A little bitching and the plague is upon us
we fools we beat the length of our absence with a jaw
and pull a coup from the mouths of our poor
these nests of nettles and copper
they settle us as lent lords even though we
often place our feet between our teeth
but, nevermind, the bodies reasons will cleverly manage
to deliver us to joy
who but a friend may take shelter
in rooms of the dead?
who buys our memories
and resells them at a profit?
who but man with eventual aliases
will be hurt in the market of oblivion?
who will lead us out of redemption?
O common bitch
you fucked up and left a bone
had you come back you'd 've
found at least one
in matters of faintest laughter
we are worse for our suspicions
we are commonplace drifting criminals
and lie to each other affectionately
on a boat named no direction.
* Gavin Bryars