|
on the landing there in the slip stream |
|
on the sweet beams of by and by |
|
I am standing in the wet dream |
|
of a giant in the sky |
|
and i wonder does it enjoy me |
|
like the fresh fruit on the street |
|
that leaks the sweetest nectar |
|
and then spoils in the heat |
|
when waking, i feel a terror |
|
of the memory of night |
|
for a second, only to loose it |
|
for my eyes can't bear the sight |
|
so i look to you, my only real friend |
|
brother ishmael |
|
commanding the view from the crow's nest |
|
on a ship setting sail |
|
capsules of blue and gold |
|
weave themselves round me |
|
billow! billow! |
|
they cover my eyes |
|
they keep me satisfied |
|
I had a friend one time |
|
he packed up all his things and he left |
|
us behind |
|
and i still can't tell you why |
|
i remember him most clearly in |
|
the moments before the flash |
|
and i wonder if it was me or him |
|
that set in motion the gash |
|
and i question how could i get so |
|
close to such a cold heart |
|
and i question if the cold heart |
|
was in me from the start |
|
ishmael, you are the reader |
|
of every man in every sea |
|
and i'm sure you could tell the story |
|
much better than me |
|
cause all i see is honest confusion |
|
and this is truly heartfelt |
|
i'm like roshaman's woodcutter |
|
in the trees waiting for help |
|
capsules of blue and gold |
|
weave themselves round me |
|
billow! billow! |
|
they cover my eyes |
|
they keep me satisfied |
|
i had a friend one time |
|
he packed up all his things and he left |
|
us behind |
|
and i still can't tell you why |
|
weather is the ether |
|
sandbags and salt |
|
towers of grey matter |
|
thundering a cough |
|
the fingers of a tall moan |
|
a howl that can't be heard |
|
keep on singing, bird |
|
the cayman islands |
|
are just islands |
|
where men come and go |
|
and the wood on the pier |
|
must be replaced |
|
every few years or so |