We Are Written
'It was always going to be like this, whatever you bring yourself to say. Why don't you point that thing the other way and telescope this tangled story? You've got the whole thing at your fingertips, already scripted in an alien Braille, snagged up under your fingernails.' Oh, so blissful, in ignorance we pin the tail, with smudgy marks we scratch the surface. We are what we were born to be, we are what we become over time, under our own thumbs. We are written in our fingerprints, in everything we do and see; we are written in our fingerprints, so very singular the marks of our destiny. So open the hands: this is a lifespan.I found the future in my grasp, the line of least resistance, naturally; joined up the dots and never thought to ask could I somehow do this differently? In the heat of the moment it's impressed on me what's done is done in understanding. And if I had a choice to make I ignored it as such. So our lifelines accumulate like the dust on the things we've touched. We are written in our fingerprints, all of our virtues, all our vice. We are written in our fingerprints. Once upon a time the story: we won't go through these motions twice. We are written in our fingerprints. We don't get to do this thing twice, so let's play out the hand, unconsciously pre-planned.
Crossed Wires
'I don't know, somehow our wires got crossed: you've been mistaking me for someone who never gave a toss. Life's too short for me to rewrite this page out of pig ignorance into all the useless wisdom of age. Something I said off the cuff, without thinking, has driven us apart. Oh, you took it so much to heart. To get this straight we need to find some common ground, some understanding ...but that remains unfound. It's ancient history, feels like it happened so long ago; of insignificance I've forgotten more than you'll ever know. Say what you like, I found the debate absurd; if we settled all our differences we'd never get back where we once were. Let's get it straight without a shadow of a doubt. Sooner or later the naked truth will out - incomprehension is what it's all about.'I was only speaking my mind: over my tongue I tripped. I put my foot in it the moment that the words left my lips. The moment that the words left my lips I knew that language had eluded my grip. I know what I meant but perhaps in the telling the wheels fell off the cart...oh, but you took it so much to heart.'Getting it straight our smiles are just like Cheshire Cats', half of the time we're both talking through our hats...I tell you this I never meant to tell you that I got it straight, I put the whole damn thing to bed. Sooner or later we're going to lose our heads, sooner or later the lines'll all go dead. Getting it straight I don't take back a word I said: sooner or later the lines'll all go dead.' Sooner or later the line goes dead.
Driven
'I know you haven't got the thread of the story so far. Just throw your luggage into the back of the car. We'll drive around until you think I've gone too far but you can't go home, no, there's no way home. You haven't lost the plot but there's detail you lack. This is a one-way trip and there's no turning back. No protestation can divert us from the track we're set upon. Soon it's done and dusted and we're gone. No-one ever knows the road they're on.' I'm driven by my younger self into a corner. I remember dreaming the open road. I liked to think I had control but my hands on the wheel were guided by some outside force as my future revealed. I slalomed through life's obstacles more on instinct than feel. I picked myself up as a hitcher and it's really quite a deal to see this lifelong journey through his eyes. Just as we got going we've arrived. We're driven by our older selves into what we become and all our careful planning turns out strictly rule of thumb. We're driven by ourselves but dream we're free, on the open road. Free, on the open road.
Once You Called me
I wish that I remembered better. You've grown so fast before my very eyes. The woman that you're now becoming suddenly takes me by surprise. I thought that there'd be time and tide a-plenty to grow into a proper fatherhood but underneath our feet the sands were shifting. You spread your wings, soon you'll be gone from me for good. And when I tucked you in at night and swore I'd always love you madly I'd wonder would this be the last time that you'd ever call me 'Daddy'? A bittersweetnes runs through every memory: a daughter's father wants to be so strong, then suddenly he's just an ancient relic. You spread your wings, you weren't a little girl for very long. And if trouble's on its way you know I'd lay my life down for you gladly. I only wish that I could still remember the last time that you called me 'Daddy'. Once you called me 'Daddy'. Oh, my precious girl.
The Ice Hotel
Mercury's down to zero, absolute time will tell we're only over-wintering as guests in the Ice Hotel. All that we build will crumble, every empire fades; humbled, we should admit impermanence marks the man-made. Under the Ice Hotel the permafrost is stacked but down along the walls the first melt starts to track. The wind's whipped voices up and swept them down the years but in the Ice Hotel the guests all have cloth ears. Are we all so cloth-eared? We're only here a season, paupers and presidents. Reason allows us only a temporary residence. Inside the Ice Hotel the mirror ball revolves while in the cinema the screen goes to dissolve. Over and over what's destroyed will be remade and in the Ice Hotel we're only passing trade. The walls are sweating as the Celsius starts to climb. Of all our works this is the transient paradigm. Each year another team will build it up anew, for in the Ice Hotel we're all just passing through, we're just passing through.
