The birth of sound

Rose coloured scenes of you in Marakesh or Barcelona,

You're strolling down the avenues and shopping on Las Ramblas.

Would you be there?

With a bandana in your long blonde hair.

Movie scenes of you in some Parisian cafe.

You're reading Sartre, smoking seven packs a day.

Could you be there?

A beret covers your short black hair.

Would you write me a letter when you go to see the Louvre?

“Art is a lie that helps us all to see the truth.”

I can see you there.

A beret covers your short red hair.

Warholian nightmares of you in NYC,

When you're really drunk, selling yourself for money.

You're so high you don't care.

There's red streaks in your short blonde hair.

Hazey days with you in Prague,

When you're stumbling round and staring at the stars.

You're so drunk you don't care,

That you have flowers in your hair.

Melancholic dreams of some mountain far away.

You'd write “Now I see why all the Buddist's pray,

But if you were there,

There would be snow in your dusty blond hair.”

Post-modern takes on rose coloured scenes.

Chasing dream after dream of things that have never been.

You are not there.

There's nothing in your hair.

*

Put a mark upon the page,

Sculpt it around until you find

A simple explanation for these simple crimes.

Put your soul onto the stage,

Put your heart into a play,

To explain the way you've always felt inside.