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Sometimes it's very scary here, |
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Sometimes it's very sad, |
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Sometimes I think I'll disappear; |
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Betimes I think I have. |
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There's a line snaking down my mirror, |
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splintered glass distorts my face |
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and though the light is strong and strange |
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it can't illuminate the musty corners of this place. |
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There is a lofty, lonely, Lohengrenic castle in the clouds; |
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I draw my murky meanings there |
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but seven years' dark luck is just around the corner |
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and in the shadows lurks the spectre of Despair. |
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A cracked mirror 'mid the drapes of the landing: |
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split image, labored understanding... |
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I'm only trying to find a place to hide my home. |
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I've lived in houses composed of glass |
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where every movement is charted |
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but now the monitor screens are dark |
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and I can't tell if silent eyes are there. |
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My words are spiders upon the page, |
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they spin out faith, hope and reason - |
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but are they meet and just, or only dust |
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gathering about my chair? |
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Sometimes I get the feeling |
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that there's someone else there: |
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the faceless watcher makes me uneasy; |
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I can feel him through the floorboards, |
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and His presence is creepy. |
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He informs me that I shall be expelled. |
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What is that but out of and into? |
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I don't know the nature of the door that I'd go through, |
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I don't know the nature of the nature |
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that I am inside .... |
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I've lived in houses of brick and lead |
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where all emotion is sacred |
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and if you want to devour the fruit |
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you must first sniff at the fragrance |
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and lay your body before the shrine |
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with poems and posies and papers |
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or, if you catch the ruse, you'll have to choose |
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to stay, a monk, or leave, a vagrant. |
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What is this place you call home? |
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Is it a sermon or a confession? |
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Is it the chalice that you use for protection? |
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Is it really only somewhere you can stay? |
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Is it a rule-book or a lecture? |
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Is it a beating at the hands of your Protector? |
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Does the idol have feet of clay? |
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Home is what you make it, |
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so my friends all say, |
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but I rarely see their homes in these dark days. |
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Some of them are snails |
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and carry houses on their backs; |
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others live in monuments |
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which, one day, will be racks. |
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I keep my home in place |
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with sellotape and tin-tacks; |
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but I still feel there's some other Force here.... |
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He who cracks the mirrors and moves the walls |
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keeps staring through |
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the eye-slits of the portraits in my hall. |
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He ravages my library and taps the telephone. |
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I've never actually seen Him, |
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but I know He's in my home |
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and if he goes away, |
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I can't stay here either. |
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I believe...er ...I think... |
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well, I don't know ...... |
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I only live in one room at a time, |
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but all of the walls are ears and all the windows, eyes. |
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Everything else is foreign, |
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'Home' is my wordless chant : |
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mmmmmaah! |
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Give it a chance! |
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I am surrounded by flesh and bone, |
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I am a temple of living, |
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I am a hermit, I am a drone, |
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and I am boring out a place to be. |
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With secret garlands about my head |
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unearthly silence is broke, |
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the room is growing dark, and in the stark light |
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I see a face I know. |
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Could this be the guy who never shows |
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the cracked mirror what he's feeling, |
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merely mumbles prayers to the ground where |
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he's kneeling: |
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"Home is home is home is home is home is home is me!"? |
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All you people looking for your houses, |
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don't throw your weight around, |
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you might break your glasses |
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and if you do, you know you just can't see, |
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and then how are you to find |
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the dawning of the day? |
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Day is just a word I use |
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to keep the dark at bay |
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and people are imaginary, nothing else exists |
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except the room I'm sitting in, |
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and, of course, the all pervading mist |
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sometimes I wonder if even that's real. |
| [10:10.27] |
Maybe I should de-louse this place, |
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Maybe I should de-place this louse, |
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Maybe I'll maybe my life away |
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In the confines of this silent house. |
| [10:53.91] |
Sometimes it's very scary here, |
| [11:04.37] |
Sometimes it's very sad, |
| [11:14.39] |
Sometimes I think I'll disappear, |
| [11:25.37] |
Sometimes I think ..... I.... |