Thursday, August 12, 2004

sometimes don't know where they come from

What you're doing with the flask
gives you morpheus
and a little sickness
that you've interviewed for
the lost world, the falling one.

You've marked your nerve
built a roof over it
left your heart on the kitchen table
and something high
has flown out the window.

Just like you, to unwrap the drug
an animal in foil
and loosed left of centre
packet strewn with all the other scripts
for pain in the side.

And when you wake
and beg, full of life still
even that's the tablets
inscribed with half-words
and formulas.

Off with the headphones
clap your hands
for the funk and blues
scrap the flack and forget
your heart can be stilled

Just in a second
in the beat-between silence
some old Gaelic cry in a valley
something northern
anyway

But talking and sickness
all to much spruiking
too much flack to handle.
Let rip - let sit
in some echt silence.

Then press the button.
It's not a roar
but a pattern you bear
waking and sleeping
turning around.

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