| 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 |