Here on the hill above the settlement, the buildings are talking, A tower to a terrace says the word's on the street, the dead are walking... The brows
Some go high and very low, none too different or the same you know, I know cos I've seen them come and go. When summer comes the valley hums with medicine
This honey month I'm telling you Don't go turning your radio on, A one and a two, should I talk to you, Like the others do? Get yr knees up beneath the
You can't walk through the Isle of the Dead, you can't lie still in the guest house bed, there's a pair of black eyes staring down at you from the mountain
Autumn leaves are flying, (each a baby's brittle boat), The season's dying, (Winter's mottled pigeon throat) Sings the coo-cool air, The old sun's pale
Duty, who's your master? Who gave you fingers? Who gave you to me? And why do we always dream of disaster When we pay our dues to disaster with some
We will adjust to this new condition of living like a man with his entrails now out him not in After certain techniques of torture accustoms himself to
At ten o'clock is when I rise from my grave, and cast my eyes over the ideas that I couldn't save, become regret and break upon me now wave after wave
The golden sun is ever gentle in the Valley of Making, Where it's the middle of the Autumn when it isn't high Spring, There are men of many colors and
Your issue may walk among fine moral spires, But if they went up somebody else built them. Your store is a small one, your goods have no buyers Your parents
Well it tastes like a Sunday, There should be music in the front room, and the markets a'milling with the people in the afternoon. And there's a question
In the chest of a dealer hammers and smelts a foul charge, as he smoothes sour cream from his moll's pony and metes her an unholy barrage, (o the living
There's something at the bottom of the black pool, I daren't dredge it up not while the weather's still cool, It's a feathered thing, its origins are
A Tuesday night in Winter, holed up in the city of ravens, The owls in the hills hoo-hooing and eyeing off the field mice down in the cold grey centre
Well our dogs get along, but have you noticed how easy evil dialogues of ours come out of wanting, for so long, an easy laughter, to feel guilty for
They married, a dandy and a back alley tough On the foreshore while kids in the needling rough Stayed low, in, and laid till they'd had enough Of the
What's wrong, sad Prince? The body is soft, the heart is cold, You were tongue-in' for danger, but danger bites back, It only lays down for the reckless
What do the men say To the women when they lay down at night. All naked of arms from the old imagined fight? And how do the women hear? In kind and