It's the embryonic tears
dwelling in your eyes
and itís the melancholic fears
alive within goodbyes,
Itís the desire for life
as the bullet enters your head
and itís the desire for death
as you take your first breath,
Itís the paradox of tone
and itís the clones of the unknown,
Itís the jeopardy of luck
and itís the chances that obstruct,
Itís the self defeating conquest
and itís drowning beneath the waves crest,
Itís the vision of God drunk in the gutter
and itís the hard slog for mouldy bread
                                  and frozen butter,
Itís the roller coaster of dreams
that forever remembers what it means,
Itís the homecoming queen
and itís the outgoing fiend,
Itís whatís up your sleeve
and itís the want of your needs,
Itís long boring screeds
and itís eloquent seas,
Itís doors ajar
and itís whores with battle scars,
Itís glass jars
and itís going too far,
Itís quenching thirst on mango minds
and entangling language amidst raucous rhyme,
Itís lush exploits and alien thighs
that welcome strangers in from the night,
Itís sparse skies
and itís holy water eyes,
Itís everything and nothing
and of course itís all a lie.


And now that
the moon has run
her fatal orbit
and the dire mangle
has been further tangled
and is now knotted thus,
Now that the cries drift in
as sound made image
from afar
and the strangers rendezvous
adorned in smooth velvet
amidst the raucous scene,
Now that the buried jewels
laugh at the fate
of the foraging face,
So note we now
of dead end desires
deja vu dreams
and mute town criers.


You know
I think that theirís somebody in the house
you better close the bedroom door,
Iíll grab the shotgun
and then weíll go and see
what we can score,
Weíll tip toe down the corridor
our hearts jumping at every bump and grind,
Weíll lose our minds
as a shadow whispers across the wall
and sends us blind,
Weíll take a fateful look at the clock
because itíd be nice to know what time we died,
Weíll feel a hand upon our shoulder
and scream until weíre deaf,
But even though theirís nothing there
weíll still sense the presence of death.


Itís during the noiseless nucleus of the night
whilst others sleep
and confront the fright
of their dreams
that I, Intoxicated and devoid of disguise
shed light upon what it means to be alive,

Ecstatically entertaining fantasy
and embracing what excites me,
Drinking the wine
and setting the slaves free,
Committing the crime
of feeling divine
and savouring these rare moments
of clarity,

For I know that when the sun rises
it will again be time
to stumble and stagger
through the blinding alleyways
of my soul,
Deaf dumb and blind
dead before Iím old.



Iíd like to click my fingers
and pull a rabbit from a hat,
But I know that theirís
no ABC for that,

Iíd like to spread my wings
and fly out across the troubled waters,
Ease myself into the air
and escape the rape and slaughter,
But my shoulders are rounded
and Iím gravities slave,
I know that theirís no way
for me to fly away,

Iíd like to walk into a room
full of alien faces,
Tell a joke
and hear the laughter save us,
But I know that the grave
is the place that life most favours.
 

to Moongate