(i need to live by the water,
i need my head to be an empty room.
I need a creek without a bottom
to throw my stones into
and a silent machine
to produce a silver sounding tune
that fills the veins of bodies,
makes them float like weather balloons.
I watch them with pieces of string tied to their toes,
with tags attached that carry their wishes to the moon.)
building a spaceship that runs on all the little bits of memory
stuffed in trunks of poplar trees in 93.
This phone call couldn't be further away.
The line is broken, there's nothing to say.
Behind the canal the houses are blocking the bay.
Take your bones that have grown out of every home.
Show me how slow i could live if i choose to destroy the ship, rebuild it.
Use clay and stone, make a house to withstand the storm - i mean our own,
the one that breaks far more than our bones.
And i want.
I want.
Winston's wearing his ancient feathers as long as i can remember.
At least since i rode the little red bike
in endless eights through summer nights
and sung the music from the tape.
Oh, you'll grow up to be a warrior. It's never too late.
Especially if you're a boy you are instantly employed!
I was afraid and i still am
of the big escape, the dissonance,
the missing breaks the broken hands,
the loss of you in black quicksand.
The choir sung a soft, soft song: wha hi-a hi-a hi-a ho.
And i want you.
I want you.
I want you.