This sparkling wine is all but empty. Too late for trains and no taxis. I know the feeling. seems all too contrived. There was no master plan but the fact is: You must stay with me and learn the secret language of birds.
A tentative dawn about to be breaking On a rousseau garden with monkeys in hiding. The truth of the matter, yet to be spoken In words on which everything, everything's riding. Now stay with me and learn the secret language of birds.
Circled by swallows In a world for the weary. Courted by warblers; wicked and eloquent trilling.
Lie in the stillness, window cracked open. Extended moments, hours for the taking. Careless hair on the pillow, a bold brushstroke. Painted verse with a chorus in waiting. Stay with me and learn the secret language of birds.
Down at the church the flower girl sits. legs innocent, apart. I make the picture puzzle fit to start your heart. Painted sister stopped beside. a word upon her saintly lip. Perhaps admonishing the child inside the open slip.
I don't know where she might go when she runs home at night. It's for the best: I wouldn't rest when I turned out the light. No little flower girl singing in my troubled dream---- Just an old man's model in a pose from a magazine.
I have touched that face a dozen times before. and I have let my pencil run. Laid down washes on a foreign shore, under a hot and foreign sun. My best sable brushes drift the soft inside of her arm.
Her chin I tilt, her breasts I lift. I mean no harm.
I close the door. she is no more until the next appointed hour. Northeastern light push back the night: painted promises in store. No little flower girl singing in my troubled dream---- Just an old man's model in a pose from a magazine.
Down at the church my flower girl sits. legs innocent, apart. I make the picture puzzle fit to start your heart. My golden sable brushes drift the soft inside of her arm. Her chin I tilt, her breasts I lift. I mean no harm. I mean no harm. I mean
Fires on the mountain, and the dogs bark. Crash of the ocean swelling: crickets in the dark. The temperature is rising. the village gets no sleep. It's hardly surprising, given the hot company they keep.
Somebody's home in the ash-fall margins; Somebody's life in the lost and found. Breaking news from the hotel vue pointe. Sinking feeling, sink another beer down.
Hey, jimmy. what you doing here? Looking up at the high cloud cover, so far and yet so near.
Flying in with the chopper. lieutenant of the crown. Tell the boys from that cnn, the good cops have come to town.
Angry island, no-one's listening. shamrock villa, green to grey. Down in the swamp, iguanas glistening. Toast tomorrow, if not, today.
Hey, jimmy. what you doing here? You a scientist? you a newsman? or simply come to feel the fear? The temperature is rising. and we're in too deep. There really is no point in disguising the hot company we keep.
My eyes are white circles above cheekbones on fire: Pale hand gripping my pen. Rounding up to the zero, adding infinite fractions, Letting nine become ten. Two pink doves strut the shingles Picking crumbs from the breakfast I saved For you dear. and I wish you were here On this postcard day.
Focus on the fine indeterminate line Where the sky meets the sea. Desperate midweek words, banal and absurd Freely flow out of me. Well, I may be a hostage to summer But I'm a hostage, not a slave. And I'm clear that I wish you were here
On this postcard day.
Precious cargo of flotsam: mixed memories on an ocean tide Swim madly with spice from the orient On a mystery watery carpet ride. But with the sun going down, the wind goes around; Blows them back out of mind.
My eyes are white circles staring down past the point Of my restless pen. While the ghosts of my youth all sworn to the truth Call my name again. Two brown legs don't make a summer. But two brown arms couldn't keep me away. Well, my dear, I wish you were here On this postcard day.
Crystal fountain springing from the hill. It irrigates your soul. you may drink your fill. Water of life, carried high. One hand upon the gallon jar. feel her fix my eye.
Every good traveller's for the taking. All good money for the making.
Seller's market: wet appeal. Water carrier------let's make the deal.
Covered face and black pool eyes. Between us, no words spoken: no words to the wise. Here's to another time and a drink somewhere. Plush on a nain carpet; on a cafe chair.
I see you better now, shaded in deeper blue. Hardly needing to carry the find-your-way lamp Down to the river. Tonight flies a better moon.
Sad water buffalo lie fast near the shallows; A splash revealing the fly-catching fishes. Dark gods silently watching. Tonight flies a better moon.
I guess you've known lovers here, compliant in passion; Softly laid in the old reed bed, harshly Lit in the noon sun. Tonight flies a better moon.
Now cloaked in this milky light, new as the virgin dawn, Shrouded sweetly in all kinds of mystery, You turn, smile and then are gone. Tonight flies a better moon.
Dear uncle sold her into the purest kind of slavery. Hood-eyed little middlemen profited from damaged goods Along the way. Good angels brought her back to a last nepal summer. Debased, hollow-faced, a smile might become her. Now she's cosied up, cosied up and comforted In the warm flush of september. Gone before winter. Wondering as to might-have-beens. Somebody's daughter in sanctuary, waiting.
Seen through softer cage of kindness, far and further still away, From time-warp victorian zoos Where staring ice cream gameboys play. Big paws, worn claws and swishing tails. More damaged goods in the market sales. Too proud for anger, too late for hate: resigned in dignity. Gone before winter. Purring might-have-beens. Somebody's kitten in sanctuary, waiting.
