There was no soul to be found from fooling around.
There were goals and ghouls but they were for fools.
But there was a girl that followed the rules, so honourable.
But I was known to misuse.
So I changed my name, hair, indiscretions.
Changed the station, the platform, and dived.
Then you let me know through rhetoric
That I kept turning my cheeks
Away from the truth:
That you have always been my lover
Even if I’m not your man.
I could not get my head around this
And I left behind Great Britain.
You left me, you left, from my head, you left,
so many times,
that you’d come back around.
What do I do, if I can’t be your man?
Where do I go?
Surveying the creation zone, I made up a place
Where I could conquer your soul, where I could study your space.
And when I arrived, words opened
I felt it was paradise on that beach right there,
but I supposed your soul was safe
And I suppose that’s why I sang, a sweet song about sand,
The sand of your soul, I walked on a smell step,
But as I counted blessings, I lost my footing,
As the sand was so quick to pull me beneath.
So I took a leap out back to the sea but I wasn’t giving up that easily.
I was conscious of sharks and such qualms in the dark depths of the sea that were conscious of me.
Then when I found a way in land through the wind-harangues and streams, I began to sing yet again with the things of our dreams
About the jungle I’d entered,
And the fall of quartz water,
Over our crystalline spring closure.
I liked my new song, and I was liking the chords,
But if you came along I was scared you’d applaud.
I was so lost on your island with no way of getting off
And when I trusted my dreams, they were thrust back adrift.
So when I went away again I had to rewrite the scripts,
I had to paint a bigger picture, more real like, Leicesterscript.
So I went back, and you had got more civilised, so it seemed.
I spent all day at gorgeous buffets,
Lazing in cool pools,
Whilst palm branches spoke to the wind gaily, like phytoplankton speaking whale-braille.
I thought : I can go to the beach, I can go to the beach
But I want to climb to the peaks,
Of this 4* retreat.
And even though I’d eaten three steaks for dessert, I had a sweet appetite for arêtes,
So I leapt up Mount Timanfaya’s steeps
And wrote our names in stones at the top.
I peered down the equator at the sun-drummed expanse
Of your craters. Though bare, manned, barren and parched.
I thought for a while that the ants round my anks wanted to get into my pants. What a romance?
I was out of my mind, but you didn’t mind.
It was never too hot, or too lonely for me, searching for you,
In dream tectonics.
By night I threw rocks for her,
Write around the clock.
Every laugh mistook for her
Every day rolled up and jokks.
Tasted bitter twists in the elucubration.
Tasted warm butter in the lips of my crypt.
As I flew away from your island I looked back
And saw all the glitzy lights glitch. Indieskies.
Though I was happy to go back to my life in Great Britain
How lucky the men were that stay.
I saw your island and saw it grow,
Watched it colonised. Mown, glow, moss.
She has horizons in her eyes, sons.
I saw the waterfall, I should know.
How irrelevant this static dream seems not long in the future
I’ve still got a tan and a line from a deckchair.
I don’t think you’re an island or not right now any way.
You’re just doing your thing with a smile on your face.
And your thing is amazing, and so is your gay gaze
Am I an island or just another land-locked lover?
A futile’s lost from high winds at the top
Never fall to the ground with a bang no more.
I was crazy for you, now I’m just over the moon.
I was blasé, then chasey, then just plain pace-making.
My head is in a time-lodge, where no humans commune.
But when I’m seeing islands, I know they’re all faking.
No one’s an island, if they are you could tell.
Or at least not a deserted one, deserted like Hell.
Hell is so close to the Sun, but not feeling its heat.
Hell is a boast, a yacht, a downright cheat.
Hell is toast for the ones with the most.
Sigur Ros. Heaven’s neat.
I’m the one with the dough I think waaaa, Potatoes!
I’m in a matrix of Subbuteo only.
I’m David and that’s bones.
That’s ‘keep calm and comme des fuckdown’ pony.
I’m balanced and patient,
I want to take you to all the stations that were built in th’Renaissance.
And where great cello’s scourge the rafters of concerto’s
I’ve been around the world and I, I, I,
But now it’s nearly time to pass go’s.
Looking at this I can only propose:
I love you I suppose.
If only, because it’s fun.
Like diving among warm, corals perfecting in the sun.