Young man he dreams bedridden schemes. He seeks a sloth of a love who wants to lie around all day. Work makes him dizzy. No sense in keeping busy round the clock. He seeks a sloth of a love who wants to laze, so please be so sleepy-eyed.
Thin as a willow, buried in his pillow. He seeks a sloth of a love who wants to lie around all day. And he'd never assume to ever leave this room. He seeks a sloth of a love who wants to laze so please be so sleepy-eyed.
Somnambulistic stumblebum doesn’t care just where she’s from. Anywhere to lay her head, with the foolish and the dead.
Greener than the Everglades, golden like a field of maize.
He would listen to what she said and never try to leave this bed.
He’d be so sleepy-eyed.
Super Future Commuter
Sunlight and flowers shed happiness on the deskroom don.
Working til the light turns red. Working til the lights come on.
I am already gone. I will be halfway home before anyone knows I was there. I will speak to no one at all.
No one knows my daily routine as I do. And when I die it will be mine, and the whole world will belong to you.
Some people were born into greatness, destined to do great things, destined to end up in the papers and end all suffering.
But I never planned my life in such a straight line, never knew I even wanted to go. I was always half-good enough at everything and great at no one thing at all.
I'm not one of the powerful people. I'm not one of the chosen ones who say there's nothing new under the sun.
Some people are born virtuosos. They do one thing and do it well. They know when to send in the soldiers. They know when to buy and sell.
But I never wanted such ambition. Never had the contacts to grow up among. I never felt a God-given aura of destiny. I never sought the throne from the time I was young.
I’m at the Wallace Line. Came in at the airport in Jakarta, carved out of the rock like the stripes on a tie. I’m free from everything here.
If I could erupt and blow everything clear...
It’s not vacation, and it’s not exile. It’s beinglonely in a crowd. Don’t need to be quiet when everyone’s so loud. Don’t need to be fragile or bold. It’s being alone with a hundred million souls.
Oh Java, east of Java.
Leave me be. I’ll be back before you can dream of it...
Nobody leaves you alone. Everybody sings you home.
There's no time left for the living. There's no time left for the leopard now.
They're coming from the East with weapons in their hands. Everybody's coming to kill the great manslayer. There's no time left for the leopard now.
They made you what you are today. Everybody sings it away. Everybody sings you home.
Goodbye all things wild, goodbye all things strange. Everybody says that's the way it is, a quiet world, a poorer world, but an organized world.
Wearing Black On A Summer's Day
The end of things, of suffering, it’s a pretty good haul, the scattered bones and chromosomes lined up on the wall. I take these hands, these pretty hands, I know what they can do. I take these shards of pottery, sharp enough to put an end to me.
Day by day.
Lundi, mardi, vendredi, vendredi.
We tie the skins of our victims. We put them up for all to see. No matter the cost or what we lost, the stuff of poetry. We prance and play the night away. The madding throngs get in for free. The bits and pieces of things long gone, the extinction gallery.
We know the indigos and violets. Now it’s time for the age of regrets.
We are wearing black on a summer’s day.
The Uses Of Light
The ancient creatures of the Cambrian opened their eyes for the first time and looked on a world of color, of shapes and images and warmth. They did not see their world. They saw the sun's light reflecting off their world, the reflector. And even so they saw beauty for the first time.
It's not my eyes that see.
Sometimes things are strange and featureless. if you look up, the familiar objects aren't so familiar anymore when you look at them closely because the light bounces off them every which way and you have never noticed them closely before. The uses of light and color are subtle, so subtle that if you don't look closely, you don't notice they're there.
It's not my eyes that see.
The the future familiar objects will glow purple and orange, faster and faster. In the future the wavelengths will change all in a minute so things will stay interesting and strange. In the future the light will slip out like an air from a punctured tire. Reds will be yellows and float on strings. Light will be art. Clouds will double their speed and be over in an instant like waves on a beach, and we shall look upon the entire spectrum and know no despair.
It's not my eyes that see.
The Abuses Of Light
The sudden ending of light, the stench of dark on chrome. Don't forget me when I stumble on home.
The oppressive fluorescent cones, the swirling cubicle gloom... it's a factory of discontent in this quiet room.
Where's this going anyway? If it were me I'd have gone beyond halfway. I'd have handled it differently.
Never really loved you, wanted you anyway. The oppressive sunrise comes. I can't take the day.
The Only Dry Corner of the Metropolis
So far away, across the spine of the continent. Away we go on a mighty swollen river, on brown muscles of water.
The fold of the world.
The only dry corner of the metropolis.
Rural to Urban Migration
Dirt road to Dakar, last train to Lhasa, greyhound to Phoenix, the road to the west. The west is drying out. The road to the west is a dangerous road. Everybody's talkin' bout pop music. Everybody says you gotta carry that load.
You don't know you're lost 'til you leave your long-lost home.
You roll into the boomtown right after the boom. She don't even see you when you walk in the room. One day you hope to catch that boat, taking the ferries to the Canaries. The flesh of your palm for an evening psalm.