She's catching the wind: the gentlest of breezes. It's a sensitive passage she's sailing - Through stormy straits, navigates my unfathomable failings
Hand in the snake pit - black mamba chase. Head through the lion's cage - head on a plate. Two feet on the hot coals - last dance at the ball. Blindfold
I count the hours: you count the days. Together, we count the minutes in this Passion Play. Walk dusty miles. And I ride that train on a first class
As one, wet merchants turn their eyes towards the west. Trade winds falter as if in dire consequence. Freezing fish to fry, fail to materialise. Christ
Placing people in their dreamscape with fantasies of foreign fields Lofty spires all well appointed In off-season special deals. To far Alaska: down
Hot mango flush. Ladies with ice cream hair - Gyroscopic pink neon beams - Everybody's happy about something. The crowd moves like a flock of startings
Hey little buddies: soft and silky night walkers. Dangerous species - Tiptoe menace long grass stalkers on my bed: no butter melting in your jaws
There's a dragon-tail swishing behind tonight. Poison's rising. I'm up too tight. I might not be responsible for the things that I might do. My tanks
Hot Mango Flush
(Instrumental)
Stormy-eyed on the edge of dawn: nose pressed against the triple glaze. Floor to ceiling, wall to wall, silent traffic streams both ways. Along the
Kilometers from nowhere on a scented avenue - Lined with poppy girls. I didn't stop, stop to say hello. Curious vendors - waving bric-a-brac - Looked
Rusted and ropy. Dog-eared old copy. Vintage and classic, or just plain Jurassic: all words to describe me. Relaxed in the knowledge that happily
This sparkling wine is all but empty. Too late for trains and no taxis. I know the feeling. Seems all too contrived. There was no master plan but
I review my past through wicked windows framed in silver and hung in toughened glass, upon my face, around and over. Now and then: memories of men
Just beneath the raw silk sheen That reflects the tints of autumn from the hills. So punch my name. And in case you wonder - I'll be yours - yours, dot com
: Stormy-eyed on the edge of dawn: nose pressed against the triple glaze. Floor to ceiling, wall to wall, silent traffic streams both ways. Along
: Kilometers from nowhere on a scented avenue - Lined with poppy girls. I didn't stop, stop to say hello. Curious vendors - waving bric-a-brac -
