Razors in the soap
I walked into the cathedral, and saw the minister's machine. I heard the gears ringing in my ears, but what was made, I could not see. I buried my possessions and I marked the spot with stones, and I waited for what my teachers saw when they emptied out their homes. I lit a match beneath me to burn off what I don't need. I had to quench the pyre when my eyes caught fire. I guess I'll try again.
My dreams are all like razors, hidden in the soap. When I bleed, all my cuts are cleaned, and in the stinging is the hope. The piano is an oak tree, and the strings are garden vines. Perhaps some day I'll learn how to play, but for now I'll just keep time. Perhaps when I am ancient and my old bones start to bend, I'll find the words for what I have heard, and it'll be my end.
It's not beauty that's a curse. It's finding out that you can't sell it. That's the moral of your tale, girl, at least the way I tell it.
With your smoker's cough, and your stockings off, your black helmet on, and your husband gone, here in old Berlin, turning blue with sin, as you held your breath in the dance of death.
You know, sex ain't a crime, a way to pass the time, waiting for a call from the upper halls. You say you learned to dance from watching the tramp, but the tramp don't move on those cloven hooves.
They said whenever you appeared, they raged like in a menagerie when meat appeared before the cage. But you were not afraid.
I got a backstage pass from some drunken ass who made a filthy leer, and grabbed my arm and sneered. 'Behind each actor's door is a washed out whore. This one's the same,' he said, 'She's just better read.'
We met after the show, you dressed as a pierrot, with ten black fingerprints on your snow-white wrists. You said, 'Don't stare, my love, as you pulled on your gloves. When I apologized, you took my hand and sighed, you said:
'Every contract that I've signed comes with ropes that tie and chains that bind. From this I'm sure I can't be saved, but they'll get in back in spades.'
I was at your bedside on the day you died. I'd watched you die before, late night on channel four. Old Jack took your life with a kitchen knife, but this was harder still and I wept until you said:
'I've done my best to do my bit, but trouble came like flies to shit. Behind every lover's eyes, there were wood blocks full of sharpened knives. It's the same for all pretty girls, it's true, but worse for me, because I knew. But I'll take that knowledge any day over that sick and grinning naivete.'
TheSE LADYBIRD SPOTS
Don't blink an eye. I look a mess, but there's nothing wrong. I was just strangely struck by a stupid line in a stupid song.
Don't cut me down to count my rings. These ladybird spots.
I've sewn patches on all the clothes I've ever owned. I've darned by socks and put new holes on my old belt.
This afternoon, I found some coins I must have dropped. It's funny what you find when you spend all day on yours hands and kness.
When your tank's on empty, I"m that extra mile. I'm the light that quits flashing every time you flick that dial. I gave the lord himself a lift when he was just a child. I'm bridges and I'm highways, I'm motorbikes and I'm trains. I'm the first glimpse of the Rockies after the Alberta plains. I'm dark glasses in the sun, I'm windscreen wipers in the rain.
I used to be a saint, man, but I got tossed. I carried the Lord before he carried that cross. I used to be a saint, man, but I got tossed. Who are you going to pray to when you get lost?
If your eyes are feeling heavy, I'm that dirty motel six. If there ain't no time for sleeping, I'm that late night caffeine fix. I do it for the Lord, man, I ain't in it for kicks. I'm the mix tapes in the glove box when the conversation wanes. I'm the drumming on the steering wheel, the hook in the refrain. I'm 'Back in Black,' I'm 'Radar Love,' I'm 'Like A Hurricane.'
I'm the breath inside your airbag, I'm the belt across your chest. I'm that little voice that tells you when it's time to take a rest. But I ain't no speed camera, sure ain't no breathalyzer test. I used to be a saint, but they said they made a mistake. Those boys in Rome said their ain't no giants in no lakes. But they're sure going to miss me when there ain't no fluid in their brakes.
St. Christopher's Traveling Blues
I see you walking, girl, on that path by the river. A big black garbage bag held in those skinny fists. It's such a heavy load for such a little lady. We love your kind down here, my love, we love your kind down here.
You're kicking off your shoes and you're pulling off your dress now. One step into the lake and your gooseflesh starts to show. And then, in a flash, you and that bag go under. We love your kind down here, my love, we love your kind down here.
I've never known someone to hold their breath by half an hour. Just us bottom feeders know exactly what you did down there. And then, like a toad, you spring out of the water. We love your kind down here, my love, we love your kind down here.
You look so much happier now that your load is lifted. A big grin on your face, and a new swing in your step. But wasn't it your husband's turn to take out the garbage? We love your kind down here, my love, we love your kind down here.
