My words but a whisper -- your deafness a SHOUT. I may make you feel but I can't make
you think. Your sperm's in the gutter -- your love's in the sink. So you ride
yourselves over the fields and you make all your animal deals and your wise
men don't know how it feels to be thick as a brick. And the sand-castle virtues are
all swept away in the tidal destruction the moral melee. The elastic
retreat rings the close of play as the last wave uncovers the newfangled
way. But your new shoes are worn at the heels and your suntan does rapidly
peel and your wise men don't know how it feels to be thick as a brick.
And the love that I feel is so far away: I'm a bad dream that I just had today
-- and you shake your head and say it's a shame.
Spin me back
down the years and the days of my youth. Draw the lace and black curtains and
shut out the whole truth. Spin me down the long ages: let them sing the song.
See there! A son is born -- and we pronounce him fit to fight. There are
black-heads on his shoulders, and he pees himself in the night. We'll make a
man of him put him to trade teach him to play Monopoly and to sing
in the rain.
The Poet and the painter casting shadows on the water -- as
the sun plays on the infantry returning from the sea. The do-er and the thinker: no
allowance for the other -- as the failing light illuminates the mercenary's
creed. The home fire burning: the kettle almost boiling -- but the master of
the house is far away. The horses stamping -- their warm breath clouding in
the sharp and frosty morning of the day. And the poet lifts his pen while the
soldier sheaths his sword.
And the youngest of the family is moving with
authority. Building castles by the sea, he dares the tardy tide to wash them all
aside.
The cattle quietly grazing at the grass down by the river where
the swelling mountain water moves onward to the sea: the builder of the castles
renews the age-old purpose and contemplates the milking girl whose offer is his
need. The young men of the household have all gone into service and are
not to be expected for a year. The innocent young master -- thoughts moving ever
faster -- has formed the plan to change the man he seems. And the poet
sheaths his pen while the soldier lifts his sword.
And the oldest of the family
is moving with authority. Coming from across the sea, he challenges the son who
puts him to the run.
What do you do when the old man's gone -- do you
want to be him? and your real self sings the song. Do you want to free
him? No one to help you get up steam -- and the whirlpool turns you 'way
off-beam.
LATER. I've come down from the upper class to mend your
rotten ways. My father was a man-of-power whom everyone obeyed. So
come on all you criminals! I've got to put you straight just like I did with my old
man -- twenty years too late. Your bread and water's going cold. Your
hair is short and neat. I'll judge you all and make damn sure that no-one
judges me.
You curl your toes in fun as you smile at everyone -- you meet
the stares. You're unaware that your doings aren't done. And you laugh most
ruthlessly as you tell us what not to be. But how are we supposed to see where we
should run? I see you shuffle in the courtroom with your rings upon your
fingers your downy little sidies and your silver-buckle shoes. Playing
at the hard case, you follow the example of the comic-paper idol who lets you
bend the rules.
So! Come on ye childhood heroes! Won't you rise
up from the pages of your comic-books your super crooks and show us all the
way. Well! Make your will and testament. Won't you? Join your local
government. We'll have superman for president let Robin save the day.
You put your bet on number one and it comes up every time. The other kids
have all backed down and they put you first in line. And so you finally ask
yourself just how big you are -- and take your place in a wiser world of bigger
motor cars. And you wonder who to call on.
So! Where the hell was Biggles when you needed him last Saturday? And where are all the
Sportsmen
who always pulled you through? They're all resting down in Cornwall
-- writing up their memoirs for a paper-back edition of the Boy Scout
Manual.
LATER. See there! A man is born -- and we pronounce him fit
for peace. There's a load lifted from his shoulders with the discovery of his
disease. We'll take the child from him put it to the test teach it to
be a wise man how to fool the rest.
QUOTE We will be geared to
the average rather than the exceptional God is an overwhelming
responsibility we walked through the maternity ward and saw 218 babies wearing
nylons cats are on the upgrade upgrade?
LATER In the clear white circles of morning wonder, I take my place
with the lord of the hills. And the blue-eyed soldiers stand slightly discoloured (in
neat little rows) sporting canvas frills. With their jock-straps pinching, they
slouch to attention, while queueing for sarnies at the office canteen. Saying --
how's your granny and good old Ernie: he coughed up a tenner on a premium
bond win. The legends (worded in the ancient tribal hymn) lie cradled in
the seagull's call. And all the promises they made are ground beneath the sadist's
fall. The poet and the wise man stand behind the gun, and signal for the crack
of dawn. Light the sun.
Do you believe in the day? Do
you? Believe in the day! The Dawn Creation of the Kings has begun. Soft
Venus (lonely maiden) brings the ageless one.
Do you believe in the
day? The fading hero has returned to the night -- and fully pregnant with the
day, wise men endorse the poet's sight.
Do you believe in the day? Do you?
Believe in the day!
Let me tell you the tales of your life of
the cut and the thrust of the knife the tireless oppression the wisdom instilled the desire
to kill or be killed. Let me sing of the losers who lie in the street as the last bus
goes by. The pavements are empty:
the gutters run red -- while the fool toasts
his god in the sky. So come all ye young men who are building
castles! Kindly state the time of the year and join your voices in a hellish
chorus. Mark the precise nature of your fear. Let me help you pick up your
dead as the sins
of the father? are fed with the blood of the fools and the
thoughts of the wise and from the pan under your bed. Let me make you a
present of song as the wise man breaks wind and is gone while the fool with
the hour-glass is cooking his goose and the nursery rhyme winds
along. So! Come all ye young men who are building castles! Kindly
state the time of the year and join your voices in a hellish chorus. Mark the
precise nature of your fear. See! The summer lightning casts its bolts upon
you and the hour of judgement draweth near. Would you be the fool
stood in his suit of armour or the wiser man who rushes clear. So! Come on
ye childhood heroes! Won't your rise up from the pages of your
comic-books your super-crooks
and show us all the way. Well! Make
your will and testament. Won't you?
Join your local government. We'll have
superman for president let Robin save the day. So! Where the hell was
Biggles when you needed Him last Saturday? And where were all the Sportsmen
who always pulled you through? They're all resting down in Cornwall -- writing
up their memoirs for a paper-back edition of the Boy Scout Manual.
OF
COURSE So you ride yourselves over the fields and you make all your
animal deals and your wise men don't know how it feels to be thick as a
brick.