This Is The Fall
All humans are siblings, this is a truth that I've assumed; all fighting over the legacy of a lifelong and timeless family feud in the name of I don't know what. I don't believe in God but if I did I'd surely say there is only one Power up above us, one face refracted in each different Faith. But for every holy confessor there's a priest of self-worth trading in the eternal for power on earth.Soaked, the blood of believers in the ground where prophets trod. How in God's name did religion get so far away from God? Oh, mercy, mercy, mercy now! Oh, mercy, mercy, mercy! I don't believe in God but, with all respect to those who do, surely no purpose could be served under heaven if there's no mercy in this place we're passing through? Oh, now for every sainted ascetic drawing heavenly breath there's a literal fanatic in love with death.Soaked, the blood in the pages pored with all-too-human pride...in what book of what religion is the blood-lust sanctified? In the name of creation, for whatever that is worth, why in God's name is religion bound so mortally to earth? Soaked, the blood of believers in the ground where prophets trod. How in God's name did religion fall so far away from God? This is the Fall from God.
Just A Child
This is more than merely wrong, as sin on sin's grotesquely piled. Don't look so surprised when you find yourself reviled. Don't look to me for comfort in your trial - the girl was just a child. Uttering remorse with weasel words and shameless guile... it was 'a mistake', no, paedophilia's 'not your style'; all's undercut by your crookedness of smile - the girl was just a child. Close to being grown up, occasionally wild, but the girl was just a child, the girl was just a child.
Now here come the limp excuses with a euphemistic turn of phrase. The fact is sexual abuse undoes its victims, down through all their days. Darkness clouds her face, no longer fresh and juvenile. Home's no longer safe, her innocence is lost, with rising bile. This is not a hurt that will ease after a while - the girl was just a child. Offer your contrition, in remorse you're meek and mild but the girl was just a child and you can't restore the treasure, the flower you defiled - the girl was just a child. More than merely wrong, this is simply vile - the girl was just a child.
Skinny
Nobody knows what she sees, no-one can get behind that warped reflection. What glossy varnish strips away protection from young girls like these? No-one admits what it means, no-one permits a gesture of contrition; how carelessly they stacked the ammunition in the magazines. Like a gun to her head, skinny model fantasy. No, she just can't bear to live with this body image.Who knows what she sees? Who knows what she sees in body image? Nobody knows what she sees, no-one can guess the depth of her self-rejection. Seen through the eyes of the disease her unblemished skin's all pock-marked with imperfection. Somebody messed up all her young dreams; pretending that this is all of her own volition how carelessly they stacked up the ammunition in the magazines. Like a gun to her head, every glossy fashion shot that reminds her of all the pretty girls she's not in body image. Like a gun to her head skinny model fantasy; no she just can't bear to live with this body image. Like a gun to her head, every glossy fashion shot reminds her of all the pretty girls she's not in body image. Like a gun to her head, every image that she sees. No, she just can't bear to live with this body image, body image, body image.
Bareknuckle Trade
And when you feel you can't go on what kind of laurels do you look to? Sometimes we get what we want, sometimes we take a good hook too. Once you thought you were so strong...some young pretender came and shook you. Now there's a lesson to be learned: we must respect what is gone and still expect there'll be something more, but there's a tab left to pay for the experience we're gaining day after day as our knuckles are grazed by the marks that we made with the tools of the trade.
A telegraph is on its way that might explain my every action. Sometimes we get what we want and then forget what we came here for. From fitness to decay we trade in opposite attractions. There are still lessons to be learned and when we get what we want we find it less than we might deserve. Now I'm a little bit lost, not for the first time I'm here in some disarray and returning in spades are the hands that I've played with the tools of the trade.
If I learned my lesson well I've got time to buy and sell with the tools of the trade.'What do you want? What do you get? What do you want? What do you expect?' What you want, what you want's not what you get. The tools of the trade, look what you made with the tools of the trade. But what price has been paid for the tools of the trade? And here's a message in my hands, though I'm not sure I can decode it. Sometimes we get what we want and yet still don't know quite what that is. Timidity be damned - hang on to that towel, never throw it. Still there are lessons to be learned: if we don't get what we want at least we get to request the bill, carrying on until the last one is standing still in the game. With quick breath we all pay for the fists that we made: these, the tools of the trade.