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Evidently goldfish, never questioning
environment
self-evidently goldfish, we
swim in circular
experience;
Church of logical deliberation,
school of accidental wheels
in gear...
Surface knowledge is a serious
matter,
a little consciousness is dangerous,
dear;
all the evidence must be summed
up -
as mud the evidence is clear,
I think we're into something,
I don't know but maybe
we're all goldfish in the mental
sphere.
Evidently goldfish, never question
their
environment;
Self-evidently goldfish, we
swim in circular
experience;
Evidently goldfish, round and
round and round and
round
within our consciousness
in the mental sphere.
As mud the evidence is clear.
You see I'm not the man I was....
But if I'm not the man
that you took me to be
do I fade from your dreams,
disappear from your memory?
look at me:
if I'm not the man I was
then who was he?
There can be no returning
to the scene of the crime...
for perfection you're yearning:
some romance, some foreign clime!
Is the memory explicit
under strict rule of thumb?
It was always implicit,
this character I've become.
But if I'm not the man
that you took me to be
do I fade from your dreams,
disappear from your memory?
I remember it well,
I can guess what went wrong...
you believed all those words
in the popular songs...
but, if I'm not the man
that you took me to be,
did I walk in your dreams?
I've no idea who that person
could be.
Look at me: If I'm not the man I was, then who is he?
Broken water pail -
no moon in the water,
try to hold it now.
So
I want to hold on
reflection's all gone,
no ego - so.
Broken water pail -
no moon in the water,
try to hold it now,
broken water pail,
hold me in the moment,
no more ego now.
I would
drink the dregs of daylight,
break the bread of consciousness
and dream:
dream day for night,
nightfall around us,
waking, dreaming,
awake to the dream.
Broken water pail -
no moon in the water,
try to hold it now,
hold me in the moment,
no more ego now,
no moon in the water,
no more ego now.
The world is our oyster
to plunder at will
though the palate is jaded
by all but the thrill
of fish out of water,
life in the raw...
without understanding
of what life's worth fighting
for.
Out of universal language
some stuff never translates
-
the reports come in clusters
but for words it's too late...
six o'clock entertainment,
tears of anguish and rage...
in the zoos of the media
the spirit of moment is caged.
There's only one language
the whole world comprehends,
there's only one message
as the darkness descends...
do you still have a question
or do you retract?
There's a whole world of difference
between the observer and the
act.
They're playing World Music
in Tiananmen Square,
they're playing World Music
in Tiananmen Square,
the whistle of bullets in the
air.
Places disappear, but the names
endure
as alibis;
memory's hazy here, no-one's
really sure
of how time flies....
Well drunk, the bass player
cries into his beer -
are Ysabel's mother or Ysabel
dancing here?
After hours all the couriers
are in the bar
round the corner
with the drivers in a game of
cards...
In bursts Ysabel, her hair let
loose,
her limbs set free;
on the tabletops she's dancing
to a memory -
conversation stops and every
eye
is turned to see...
something about Ysabel's dance.
It's a shrinking world, it's
a fun-packed cruise,
a museum trip:
skirt the native girl, check
the rabid dog,
rejoin the ship.
There's no Charlie Mingus,
his Tijuana's gone...
This smile for the camera is
all just a tourist con.
But after hours all the couriers
and drivers know
of a cantina where there's every
chance
that she might show, and maybe
Ysabel
will dance the dance for real
again,
her mother's footsteps, vice
and virtue,
lust and love and pain.
There's something here
the anthropologist dare not
explain,
something about Ysabel's dance....
Only green young fingers make
the garden bloom;
for the serious young men now
is always too soon
-
the heart is a secret garden,
the head is a darkened room.
Close your eyes...
how does it feel to be in love?
Much too difficult, you shove
green fingers into gloves.
Get those fingers dirty - now
you're getting
warm;
blood those hands with passion,
turn your face to the storm.
The heart is a bed of roses,
the heart is a bed of thorns.
Bleed, green fingers, bleed.
Some future memory stirs...
someone's always getting burned
if intensity holds true.
If it's real to be in love
how does it feel to be in love?
Green fingers stripped of gloves.
On the surface
compass and charts checked;
deep down the currents run
in a shining vortex,
in a swirling vortex.
On the surface
oil troubled water
sails set the seas on fire
to the farthest quarter....
Are we dreaming?
Dream deep of childhood,
dream deep of future days -
it'll all come good,
deep dreaming.
On the surface
head above water
legs kick the carry-on...
(dreaming) break the surface;
dreaming of long-lost childhood,
hoping for better days -
it'll all come good,
deep dreaming.
It'll all come good,
deep dreaming.
It'll all come to the surface,
it'll all rise to the surface,
deep dreaming.
Out of date, out of stock, out
of use -
out, out, damned spot!
You want out, you want out of
it for good.
Out of the running, out of the
game,
out on your feet, clear out
of range,
out of context, out of contact,
out of the woods.
Out, out, looking for a way out,
no straws are left to cling
to;
out, out, going for the fade-out...
but what do you fade into?
Out on the town, out for laughs,
out of service, out to grass,
out of mourning, out of purdah,
out on bail, out of kilter,
out of grace,
out to get out of this place,
out of this world, out and out
beyond the pale.
Right out of character, out of
sympathy,
so far out upon a limb
you're out of your tree....
Out of breath, out of tune, out
of your head
and out of view, down and out,
out for the count, or is it
just for revenge?
Out of sight, out of mind, leave
it out,
leave it behind out of reach
of all family, all friends.
Out, out, going for the bale-out,
no parachute above you.
Out, out, you'll not feel the
fall-out,
I wish I'd said "I love you".
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