1. |
Postcards
03:46
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Momentary perfection, can you see what I can see?
No auto-correction, just written down to you from me.
An observation on a view that might just resonate.
A visual code that you could understand; perhaps appreciate?
Snapshot - perfect view
Snapshot - right on cue
Snapshot - catch the light
Snapshot - could I be right?
I’m sending postcards from the edge
of a relationship that’s done with all convention,
true to form,
how could we know what we’d begun?
Is our time come?
Or are we done?
Could we be one?
In each new destination, always hoped I’d keep on feeling
at the edge of elation, where each scene set was revealing
our concrete world could just allow the flowers of nature’s highest form,
to bloom with colour vivid such this machined-fabric can’t perform.
Snapshot - hold the pose
Snapshot - well, who knows?
Snapshot - catch the light
Snapshot - could we be right?
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2. |
I Townplanner
03:26
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My lot is an underdeveloped plot.
Permission granted but building’s stopped
before it started and so I’m not
progressing as fast as I’d thought
that I would have done
and more than once I’ve wondered how it is
that this is.
I, townplanner.
Please, forgive my manner,
I’m impotence personified
and yet it seems I’m always to blame
for another’s gain.
On open land I wished to build
but I am waiting now until
there are the means to form upon
a life on well-laid foundations
that were put in place,
whilst all the grace I wanted to display
is stored away.
I, townplanner.
Please, forgive my manner
I’m elegance personified
and yet it seems I’m always to blame
for another’s gain.
For unelected, read rejected,
for qualified - one to deride.
No proposal, to save me,
no policy or opportunity.
Survey this site you’ll see the blight
sustainable in its own right.
Greenfield, brownfield left as it is.
No compensation for the misfortune
we have faced,
it’s such a waste.
I, townplanner.
Please, forgive my manner.
I’m dignity personified
and yet it seems I’m always to blame
for another’s gain.
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3. |
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Amped-up to eleven, I have seen
it in your eyes when not this stainless queen.
Harbour lights reflect on wrestling seas
that lap the town of your celebrity.
Modest though you say, a role you’re expected to hold;
the stiffness of stability never can be undersold.
Yes, I know, you like to rock.
A power chord seems to unlock.
The joyous heavy metal heart;
who knew that you’d play this part?
Mouthing screams and strumming air guitar.
On this street I’m reminded of you.
Newly-strung, the instruments on view.
Who will pick up and transform the life they lead today?
Even if just for a moment, hint at what’s been kept at bay.
Yes, I know, you like to rock.
A power chord seems to unlock.
The joyous heavy metal heart;
who knew that you’d play this part?
Mouthing screams and plucking air guitar.
Yes, I know, you like to rock.
A power chord seems to unlock.
The joyous heavy metal heart;
who knew that you’d play this part?
Mouthing screams, virtuoso air guitar.
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4. |
Saturday, Late Breakfast
04:08
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Eggs cracked, pavement swept,
so glad I’d not overslept
more than it appears we might have done.
Glassy-eyed, the actroid asks of us
our coffee preferences (without fuss.)
Kitchen aromas
Lift the semi-comatose figures we can see.
All’s awakening like you and me.
The morning after party town had danced;
like me at Arts et Metiers entranced,
stationary at tables -
a platform to enable reanimation’s feat.
This Saturday, late breakfast works a treat.
All awakening’s almost complete.
Welcome the morning, there’s no ignoring
last night continues here.
The working week has had to disappear.
To our adventure I am holding dear.
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5. |
Distance
03:34
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No need to say a thing.
We can move in union.
Will the waiter eye us mime the writing of the bill?
And so we smile.
Haven’t we been doing this a while?
Our etiquette is synchronous,
yet silent, still.
Together we walk.
A hop-scotch game set out in chalk.
Carefully we tread wherever
we have cast our stones,
alone,
yet at home.
We are distant, we are choreographed.
Who are what has choreographed us?
Is it us?
Could it be us?
Filing our reports.
Foreign correspondents of a sort;
each song and story tells us all we need to know,
so we go,
with rhythmic flow.
We are distant, we are choreographed.
Who or what has choreographed us?
Is it us?
It must be us.
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6. |
Tall Tales
04:20
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Tall tales, higher than the cranes
where hang ghosts from long departed trains
hauled across this river to elsewhere.
The fortunes made upon these streets,
distributed there.
Yet, here’s where we are - and what do you see?
Wealth, still, in this industry.
When you tell me your stories, I know
I just wish that you might take me home.
New tin cathedrals enthrall.
Like clockwork, the worshipful stall
without the oil of grain or of grape.
The pantomime calls on looped tape.
When you tell me your stories, I know
I just wish that you might take me home.
An addiction, I know this could be.
Tell your tall tales to me endlessly.
Here flies the queen of the Pyrenees,
as the high-rise detective still sees!
When you tell me your stories, I know
I just wish that you might take me home.
An affliction, I know this could be.
Tell your true tales to me endlessly.
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