Prince Rupert

Rupert lies on a bed
In a chamber and watches the weeds,
and the feather-headed grasses that waver on the 
grey stone balcony.
He sees the blood-stained silk white sky
of another dawn arise;
But Rupert knows this crimson morn 
will turn to dusk and night will fall
before the day...

"Oh, give me this day,"
Prince Rupert calls.
"Give me this day,"
Prince Rupert calls.
"Give me this day,"
Prince Rupert calls.

Rupert hangs by a thread,
on the wall above the cool, soft bed.
And daylight comes in flashes, like
memories of lightening through his mind.
He sees the fleur de lis floor shine,
gold and white as the sun climbs,
and glints into his ruby ring, slipping from his finger,
pale and thin...
Onto the floor.

"Oh, give me this day,"
Prince Rupert calls.
"Give me this day,"
Prince Rupert calls.
"Give me this day,"
Prince Rupert calls. 

Rupert lies on a bed
Where the night bows her head.
Stars weave their dreams around him,
shaken from her loose, black raven hair.

"Oh, give me this day,"
Prince Rupert calls.
"Give me this day."

Macbeth's Head

How beautiful and unexpected it was...
to wake and see the snow.
Butterflying in, through his open window.
Sand-dune drifting towards his feet,
blanketing his room;
Covering his heirlooms and scattered things
all smashed up and sad.
He felt so glad that they were gone,
but still there beneath the snow...

With Macbeth's clay-red arm around his neck,
He said, "Remember, don't forget...
Where you are, you're with me."
His clay-red arm like the muddy river that rambles
through the reeking town, reaching for the sea.

Macbeth's head, full of clover and the town below
Unaware of the time and the silent snow.
Macbeth's head, full of barking dogs,
the churls in rags, their cloaks;
The heads of stags clashing antlers...
Their cloaks billowing down the silvery hills of sleep.
Macbeth's head
blows the silver horn of dented stars across the 
misty heath.

But, "Come back," he couldn't say.
Macbeth's head, in the emerald eyes of dark women,
barefoot on the warf.
The north wind sing-song singing through the gorse.
Macbeth's head, down the streets below, blissfully
unaware of the virgin snow.

His purple tongue locked inside his mouth,
shouting drunken at the clouds.
And a voice echoes through the landslide town,
beneath the bracelet bridge...
Macbeth's arm tenses around his neck,
"Don't forget, don't forget."

Macbeth's head, full of the smell of stone.

Macbeth's head falls from the satin sky;
his closed eyes, his eyelids open...
Macbeth's arm tenses around his neck,
"Don't forget, don't forget."

And how beautiful and unexpected it was,
to wake and see the snow.

The Nobody Inn

Belief in the Rose

The rose bows its head,
from the hedge to the shade;
In the whispering calm of the cool, cool colonnade.
Unravelling dreams and deeds,
as it unfurls its heavy scent 
I tried to reach.
Its poisonous dream so clear...
Where death is death,
and joy is joy so sweet.

And I forgot your tattered head,
your rain-battered dress.
And I forgot your dark caress.
I want your thorns to cut my flesh...
My sallow flesh.

I want your thorns to cut my flesh...

Your petals fall, 
but your thorns they remain.
Through seasons I'll wait
For your blood flower again.
And wisdom and time they tried
to scorn your world,
But in the rose I will believe...
Your pleasure, your pain, your dreams;
Where death is death.
And joy is joy, so sweet.

The Street Organ

The street organ plays its blithe tune through the town.
Winding down the alleys with the yellow leaves;
It meanders down bleak avenues where
the copper-green monuments stare at nothing...
It passes them by, unheard,
Waltzes with the ribbons of distant winter air,
The messengers of snow...
Moon-struck and gold.
(Cathedral quiet and narcotic seas,
In a mind of tidemark memories)

It croons with the lullabies that lull the babies back
to wombs;
Confuses time with its merry-sombre chiming;
calling back the old,
conjures daughters, lovers, sons, fears, mothers, 
seasons, minutes, lost and found lost love...
Spring and nothing.
She sings like a bird that wakes up warm and thinks
the winter's over.
(Cathedral quiet and narcotic seas,
In a mind of tidemark memories)

The street organ's music is heard
for the first time here, and the last time there,
and not at all.
Cathedral quiet and narcotic seas,
In a mind of tidemark memories.
(Moon-struck and gold)

The strand of hair that falls in front of her face...

He woke up and called out her name,
But only the street organ answers.
(Cathedral quiet and narcotic seas,
In a mind of tidemark memories)
The street organ plays down every road,
Moon-struck and gold.
Cathedral quiet and narcotic seas,
In a mind of tidemark memories.
(The street organ... 
The music's blithe tune, 
Moon-struck and gold)

The street organ plays down every road,
Moonstruck and gold.

Lady D'Arbanville

My Lady D'Arbanville,
why do you sleep so still?
I'll wake you tomorrow, and you will be my fill;
Yes, you will be my fill.

