Posted 10 August 2011 - 04:01 AM
I can't pretend it gets easier, are those pills making you bitter?
Last time I saw you, you were a balloon, tied up in a string.
You don't know the ghosts of your past, whose lives you've left for dead. You're hiding under the table again, talking to a chimpanzee, a snake; spitting out the cake and watching old film on a new movie screen - but you're still so lost for thought, for inspiration, for a clue.
Post-modernist or scientist, you're running from the pain; but you'll read it in a book, where the sarcasm's not snide, it's all subtle and dry, and for once the words don't judge you, the illustrations don't whisper secrets; and even the stories you read - of glorious everydays, of troubled existence- are all muted.
Last time I saw you, you were a balloon, tied up in a string.
You don't know the ghosts of your past, whose lives you've left for dead. You're hiding under the table again, talking to a chimpanzee, a snake; spitting out the cake and watching old film on a new movie screen - but you're still so lost for thought, for inspiration, for a clue.
Post-modernist or scientist, you're running from the pain; but you'll read it in a book, where the sarcasm's not snide, it's all subtle and dry, and for once the words don't judge you, the illustrations don't whisper secrets; and even the stories you read - of glorious everydays, of troubled existence- are all muted.
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