| upchucking verbal prowess c'mon, follow me down, i've gotta tell you something you'll never need to know / move with the thunder, stealthily by night, follow me...it's not like we've got so much further to go there's an awakening in the east, we're driving west. / the truth heaves sighs in the darkness, wanting only for what's best she's got that low southern rhythm pounding in my head and rolling thunder in my soul / but she doesn't want to remind me, she knows this car would go out of control we'll walk with our wings in futile apathy, the most we could hope for is to find the root / Of what's driving us from the homeland into a gallery of spectators we can live vicariously through / It's not so much to ask that I be renowned for this / But only if it's the best we can do. dash zero zero got no idea where i'm running but like a phantom without the wind beneath my wings to carry me on to some godless duty i'm finding my home in a westbound road... can't quite make it anywhere worthwhile, but that's the curse of a phantom without the means to his ignoble end. Us And Them: Turning from the Flying Dutchman to the mists beyond, looking for something worthwhile. Turning on a dime into dreams of gatekeepers with glowing eyes and dew in their hair The gatekeepers - I forget their names - haven't spoken a word in so long There have been no footsteps on the ground above their heads in fifteen centuries They rest easy in their earthen beds, but they're so solitary. first day on the wall "leaning into the wind on an otherwise gregarious day pulling up short in the worst kind of way pulling away from a stoplight in fifth gear �and hilarity ensued�" living vicariously through desire the power goes out and the temperature drops into icicle lies and frostbitten half-truths before daylight comes, one of us must die. we agree on every front but one but one of us cannot be right. little white lies grow exponentially as might snowdrifts oppressed by the tortured winds; roiling, seething in its own terrifying prophesies. i have time-lapse vision; i see the end from the comfort of home. one of us must not see the breaking light, and i'm the one holding the lit fuse. "magnificent" there's a disturbance down on main street; it's the rebirth of a wicked messenger lost to history, preaching prose of sentiment bereft and calling it 'the future of our collective pragmatism.' past the four-leaf clovers and the summer night stars, past the rohrschach tests and the slips of freudian scars, past hypocrisy and out into the daylight, the prismatic cascade of colours rebounding from the oracle at the delphi atop Mount Laurier.... the pretense of omnipotence I wish I could write a chronicle of events Start to finish, a world history As elaborate as any before I wish I could write a chronicle of events So I could call it 'The Novelty Of Time' And joke about how the title was a reflection of this or that But beneath the laughter, In the shelter of the omens of tomorrow, I'd be secretly weeping cos I'd know that it's true. trouble on the horizon see trouble on the horizon, I've got a word of wisdom I don't know where to impart See people throwing broken stones, people beating broken hearts, false idols, false metals, false starts and every generations lives vicariously through its hallucinatory arts with all these victriolic verbal impasses to obscure the blinding light, that which leads me home.... home, a tangible and arbitrary focal point.... that nonesuch salvation does grant these broken fallacies tracking westward from a sundown, every sundown has his price it leads only into a victriolic semblance of a fit of amnesia to evade a hostile respite.... home, an encedrocentric melting pot for dreams that made it and dreams that did not. |