johanna yesterday, she said  she would never forget, neither of them believed it, she said watery words, she spoke from her watery lips, once. The egyptians pretended that every new day was a new world, she’s not egyptian. Still she does not feel yesterday anymore. She just stands there, framed by the pouring light, the beauty of the world and the beauty of my lover so entwined,  an oblivion conquers our minds.
     She looks but does not see ; She listens but does not hear ; she exists, she does not live and she spends a lifelong while at those window. Greenwich Village, the green and gold and brown and grey daytime light and tree and street. The shirt dancing on her sides, she smiles mirthful, her shiny eyes seem to encompass the whole universe in a sight, or two. She is present, she is here, she is her. Like she never done before…
    
    Maybe she has stood the trial of time at this window, carved in an instant of perfection, maybe she is flying with the doves by now, heading for the gates of Eden, maybe, she has jumped…anyway.
Oh, and that smell of her, is now all that remains.

My love she speaks secretly  
When everyone’s full of sleep  
By metaphor, under mist’ry  
When the only sound comes from the creep  
I watch her lying there  
While my conscience grows  
And I strike her soft hair  
Crownlike as it flows

My love she laughs endlessly
When the wings of truth unfold
When everybody is sleepy,
And when the slumbers are waxed in gold.
The road outside is quiet
The night it’s ours
Nearby the lampposts’light
Slowly drift the hours.

My love she never blinks
Looking straight at you, at me
Still I just can’t guess what she thinks
The truth is best hidden in plain see.
When she waves with the bed
‘N’ whispers of her dreams,
I ignore what she said,
She takes my head and screams.

My love she’s a broken mirror
Tell her about wealth and fame
About colors, secrets and fears
For her, it’s only and all the same ;
She beholds shades and rain
She can sneeze the moon
That folds under our train
Can make love to a spoon.

My love she lies in my room
But I’m wanted on the street
Restless then all absent and doom
There’s the world breathing upon my feet.
Sounds from the opp’site loft
And storm in my minds
I am fading off
In her delicate lines.  

My love she’s a shoeless debter
She owes nothing to no one
She only takes what pleases her
And then sails away likewise the swan.
I feed  me on herself
I’m thirsty, hungry
I wait on her bookshelf
To devour that body.

My love she loves like the fog
All around you at the shore,
Tender and faithful like the dog
She disappears ‘s soon you ask for more.
Oh! and she’s so heavy
Spread your legs more, love
Turn again on me
Let’s try with you above.

My love she’s like some sparrow
Full of feather while she sings
Softly for us and the pillow,
She’s the master of time when she swings.
The fire burns brightly
But not as my love
Although she has left me
To fly with the doves.