A spider wanders aimlessly within the warmth of a shadow |
| Not the regal creature of border caves |
| But the poor, misguided, directionless familiar |
| Of some obscure Scottish poet |
The mist crawls from the canal |
| Like some primordial phantom of romance |
| To curl, under a cascade of neon pollen |
| While I sit tied to the phone like an expectant father |
| Your carnation will rot in a vase. |
A train sleeps in a siding |
| The driver guzzles another can of lager |
| To wash away the memories of a Friday night down at the club |
She was a wallflower at sixteen |
| She'll be a wallflower at thirty four |
| Her mother called her beautiful |
| Her daddy said, "A whore". |
The sky was Bible black in Lyon |
| When I met the Magdalene |
| She was paralysed in a streetlight |
| She refused to give her name |
And a ring of violet bruises |
| They were pinned upon her arm. |
| Two hundred francs for sanctuary and she led me by the hand |
| To a room of dancing shadows where all the heartache disappears |
| And from glowing tongues of candles I heard her whisper in my ear |
| 'J'entend ton coeur |
| I can hear your heart |
It's getting late, for scribbling and scratching on the paper |
| Something's gonna give under this pressure |
| And the cracks are already beginning to show |
| It's too late |
| The weekend career girl never boarded the plane |
| They said this could never happen again |
| So wrong, so wrong |
This time it seems to be another misplaced rendezvous |
| This time, it's looking like another misplaced rendezvous |
| With you |
| The parallel of you, you |
On the outskirts of nowhere |
| On the ring road to somewhere |
| On the verge of indecision |
| I'll always take the roundabout way |
| Waiting on the rain |
| For I was born with a habit, from a sign |
| The habit of a windswept thumb |
| And the sign of the rain |
| It's started raining |