My Lady D'Arbanville,
Why does it greive me so?
But your heart seems so silent.
Why do you breathe so low?
Why do you breathe so low?

My Lady D'Arbanville,
Why do you sleep so still?
I'll wake you tomorrow, and you will be my fill;
Yes, you will be my fill.

My Lady D'Arbanville,
You look so cold this night.
Your lips feel like winter, 
your skin has turned to white,
your skin has turned to white.

I loved you, my Lady.
Though in your grave you lie,
I'll always be with you;
This rose will never die.
This rose will never die.

I loved you, my Lady.
Though in your grave you lie,
I'll always be with you;
This rose will never die.
This rose will never die.

Misfortunes

I would chase the moon's cold eye,
Into the bitterest day;
And I would watch the sundial,
and in its shadow stay.
So don't let me be afraid.
I would hear misfortune cry, 
out of its virtuous face.
And I would watch the sundail;
and through its darkness race...

The silver star of morning,
blinks down a tear from the sky.
The sun has now arisen,
the night closed its watchful eye.
So, don't let me be afraid.
Don't let me be afraid.

I would chase this ancient tide,
into the perilous wastes.
And I would watch the sundial, 
and in its shadows wait.
So don't let me be afraid.

I would hear misfortune's cry;
Pay to its warning no heed.
As I would watch the sundial,
My darkest thoughts are freed.

The silver star of morning,
blinks down a tear from the sky.
The sun has now arisen,
the night closed its watchful eye.
So, don't let me be afraid.
Don't let me be afraid.

The silver star of morning,
blinks down a tear from the sky.
The sun has now arisen,
the night closed its watchful eye.

The silver star of morning...
So don't let me be afraid.

The Pear Tree

She hung her gown from the pear tree,
and watched it swing.
Above the daisies ox-eyes, 
like the flapping of wings.
Through the blue marbled sky, from her chest...
And the trickling of sweat.

The midday sun slants down around her through the leaves,
like a loosening embrace.
The colors fade, and the branches creak...

The hanging gown in the pear tree 
flutters its limbs.
Turns with her breath to autumn;
The burning sky's a-beckoning.
With the song of the lark she could sing to the summer...
But it left.

The evening sun falls down around her through the leaves, 
like a loosening embrace.
The summer wanes, and the branches creak.

The hanging gown in the pear tree above her swings.
Like Earth's abandoned angel, 
loosely flapping its wings.
With the regular rise and fall of her chest.

Ill Omen

It's June and I see the woods,
The quiet pools,
The glades and blue hollows...

I saw the woods so wound with sorrow,
So don't stop, clatter on...

But it says, "Come on, come on,"
As doors swing open into lazy gardens.
"Come on, come on,
This is Love, don't go on."

And I see the perfect wife,
I can almost smell her apple breath,
and her milky dress.
She says, "Come on, come on,
This is Love, don't go on."
She says, "Come on, come on."
My iron horse, my train, 
my ghost companion.

I swoon past the pearly rooms,
and staggered roofs...
He waits for tomorrow.
I saw his lips were mouthing, "Follow...
this is Love, don't go on."
But I scream, "Come on, come on,
My iron horse, my train, 
my ghost companion.
Come on, come on!"
My iron horse clatters on.

And I feel it's heart unwind, and pull me to its gleaming breast, 
its black flesh.
It says, "Come on, come on,
Never stop, clatter on."
It says, "Come on, come on."
My iron horse.

And the June woods, and the quiet pools,
and the doors swinging open to lazy gardens,
The iron horse pumps its steam-screaming whistle...

The Horse Fair

To where, to where?
I come to you like an arrow through the night.
To where...to where...
To the hose fair.
Cutting through the breeze...
To where...to where?

I see the ribbons in her hair.
To where...to where...
To the horse fair.
Through the spring air, and the 
ribbons in her hair.

To the perfect life of a distant mind.
To where...to where...

These picture-book scenes, 
and wild seas...
To where...to where?
To nowhere...
To the horse fair;
and the ribbons in her hair.

From nowhere,
Through blissful black nothing,
like no one, to no where...
To where...to where...

A steel slow note,
slow-changing low string
To where...to where?
To the horse fair.

The ribbons in her hair.

But I am the black arrow that flies
through the night...

The Harp

Anchor Yard

She stands beneath the arching anchor yard,
and pulls her shawl around her back.
Her bandaged hands remember hooks of iron, 
hanging from the walls;
fish guts on the blue bricks, and the rain.
The autumn falls around her shoulders like the night...

And the strange songs they sang
will always go round the moss walls, 
where the hot sand crawls.

So come on mackerel days, sing with me to the waves.
We were the knives, and we were the hands...
We are the salt, and we are the sand.

We are the song of anchor yard.
Oh, come back mackerel graves, 
sing with me to the waves.
We are the song of anchor yard.