I think my hand fits yours
I think your heart fits mine.
Quite disturbing really
how I can't seem to breathe
I heard a song that was about you
and all the chords they reminded
me of you
and Wilde said honey, my biography
is for you
and we laughed at his stupidity.
You broke every bone in my body
Round the back of the schoolyard
On the bus, sailing to somewhere we never could
quite reach, I cried two tears for you.
One fell about my chin, and curled like your hair.
The other I caught before it hit the ground.
My palm was moist and it dissapeared in seconds;
fluttered away like everything
we ever had.
Like my tears, you fade.
I'm not a circus clown.
Make up, once on
My feet are more than usually small
for my height
and I tip on the
My face was already white,
no whiter could it be.
I'm not a circus clown
and the truth I cannot tell
only flies have wings.
In science class
we learned how to make you.
I now know your chemical formula,
and the precautions to take.
Always wear gloves and do not
come into close contact.
I stood near you,
and spat you out.
But you polluted me.
We can hardly sing for laughing.
For some reason, today deciet
is the medicine.
Is my skin really that pale?
Are my eyes really that green?
I thought I saw you whisper
but I know that sound is smoke.
And I did kill that man for his giro
but my biro broke and left you un-bilo-titled.
Here, I took a pinch of salt
And followed her instructions to the letter.
Ground it into the air,
Waited for her to inhale and tell me to
Add more, add more.
Never could I refuse her,
Nor put pepper where we were wanting.
I dared, once, to add a different spice,
To see if she'd notice and tell me to stop.
I am going too fast. I am to add more salt.
Stop rapping my knuckles, I told her,
I'm quite capable of helping you myself.
But she went out, and left her cookery book open
On the page that I'd torn out.
Won't you tell her why she is lying
in bundles of peppered rain?
Scattered across the landscape,
Deborah, Deborah, you put yourself in exile.
And we wanted it to be a sort of haven,
somewhere she could hide from kinship;
Hide from most things life threw.
Her heart is the eye of the storm.
He shook the hand of Deborah
and remembered his daughters name.
Maybe Violence is a way of life
Maybe Guns will save us
Maybe peace is the enemy
and Bombs will blow up mountains.
Deborah, you were the eye of the storm
a sort of oxidation.
Come, Bring pleasure to these lips.
Kiss of the heart that born you.