Casting the Runes
When Madeleine appeared it always rained, the people locked their houses, drew the curtains, prayed and painted crosses on their doors. They wondered who would be the next for last respects . . . began rehears- ing. Dressed in black with white carnations, weeping 'til their eyes were sore. And Madeleine would feel their sorrow, she only wanted friends, but the lady's doomed to wander until the very end--'til the end of time! It's just the price she had to pay for life eternal and she's sorry, and she's lonely--would love to make amends. But where Madeleine appears it always rains, the people lock their houses, draw the curtains, pray it won't be them--wandering 'til the end of time! We gather in a strict formation, hold hands in a circle and at twilight we all we all walk around the stones. And spirits dance, and bodies roll, hallucinations curtsey as the river priestess consecrates the bones. And that's the way it will be 'til the end of time . . .
A Strychnine Kiss
Cut glass cathedrals slash holes in the air so it always is raining when we kneel down in prayer. And Christ leans and laughs . . . Christ! He's shaking his head cos the wine's Portugese and the bread's only bread . . . No trance, no substance, no conscience for sure as the Pope licks a jack- boot and lays down the law. And his flock form a cross--all fall down with disease. And the only survivors are him and his priests. In them thar seven hills there's a big crock of gold, but it's all stashed in sacks and belongs to a Pole. And name any language, he's got something to sell, but if you add it up, it's a ticket to hell.
We tried to watch the sun rise, but a cloud fell and we froze inside your coat. One arm for you, and one for me--two arms crossing, winding . . . as the tide roared in. The highway howling high above, the smoke rolled in and covered us. It smothered us but still we wished the seconds could be years. Laguna Beach was soaked in tears, the sea retreated, the world retreated. Nothing left but sand . . . Laguna Beach ran through our hands. A castle rose, a story closed too soon . . .
My building's full of little holes with heads in, staring at the street. They sometimes topple forwards, then stick at one another, passing freaks. They rarely speak and though I don't feed them--still they keep their double (their quadruple) chins. Their garbage bins are emptied each day. By night waiting with lights off, their cats out, their wives in-- they're PEEPING! They're peeping at the methylated man who spits in a can, spreads his hands for silver, pans for gutter gold. He mutters old forgotten songs his father taught him, rolls on the floor. He rolls in alcoves, gets caught in waterfalls down rotting walls. (He's bored.) My friends applaud, throw pennies and wait . . . peeping from the gallery.
The cha cha bar was sliding and we swan across the Scotchman on the rocks (so many rocks . . . and glass and sand.) In shock we docked in fish head harbour where the lights were dimmed. (Locked in, we couldn't see a thing . . . ) The floors was tin, the sky was oil, the air was poisoned lager and the juke box pumped out schlager because no-one pulled the plugs (so many plugs . . . and sparks.) The live wives kept us dancing. Dance in brine, dance in seaweed.
Chicken wings, and diamond rings--there's anything I'd give to you. I'd ride a tiger, walk a wire--wall to wall--yes, all for you. And if you asked I'd wear an iron mask. Oh! I'd chew glass for you. All for you . . . Pick a cloud, I'll fly--I'd drink the ocean dry for you. If love is really blind, I'd pluck out both my eyes for you. There's nothing I wouldn't try for you . . . (And still you say you love me as you pull the screens and pump the morphine and I'll float up like a little ball. And maybe you think I'm not listening as you scream and scream--but rest assured, I hear every word!)
Waiting For the Cloud
The river was rainbow stew, the fishes choked and cursed. The thirsty dogs spat fire, rolled in glue, then they burst. The fur balls flying, trees were dying--dandelions were crippled, bald . . . We saw it all in colour--now we're waiting for the cloud. A mother forcefed baby milk which ticked and bubbled black. She sank it back with plastic pills although it stank . . . seemed thankful. Rolled up in her sack, she won't be back, she won't grow old . . . We saw it all in colour--now we're waiting for the cloud. And crocodiles were sprouting wings. Dead sheep filled the fields. The children rode on locusts ad threw slings at anything that could be killed and eaten raw. No weeping sore, no claws, no balls . . . We saw it all in colour, now we're waiting for the cloud. We're told it could be 15 days, we're busy digging holes . . . The deep ones for the pure, selected--shallow ones for old and sick, the derelicts, the poor, the junkies, criminals, the whores. There's more, there's red and yellow, black and blue. There's me, there's you. (Waiting for the cloud.)
You spent all your money. You lost all your friends. You're so very far from home. You're watching the aeroplanes high in the sky + you cry. You wish you could fly, but you're far to high - and you're going nowhere.
Under Glass, The Light In My Little Girl's Eyes, and Plasma Twins (see Under Glass.)