Check the honesty of what’s on offer,
true detective or a fake fakir?
All the evidence is circumstantial –
as mud the evidence is clear.
Paranormal the investigation –
where do things go when they disappear?
All the evidence has been trumped up…
as mud the evidence is clear,
I think we’re on to something here,
I think we’re into something,
I don’t know but maybe we’re all goldfish
in the mental sphere.
Evidently goldfish,
never questioning environment
self-evidently goldfish,
we swim in circular
experience.
Church of logical deliberation,
school of accidental wheels in gear,
surface knowledge is a serious matter,
a little consciousness is dangerous, dear;
all the evidence must be summed up –
as mud the evidence is clear,
I think we’re into something,
I don’t know but maybe
we’re all goldfish in the mental sphere.
Evidently goldfish
never question their environment;
Self-evidently goldfish,
we swim in circular experience;
Evidently goldfish,
round and round and round and round
within our consciousness
in the mental sphere.
As mud the evidence is clear.
There are so many questions,
there are so many doubts –
this is auto suggestion
your spirit is giving out.
If I offered my reasons
would you give me a break?
Now it’s all open season,
no sense of give and take.
You see I’m not the man I was….
But if I’m not the man
that you took me to be
do I fade from your dreams,
disappear from your memory?
Look at me:
if I’m not the man I was
then who was he?
There can be no returning
to the scene of the crime…
for perfection you’re yearning –
some romance, some foreign clime!
Is the memory explicit
under strict rule of thumb?
It was always implicit,
this character I’ve become.
But if I’m not the man
that you took me to be
do I fade from your dreams,
disappear from your memory?
I remember it well,
I can guess what went wrong…
you believed all those words
in the popular songs…
but, if I’m not the man
that you took me to be,
did I walk in your dreams?
I’ve no idea who that person could be.
Look at me:
If I’m not the man I was, then who is he?
So
if it’s just so then
where is it now when
I find the moment
uncertain?
Broken water pail –
no moon in the water,
try to hold it now.
So
I want to hold on
reflection’s all gone,
no ego – so.
Broken water pail –
no moon in the water,
try to hold it now,
broken water pail,
hold me in the moment,
no more ego now.
I would
drink the dregs of daylight,
break the bread of consciousness
and dream:
dream day for night,
nightfall around us,
waking, dreaming,
awake to the dream.
Broken water pail –
no moon in the water,
try to hold it now,
hold me in the moment,
no more ego now,
no moon in the water,
no more ego now.
This one’s authentic,
son of a gun,
a soundtrack from China
in the universal tongue….
The world is our oyster
to plunder at will,
though the palate is jaded
by all but the thrill
of fish out of water,
life in the raw…
without understanding
of what life’s worth fighting for.
Out of universal language
some stuff never translates –
the reports come in clusters
but for words it’s too late…
six o’clock entertainment,
tears of anguish and rage…
in the zoos of the media
the spirit of moment is caged.
There’s only one language
the whole world comprehends,
there’s only one message
as the darkness descends….
Do you still have a question
or do you retract?
There’s a whole world of difference
between the observer and the act.
They’re playing World Music
in Tiananmen Square,
they’re playing World Music
in Tiananmen Square,
the whistle of bullets in the air.
Something about Ysabel’s Dance
In the new hotel, on Fiesta Night,
the staff are bored;
Donna Ysabel dances zombie-like,
the guests applaud….
The color is local, the tourists are tanned,
the natives are restless
and everything’s second-hand.
Places disappear, but the names
endure as alibis;
memory’s hazy here, no-one’s really sure
of how time flies….
Well drunk, the bass player
cries into his beer –
are Ysabel’s mother or Ysabel dancing here?
After hours all the couriers are
in the bar round the corner
with the drivers in a game of cards….
In bursts Ysabel,
her hair let loose, her limbs set free;
on the tabletops she’s dancing to a memory –
conversation stops and every eye
is turned to see…
something about Ysabel’s dance.
It’s a shrinking world,
it’s a fun-packed cruise, a museum trip:
skirt the native girl, check the rabid dog,
rejoin the ship.
There’s no Charlie Mingus,
his Tijuana’s gone…
this smile for the camera is all just a tourist con.
But after hours all the couriers and drivers know
of a cantina where there’s every chance
that she might show;
and maybe Ysabel
will dance the dance for real again,
her mother’s footsteps, vice and virtue,
lust and love and pain.
There’s something here
the anthropologist dare not explain,
something about Ysabel’s dance….
He’ll be young forever if he keeps this up…
so the bedroom playboy’s never going to grow up.
The heart is a secret garden
to which there are no short cuts.
Only green young fingers make the garden bloom;
for the serious young men now is always too soon.
The heart is a secret garden,
the head is a darkened room.
Close your eyes…
how does it feel to be in love?
Much too difficult, you shove
green fingers into gloves.
Get those fingers dirty –
now you’re getting warm;
blood those hands with passion,
turn your face to the storm.
The heart is a bed of roses,
the heart is a bed of thorns.
Bleed, green fingers, bleed.
Some future memory stirs…
someone’s always getting burned
if intensity holds true.
If it’s real to be in love
how does it feel to be in love?
Green fingers stripped of gloves.
On the surface
phosphorus gleaming;
deep down
we carry on dreaming.
On the surface
compass and charts checked;
deep down the currents run
in a shining vortex,
in a swirling vortex.
On the surface
oil troubled water
sails set the seas on fire
to the farthest quarter….
Are we dreaming?
Dream deep of childhood,
dream deep of future days –
it’ll all come good,
deep dreaming.
On the surface
head above water
legs kick the carry-on…
(dreaming) break the surface;
dreaming of long-lost childhood,
hoping for better days –
it’ll all come good,
deep dreaming.
It’ll all come good,
deep dreaming.
It’ll all come to the surface,
it’ll all rise to the surface,
deep dreaming.
Out of joint, out of true,
out of love, out of the blue,
out of order, out of orbit, out of control,
out of touch, out of line,
out of sync and out of time,
out of gas, out of tread,
out of road.
Out of date, out of stock,
out of use – out, out, damned spot!
You want out, you want out of it for good.
Out of the running, out of the game,
out on your feet, clear out of range,
out of context, out of contact,
out of the woods.
Out, out, looking for a way out,
no straws are left to cling to;
out, out, going for the fade-out…
but what do you fade into?
Out on the town, out for laughs,
out of service, out to grass,
out of mourning, out of purdah, out on bail,
out of kilter, out of grace,
out to get out of this place,
out of this world, out and out
beyond the pale.
Right out of character, out of sympathy,
so far out upon a limb
you’re out of your tree….
Out of breath, out of tune,
out of your head and out of view,
down and out, out for the count, or is it just for revenge?
Out of sight, out of mind,
leave it out, leave it behind
out of reach of all family, all friends.
Out, out, going for the bale-out,
no parachute above you.
Out, out…you’ll not feel the fall-out.
I wish I’d said „I love you”.
