| Letters in pencil, some of them as heavy as lead
|
| As dated as carbon, as black as coal, but burning as red
|
| Clues faintly stencilled: the message, though leeched, is unbled
|
| As secret as marble — as young, as old, as living, as dead
|
| And always that laugh
|
| That comes as though it’s from pain:
|
| Though I’m lashed to the mast
|
| Still it hammers round my brain
|
| Laughter in the backbone
|
| Laughter impossibly wise
|
| That same laughter that comes
|
| Every time I flash on that look in your eyes
|
| Which whispers of a black zone
|
| Which’ll mock all my credos as lies
|
| Where all logic is done
|
| And time will smash every theory I devise
|
| And the hour-glass is shattered
|
| Only by the magic of your touch
|
| Where nothing really matters…
|
| No, Nothing matters very much!
|
| So the siren song runs through the ages
|
| And it courses through my veins like champagne;
|
| And with all the sweet kisses of addiction
|
| It’s calling me to break my bonds again
|
| Future memory exploding like shrapnel
|
| Some splinters escape on my tongue
|
| Some of them scar comprehension…
|
| Beneath the scab they burn, but the wound becomes numb
|
| And always the song draws me forward
|
| Rejoicing in the search and the prayer
|
| Bored with all but the mad, the strange
|
| The freak, the impossible dare
|
| Still your laugh chills my marrow
|
| Till I embrace it on my knees…
|
| Oh, when the mast becomes a flagpole
|
| What becomes of me?
|
| What becomes, oh, what becomes of me? |