| Lyrics: | Sometimes it's very scary here; sometimes it's very sad;
sometimes I think I'll disappear;
betimes I think I have.
There's a line snaking down my mirror :
splintered glass distorts
my face,
and though the light is strong and strange
it can't illuminate the musty corners
of this place.
There is a lofty, lonely, Lohengrenic castle in the clouds --
I draw my
murky meanings there,
but seven years' dark luck is just around the corner
and in the
shadows lurks the spectre of Despair.
A cracked mirror mid the drapes of the landing
:
split image, labored understanding ----
I'm only trying to find a place to hide my home
....
I've lived in houses composed of glass
where every movement is
charted,
but now the monitor screens are dark
and I can't tell if silent eyes are
there.
My words are spiders upon the page,
they spin out faith, hope and reason
----
but are they meet and just, or only dust
gathering about my
chair?
Sometimes I get the feeling that there's
someone else there :
The faceless
watcher makes me uneasy,
I can feel him through the floorboards,
and His
presence is creepy ----
He informs me that I shall be expelled ....
What is that but out
of and into :
I don't know the nature of the door that I'd go through,
I don't know the
nature of the nature
that I am inside ....
I've lived in houses of
brick and lead
where all emotion is sacred,
and if you want to devour the fruit
you
must first sniff at the fragrance
and lay your body before the shrine
with poems and
posies and papers ----
or, if you catch the ruse, you'll have to choose
to stay, a monk,
or leave, a vagrant.
What is this place you call home?
Is it a sermon or a
confession?
Is it the chalice that you use for protection?
Is it really only somewhere you
can stay?
Is it a rule-book or a lecture?
Is it a beating at the hands of your
Protector?
Does the idol have feet of clay?
Home is what you make it, so my friends
all say,
but I rarely see their homes in these dark days.
Some of
them are snails and carry houses
on their backs;
others live
in monuments which, one day,
will be racks --
I keep my home in
place with sellotape
and tin-tacks,
but I still feel there's
some other Force here :
He who cracks the mirrors and moves the walls
keeps staring
through the eye-slits of the portraits
in my hall;
He
ravages my library and taps the telephone --
I've never actually seen Him,
but I know He's
in my home
and if he goes away,
I can't stay here either.
I believe -- er -- I think
--
well, I don't know ......
I only live in one room at a time,
but all of the
walls are ears, all the windows, eyes :
Everything else is foreign,
'Home' is my wordless
chant :
mmmmmaah!
Give it a chance!
I am surrounded by flesh and bone,
I
am a temple of living,
I am a hermit, I am a drone,
and I am boning out a place to
be.
With secret garlands about my head
unearthly silence is broken :
the room is
growing dark, and in the stark light
I can see a face I know ----
could this be the guy
who never shows
the cracked mirror what he's feeling,
merely mumbles prayers to the ground
where
he's kneeling :
"Home is home is home is home is home
is home is me!"
All you people looking for your houses,
don't throw your weight around,
you might
break your glasses
and if you do, you know you just can't
see
and then how are you to find the dawning
of the
day?
--- Day is just a word I use to keep the dark
at
bay,
and people are imaginary, nothing else exists
except the room I'm sitting
in,
and, of course, the all-pervading mist ---
sometimes I wonder if even that's real
....
Maybe I should de-louse this place;
Maybe I should de-place this louse;
Maybe
I'll maybe my life away
in the confines of this silent house.
Sometimes it's very scary
here; sometimes it's very sad;
sometimes I think I'll disappear; sometimes I think ..... |
