crashing into the moon

another lunar probe 

lost and crashing 

into the moon

and here we are again

lost and crashing 

in a saloon

all afternoon 

while the world is burning

here's to the world 

while the world is turning

Attenborough's Day Off

[[ A description of a real morning but with the observer transformed from a groggy parent eating toast into a bit of a voyeuristic, lecherous naturalist. ]]

Even the cat conspires,

the cat and Captain Underpants,

to douse my dream,

so I sit up, Nosferatu

on a hinge. Sunday morning

early, when a decent man 

would sleep, is full of sound.

Outside the open window

long bare legs are

flexing as she sways,  

her auburn hair flows down 

her back in early sun, 

her head is tilted to his, 

her eyes are in his eyes,

their tongues are tasting 

one last clinking beer.

They have so much to say 

but cannot keep their mouths 

apart for Jesus going on an hour, 

and her peculiar rocking on 

her long bare legs as if 

she sways to unheard music 

or as if -- they look around, 

he finds an opening in the 

wire fence around the lot 

behind them and she crouches

through alone.

He stands and smokes and looks 

the other way while she 

wades through tall grass and yarrow,

indigenous to these parts, 

to squat and disappear and

bare her bountiful cheeks

to all the creatures of the field, 

then reemerges.

They toss their bottles in the grass 

and walk to the first bus

before a panther falls from a tree. 

we sailed with the pilgrims

[[ a drinking song? no idea. it just came out this way. ]]

we sailed with the pilgrims

but not what you think 

for we were all pilgrims 

alone on the drink

we sailed with the pilgrims

but not how it sounds 

for we were all pilgrims 

lost in the rounds

looking for a home from the sea

looking for a sea that would carry us home

looking for daylight after the moonlight

looking for dark under the big starry dome

with the scouring sky hanging over

with the swallowing sea shore to shore

with the dread of the known close behind

with the dread of the unknown before

we sailed with the pilgrims

but none of us pure 

for we were all pilgrims 

in need of a cure

we sailed with the pilgrims

but none of us good 

for we were all pilgrims 

in need of a bed

an evening of possibilities

[[ from a photo I saw -- New York City, 1943, with signs as described in the verses. This should be big band, jazz, a dance number in an old movie.  ]]

[[bridge, chorus, and other repetitive apparatus]]

night!

night is coming

night is coming on

night is coming on for us all

this is an evening

of possibilities,

my friend

rain!

rain is falling

rain may stop right now

rain may fall forever on us all

we could go down

to the subway

where the parallel
rails never meet

we could walk on

in the rain

where the universe

shines in the street

let's share an umbrella

[[verse 1]]

See that sign?

"Johnnie Walker",

three stories high.

We could go buy

Johnnie Walker

and drink it tonight.

Three stories high,

my friend.

[[verse 2]]

See that sign?

"Saludos, Amigos"

on the marquee?

We could watch

the dancing alpaca,

we could snort

at 'Lake Titicaca',

my friend.

[[verse 3]]

See that sign?

"The Human Comedy"

larger than life.

we could enjoy

the Human Comedy

I can't promise you

Andy Hardy tonight,

my friend.

xmas 2: home at midnight

Home at midnight, 

Christmas Eve,

just in time to

wipe my sleeve 

across my nose 

and stumble in

from staying out

and pouring gin

for folk like me

who congregate

in other places 

on this date,

just in time to

kiss the cats

and wish them

lots of chubby rats.

skin me alive

skin me a live animal

what I want is to wear its camouflage
what I want is to wear its fur
what I want is to hear it screaming
while I purr

skin me a live animal

what I want is more juice in the vein
what I want is more smoke in the lung
what I want is to wear the animal
skin and fuck

skin me a live animal

take me to Vienna, you fool, and immediately
take me while a shop girl looks me in the eye
take me to the dead end of some other century
take me exactly to midnight, then leave me to die

[[ 

1. With obvious play on "skin me a live animal" and "skin me alive, animal". 

2. The narrator possibly is not a native speaker and may have fallen out of a time machine. She is louche, one-eyed, absinthed. 

3. I don't know why any of this. I think someone wants back to fin de siècle Vienna. Someone with a lust for blood and a lust for lust. And one clouded eye? 

]]

Whose war was she in?

[[ From a memory of when I was very young in the 1960s and my mother had brought me with her into a social club. A drunken woman approached us to see this pale little boy. She said she liked my name and repeated it back to me in a low, drawn-out voice several times. Her face was scarred, seamed, pieced, I don't know from what. In those days, she could have been through either world war or through a windscreen made from the opposite of safety glass. ]]


Who is this tumbler reeling
towards us in the club?
I must be five and she a thousand.
I must be terrified and frozen.

Save me, ma, from
the fates at night.

Save me, ma, from
the bombs that fall.

Save me, ma, from
the patchwork face.

Save me, save us all,
ma, from us all.

Who is this woman with
a glass of something golden,
an orange cigarette smolder,
a face pieced back together
along the seams?

Save me, ma, from
the fates at night.

Save me, ma, from
the bombs that fall.

Save me, ma, from
the patchwork face.

Save me, save us all,
ma, from us all.

Whose war was she
in? Whose war?
Whose war was she?
No one left to ask.

Whisky, whores, and gold (fuck this town)

[[ is it a Broadway song or a country song or a folk song? ]] 

Why should a man 

dig potatoes 

all day 

in these fields,

when there's gold 

to be dug 

from the ground? 

Why should a man 

hitch his wagon 

to the neighbor's 

pale girl,

when he could swing

a new dancer 

each night?

Why should a man 

grind out his life

in these 

four square walls,

when he could ride 

a straight line

till he's gone?

Why should a man

spend his days

signing checks

in this town,

when he could go

give a mountain

his name?

[[ first the noble-sounding stuff... ]] 

Ride 

with the morning behind you

Ride 

with the night in your eyes

Die 

with the stars rolling over your bones, but

Live

under infinite skies

[[ ...but then cut to the truth ]]

Course there's gold and whores and whisky,

Whores and whisky and gold.
Wouldn't want a girl to miss me

Wouldn't be a man to be told

All I want is whores and whisky

Give me whisky and whores
And gold.

I'm going out west, 

Cause fuck this town.

I will strike a match

I will burn it down

Fuck the thirteen colonies

Right from Maine on down

Fuck every city 
to the Mississippi

But, most of all, 
fuck this town.

I can't say I'm not going to miss you

I can't say I won't look around

But I can't stay another damned minute

Or I swear I will burn this place down

bang on

Bang on metal

Loud as cannon

Sunday morning

Without warning

Bang on

Bang on

Jesus Christ

Rattling doors

Sunday morning

Without warning

Bang on

Bang on