The Bottom feeders
I caught your eye across a crowded dance floor, or at least I thought I did. I can't be sure. I couldn't say hello, I needed to be certain. So I double-checked, a dozen times or more.
And it's not how I planned it. I've never done this before. And you saw I went quietly as your husband showed me the door. Love, oh love, makes creeps of us all.
I went to your house to make myself feel better, and because I knew there was no one home. Your door was unlocked, so I thought I'd leave my letter on your kitchen table, and then I'd turn and go.
And it's not how I planned it. I've never done this before. But you came home to find me sleeping on your bathroom floor. Love, oh love, makes creeps of us all.
Oh my lord. Take me out of my thoughts. Help me believe in the better parts of me. And let me love move in one direction, for I become more trapped the more I struggle to be free.
Love Makes creeps of us all
One, when I saw you, and I could see nothing else, and I spoke before there was time to act more like myself. They say this won't count, but I'm counting on this.
Two, when I kissed you, and the dark room disappeared, and the breath that you gave me was the first I took in years. They say this won't count, but I'm counting on this.
Three, when you left me, and you left me in one piece. I was shocked to find I could stand, and it brought me to your knees. They say this won't count, but I'm counting on this.
Oh, my love, these are miracles to me, and three makes a saint of you, and a believer out of me. They say this won't count, but I'm counting on this.
They say that you're holy. I say, yeah, like a sieve. Who are you trying to kid? You can't find God where you live. I've read all his books. I've been to see him in Rome. The place sure had nice ceilings, but there was nobody home. I'm sure that if he was to reveal himself, it'd be to someone like me, with Augustine on his shelf.
It seems like you're jealous that he's talking to me. I sent no invitations, but he came anyway. I was down at the office, compiling errata, I looked down at my hands, and I had the stigmata. Ever since that day, I've seen God everywhere. In each leaf that trembles, and when I'm washing my hair.
I just can't believe it. It doesn't seem fair. I'm the one with all the relics, and the shirt made of hair.
I don't know what to tell you. It isn't that grand. How can I lie in the beach when he's in each grain of sand? I keep having visions, and I can't get to sleep. Seeing the blood of the lamb makes it hard to count sheep. I know that I'm fickle. It's from my mother's side. Here's what she told me on the day that she died. She said, 'There's this world and that one, and this one's more fun. Eternity's lovely, but it tends to run on. So if you see an angel, or a burning bush, put your nose in your book, dear, and try not to look.'
Visions of jehovah
There are people frozen here. A busy day sometimes ends this way. These empty veins, these tunnels, and these trains. As for me, I'll stay inside. I'll push my voice through all this blue-white noise. These black-white keys, they've been so good to me.
Did you know I sank back when I was small. I ate before I swam. I came to life here on the grand. As the sea turned red, music filled my head, and white birds began to fall from the sky.
And I kept my grip on your thin neck. I beat my sticks against your skin. I was selfish, dear, but I let you listen in.
So, I sing this broken hymn. I spilt my voice and it broke like bone. Mary cries when she hears this burnt prayer made of black sand, string, and sea. So I offer it to St. Jude who's not too holy to help me.
On The grand
When St. Kevin was praying, an egg fell into his hands, and he knew that if he flinched an inch, it'd be dashed into the sand. So he stayed in that position for twenty days and nights, until the little egg broke open, and the little bird took flight.
Some folks pray to fill their own cup, asking for a favour, wishing for some luck. Some folks pray to fill their own cup, but the best ones pray to keep someone else up.
St. Nick knew a lady, beautiful and sweet, who couldn't feed her kids and was forced to work the streets. So Nick cleaned out his savings, took a stroll down to her place, dropped the money in the chimney, and left without a trace.
St. Kathy loved her Lord so much that, when she was killed, from the hole where her head once was, she bled a stream of milk. Uncumber loved her Lord too, but her fiance she feared, so, to turn him off, she prayed to God, and proudly grew a beard. Dunstan took his pliers, and pinched the Devil's nose, and flung him down to hell where the ground promptly froze. Ronnie wipes the Lord's tears, he left an imprint of her face, which is hanging in her living room, above the fireplace.
Something's off in this city, something's dying in this town. There are too many dark faces in these tunnels underground. We're losing our best people, a dozen every day, and all our days are numbered if the saints go on their way.
WHen The Saints Go
I've shouted twice today already, and my throat's raw and red. But only now do your legions of perfection march my way.
So lights out, Mayfly, because I'm going home.
My infection from the scratching at the inch that wasn't there has left me doubting on my blond hair, and on your blue eyes.
And it's an act of such bravery, or so I've been told, to just give up the house you built for one you built just down the road.