1. |
The Sea is Calm
05:06
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From this homesick raft
the bite of cold is a nuzzle,
an eiderdown, a just-lit match
don’t look now, it’s a long way back
It’s telling that when
the sea and sky act as one body,
mine does not, it’s driftwood to rot,
and I don’t stop, even if I ought
In Poseidon’s clutch,
the smaller victories won’t add up to much,
nor light home’s hearth,
so don’t disarm when the sea is calm
Soma steeped in briny deep
as fauna trapped in amber,
the oceans weep but don’t remember
"The sea is calm tonight.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay....
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night."
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2. |
Carousel Bis
03:16
|
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Inertia, he lands on
and crushes the diorama,
gravel sabered in the palm of his hand
The loose jaw, a nod not
to the King of Corinth,
nor a wink to the folly of man
Haul me right off,
I never stick the landing but
do re-embark, not upright but always standing
(The carousel is waiting)
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3. |
Spiders Up Sequoias
04:11
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At elbows with giants and juggernauts,
the island was a stain on the map
filled in the colour, contour and all
flitted proudly between fore and aft
Bog bodies in arms of time, an unintended design
freed from the rot of demise, an unintended design
if you’d hold me, then I might stay for a while
the spiders up sequoias are always on high
The last that I heard, there’d been a ruling
went against us, sure, the luck of the draw didn’t turn up
and the night lingered on, viscid like tar and too long
the intent it was good, but the method was wrong
Orphaned, the island relents, embarks a new vagabond,
in the meantime, the canopies draw on up to Andromeda,
and then into the loam drops a bomb that scatters it all,
the pieces all pepper the dwindling abettors
who slowly become
Bog bodies in arms of time, an unintended design
freed from the rot of demise, an unintended design
if you’d hold me, then I might stay for a while
the spiders up sequoias are always on high
The last that I heard, there’d been a ruling
went against us, sure, the luck of the draw didn’t turn up
and the night lingered on, viscid like tar and too long
the intent it was good, but the method was wrong
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4. |
Sixth Ocean
03:41
|
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We weave and lurch as a bluebottle in flight,
live for a day and die by the night,
head for the mantle and spin by it slow
to the song of our mothers’ tangled
throes of dream, she cavorts,
we careen, as was taught
feel the thud as it grows,
the cleaving crust, the undertow
Are you dreaming of the ocean?
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5. |
Herringbone
05:25
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Hold a match up to failing light,
comb the sky, sign of life,
long ago, said you wouldn’t unturn a stone,
now we know it’s a lie
With my brother moribund,
at the point of no return,
he said the dead did abandon us,
with not a word from the dirt
The fallen lay in monochrome,
ploughed and indebted for terraform
as herringbone, till the land, pave the road
And there you go in red and gold,
pariah with not a damn hand to hold,
and spitting bone at the dark martyrdom
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6. |
Three-Dog Nights
03:50
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Foot in the door, do not disturb,
I would be shaken by the dawn
quiet as an open jaw
But oh, the cold, it has me numbed
and I am not my fingertips
who want for hold but cannot grip
The hanging breath in air, lock the door
put my ankle in manacle,
Jurado purr me a lullaby, unredden my eye
a tired blanket of creosote,
a geezer glowering, clear the throat,
providing that I don’t ossify,
leave me by the fire on three-dog nights
Foot in the door, furtive donee,
hunker down a day with me
underneath the bryony
But oh, the load, it has me buckled,
and I am not my vertebrae,
a heavy lift to mitigate
The hanging breath in air, lock the door
put my ankle in manacle,
Jurado purr me a lullaby, unredden my eye
a tired blanket of creosote,
a geezer glowering, clear the throat,
providing that I don’t ossify,
leave me by the fire on three-dog nights
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7. |
||||
8. |
I'm Away Now
04:10
|
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I welcomed the shiver as an old friend
for one last waltz before the knee-bend
covered my eyes like a child
to sit down with my faulty senses
The moon’d not pulled me
I hauled my own decrepit body into the deep end
a synapse firing, microscopic and inviting,
one last chance to be real
a synapse firing, never thought that, god forbid,
this day would come and I would—
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9. |
A Question of If
06:18
|
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Any distance is a shake,
when you’re coasting unawake
and guttered by the threatened fade-away;
guided wryly through the dark
by horizoned question mark,
a looming aquila.
It’s not when, it’s a question of if
we stumble at the same time that we trip:
Not when, it’s a question of if
we’re stumbling
Hands tight around the wrists,
teeter on the precipice,
with outcome in the hold of providence,
to wrestle with our worth
from the first until the dirt,
amble on by vigil light and lyrebird.
It’s not when, it’s a question of if
we stumble at the same time that we trip:
not when, it’s a question of if
we’ll always surrender to it
It’s not when, it’s a question of if
we stumble at the same time that we trip,
not when, it’s a question of if
we’re stumbling
If is tied up in knots,
a herd of Babars
pit of the gut
Fate tried to hold me down,
and kismet gave the runaround,
so if is all I’ve got right now
to help me up, darling
Fate tried to hold me down,
and kismet gave the runaround,
so if is all I’ve got right now
to help me up when I’ve gone to ground
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10. |
Alone at Staffa
05:13
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To be alone at Staffa, shouldered by the sun,
tall and palatial, though it house no-one
Oh siren’s song, please don’t waylay me,
let the winged venture south,
let me moor the heavy frigate,
let me be alone at Staffa
And beckoned in by Fingal’s open arms,
though winter’s kiss chilled me, the sea stayed calm
Oh siren’s song, please don’t waylay me,
let the winged venture south,
let me moor the heavy frigate,
let me out, or let me opt to take a rowboat,
drift for miles out to sea,
I have read that Keats and Wordsworth said
it pays to be alone at Staffa
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