Sweet little girl, you’re crystal clear
And dreamy white with freckled skin.
I had a dream where I fathered you in time.
I saw myself a different man back then.
I was a wolf and howled and brought my men,
And we manned the house at night.
We lit the dark and held our cubs
And shared the meat amongst ourselves.
Sweet little dream, I twirl in mud all day
And toil and chip away my soul
And whore away myself for gold.
Sweet pretty queen, just say my name.
Still etched in time, just say my name,
And once again, when you wake up
And know that I have changed.
I’m not the man you think I am.
I lost myself in lucid ink.
In quiet caves and taverns, scorned,
I whored myself some more.
Sweet daisy snow,
I’m not your tepid dream.
I’m murky mud;
I am the eye of the storm.
Sweet river blue,
She came to me in a dream
And asked if I was truly a man.
I said, ‘I am in this world, but I’m not of it.’
I find myself saturated
In city screams and lurid, machine-gun neon lights,
Marauding their way into my soul.
I find myself orchestrating soliloquies
And unsung ballads, reverberating through the wall.
I find myself on rooftops,
Contemplating suicide and prophesying war.
In a hazy dream,
I find myself dancing in whirlwinds
Against the machinery of time.
Sweet pretty girl,
I know you see yourself the truth.
I know you think you’re lady love,
But know that I have died
A thousand times before.
I lived again to tell my tale
And whored myself a little more.
I died again and dyed my skin, and sold,
Then came away with a little less
Than what I had before.
Sweet little girl,
I find myself in liquid time.
I find myself brushed away like gathered dust
And the glistening ash I have become.
In liquid time,
I find myself still crawling out of the blue.
Colourless, in feral ink,
I tried to bring myself to shore.
But, I found myself in crystal glass,
Whilst all round me shouting through
And ask if I had kept the sands of time,
Or if I had become whatever more,
Than the shattered glass I have become.
Gasping for air, in crystal blue,
I killed myself a thousand times.
And, waged a war, eternal flames,
And raged and died a thousand more.
Sweet pretty girl, I’m not lady love.
I saw her once when I was young,
Then twice again,
But had stitched myself a mask since then
To hide away the insipid beast I have become.
Sweet little girl,
Tell Father Time, I twirl in mud all day.
Tell Father Time, I howl alone at night.
Tell Father Time…
When I was born,
I saw myself
As a little girl,
Yet, all around me
Were just the same.
One quite day,
I carved my face
On a willow tree,
Yet, all around me
Was just the same.
I traversed storms
And quiet nights.
A hallow tusk,
Feet pegged beneath me,
And my weary eyes
Were just the same.
Now, I’m a man,
And I make death.
The face I carved,
Forgotten though,
It has not changed.
And, that willow tree,
She’s just the same.
Sweet river blue,
Do you recall my name?
I lost myself in riverbeds.
I lost myself in wretched times,
And drowned myself in acid ink.
‘til, lady blue came strolling by
And carved my name in stone.
‘Well, who are you?’
She twirled and played and spilled my ink.
And, I drowned myself and died again a little more.
‘Well, who am I?’
I asked myself and drowned again some more.
Well, who am I?
The eye of the observer
Who asks himself the question, ‘Who am I?’
The sun, the earth, the birth of man,
The man who stood before himself
To ask the question, ‘Who am I?’
The sun, the snake, the godhead,
The snake that eats itself
To ask itself the question, ‘Who am I?’
The son of Zeus, abandoned.
The wrath of Ares.
The war I wage within me since birth.
The war, the curse, the question,
‘For whom the wars of man?’ And, who am I?
A screeching voice, a note unheard.
The voice, the lie I told myself
To forget the question, ‘Who am I?’
The word of Yahweh, the scripts of Allah.
The cross I bore from time memorial.
The tales of all who came before me
And stripped away their gathered clothes
To ask themselves the question, ‘Who am I?’
The beat of Alan.
The beat, the humdrum.
The beat that hums itself.
The beat, the ancient drum.
The beat repeats itself to hear itself
Bouncing of the wall.
The beat, the eternal sound of ‘Why?’
And ‘Who am I?’
The fruit that bore itself to eat itself
To bear the fruit for all to eat and wonder,
For whom the fruit?
For whom this earth?
For whom the sounds of oceans?
For whom the air I breathe?
For whom the air inhales itself, exhales itself
To ask itself the question, ‘Who am I?’
The eye of a void, devoid of meaning.
The eye of history.
The weary eye of David,
Who hung himself to tell the tale of man.
And who am I?
The ‘X’ of Malcolm who shot himself
To read the writing on the wall,
Who shot himself to ask,
‘For whom the names of man?’
And who am I?
A song, a cry I have within me since birth.
The cry for Gaia.
The all-eternal howl of madness.
The cry, the question,
‘For whom this life?‘
And ‘For whom am I?’
Sweet river dream,
Tell Father Time, I howl alone at night.
Tell lady love, I swore her name
To be the only truth I know.
Sweet little girl,
I swore her name to be the only one for me.
In raging ink, I lit a flame,
And howled again some more.
I sang an ode, a marching song,
And wrote away my death.
And, marched myself with gathered men,
And lit away our wretched lives.
We lit ourselves a dying flame,
A song of raging rain,
A peaceful song for Father Time,
So mother love can cry away her pain.
Let glory die.
Tell Father Time, to wash away his marching song.
In crimson red,
Tell Father Time to sing my dead in forest names,
And let roman flames die down.
Tell Father Time, I howl alone at night.
Tell Father Time, I dyed my face in battle blue,
And wrote myself a little name,
And scattered it through time.
Tell Pharoah man, I am the only name that’s true.
Tell Father Death, I am the tale of man.