It's not that I don't know
but time and time again
a leaf falls from the chestnut tree
This is mortality
the eternal ending
my question, never asked
answered long time ago
I am pure in imperfection
we saw, on the horizon,
everything you need to know.
It's not that I don't know.
It's just that I don't know how to ask.
the pen writes fast, illegible in part
but that is not the point behind the lines
the ink remains long after these bland signs,
my love for you inscribed right from the start.
The content doesn't matter, nor the sense
it's so you feel "he loved me" by the end.
Listening to Astral Weeks on the record player
That harsh, rough voice paints pictures with words
capturing Belfast times, past times, times rare
I can almost hear the passing birds, the passing birds.
I remember listening to it with you
here in Hamilton, the way young lovers did
slim, slow, ah we were sweet things. Beside you,
you were Ballerina, me just a kid
We had our own Madame George on our streets
Harassed by some, protected by a gang.
As weeks turned to years, we danced to those beats
and decades grew old as Morrison sang.
Drinking beer became drinking cold white wine
the bass upfront, flutes and strings floated up
my brother lost, my sister gone, too fine
even for Van's voice to refill their cup.
A toast then to David and Maria
and a bow to the man whose aria
brings peace to all with ears to hear.
May all have ears that hear.
the serious mind tends to be blind
to the things in life that are nonsense but kind
It can be so much a pious old bore
Say far too much and then add a lot more
the serious mind should switch off and stop
and just enjoy a wop bop aloo bop
bal lom bam boom
... and no more doom
oh too serious
give it a rest for fuxache
bores with chores of poetic scores
just give the rest of us headache.
