Everything to Prove to the World Something: Selected Verse and Lyrics 4

See That the Summer’s Come

                                                                   

Babe, where's your smile,

Don't be a melancholy child,

Can't you see

That the summer's come?

                                                                   

Stuck in your room

With your winter curtains drawn,

While the suburbs

Are all bathed in sun.

                                                                   

No more winter time lows,

Only joy now because

We can shake off the blues,

Babe, there's no time to lose.

                                                                    

We can go for a cruise

Down the Thames

Or down the Ouse,

Or just snooze under summer's sun,

                                                                   

Find a village green,

Watch some cricket,

Take some tea, as you please,

Summer's made for fun.

                                                                   

Get some sweet summer air,

Feel the breeze in your hair,

Forget that sad old affair,

He's not worth all the tears.

                                                                   

Babe, where's your smile,

Don't be a melancholy child,

Can't you see

That the summer's come?

 

She Dear One Who Followed Me

 

It was she, bless her,

who followed me...

she’d been crying...

she’s too good for me,

that’s for sure...

“Your friends

are too good to you...

it makes me sick

to see them...

you don’t really give...

you indulge in conversation,

but your mind

is always elsewhere,

ticking over.

You could hurt me,

you know...

You are a Don Juan,

so much.

Like him, you have

no desires...

I think you have

deep fears...

There’s something so...so...

in your look.

It’s not that

you’re empty...

but that there is

an omnipresent sadness

about you, a fatality...”

 

Some Perverse Will

 

I'm a restless man

I am never

Still

I'm always spurred on

By some perverse

Will

The grass is never

Green

No peace here

To find

Some demon

Of motion's

At work within my

Mind

No bed is too soft

That I won't

Abandon

Its sweet calm

And comfort

For a softer

One

I'm a restless man

I am never

Still

I'm always spurred on

By some perverse will.

 

Some Sad Dark Secret

 

"Temper your enthusiasm,"

She said,

"The extremes of your reactions;

You should have

A more conventional frame

On which to hang

Your unconventionality."

"Don't push people,"

She said,

"You make yourself vulnerable."

 

She told me not to rhapsodise,

That it would be difficult,

Impossible, perhaps,

For me to harness my dynamism.

The tone of my work,

She said,

Is often a little dubious.

She said

She thought

That there was something wrong.

 

That I'm hiding

Some sad

Dark secret from the world.

"Temper your enthusiasm,"

She said,

"The extremes of your reactions;

You should have

A more conventional frame

On which to hang

Your unconventionality."

 

Spark of Youth Long Gone

 

Two days ago, I decided 

To realise 

Some cherished memories 

Of my beloved little pueblo; 

So I drank about five glasses 

Of Monteviejo 

In preparation for 

The rediscovery of 

The town of my heart.

Firstly, I sat in the bar 

Where I used to meet 

All my friends, 

And was assaulted 

By the prices of the drinks 

And the volume of the music. 

I searched the place 

With my eyes 

For the innocence and laughter 

Of yesteryear, but in vain.

The young people are forced 

Into tight little groups, 

So atmosphere

Is ponderous and alienating. 

Where is the fun? 

The wild and foolish socialising? 

The comic local music? 

All gone. I could cry. 

Oh, these nerves, this living death.  

I am so full of fear, 

Lethargy and fury,  

I can hardly function.

There's a lack of innocence

Of simplicity

And is this change

From deep within me?

The freedom,

The spark of youth

Is gone, 

Or have I merely lost it?

Sophistication spoils, 

The city ravages, 

Senses refined

By knowledge and wine.

 

Strange Coldness Perplexing

                                                             

the catholic nurse

all sensitive

caring noticing

everything

what can she think

of my hot/cold torment

 

always near blowing it

living in the fast lane

so friendly kind

the girls

dewy eyed

wanda abandoned me

bolton is in my hands

 

and yet my coldness

hurts

the more emotional

they stay

trying to find a reason

for my ice-like suspicion

fish eyes

coldly indifferent eyes

suspect everything that moves

 

socialising just to be loud

compensate for cold

lack of essential trust

warmth

i love them

despite myself

my desire to love

is unconscious and gigantesque

 

i never know

when i'm going to miss someone

strange coldness perplexing

i've got to work to get devotion

but once i get it

i really get people on my side

there are my people

who can survive

my shark-like coldness

and there are those

who want something

more personal

i can be very devoted to those

who can stay the course

 

my soul is aching

for an impartial love of people

i'm at war with myself.

 

Such a Short Space of Time

 

I love, not just those

I knew back then,

But those

Who were young

Back then,

But who've since

Come to grief, who,

Having soared so high,

Found the

Consequent descent

Too dreadful to bear,

With my youth itself,

Which was only

Yesterday,

No, even less time,

A mere moment ago,

How could

Such a short space

Of time

Cause such devastation?

 

Tales of a Paris Flaneur

 

Early days as a flaneur;

I recall the couple 

On the Metro

When I was still innocent 

Of its labyrinthine complexities;

Slim pretty white girl,

Clad head to toe 

In new blue denim, 

Wistfully smiling

While her muscular black beau 

Stared straight through me 

With fathomless, fulgorous orbs;

And one of them spoke 

(Almost in a whisper):

"Qu'est-ce que t'en pense?"

Then it dawned on me...

The slender young Parisienne 

With the distant desirous eyes

Was no less male than I.

 

Being screamed at in Pigalle, 

And then howled at again 

By some kind of wild-eyed 

Drifter who told me to go 

To the Bois de Boulogne to seek 

What he clearly saw as my destiny;

Getting soused in Les Halles

With Sara

Who'd just seen Dillon as

Rusty James,

And was walking around in a daze;

Sara again with Jade

At the Caveau de la Huchette.

                                                                    

Cash squandered 

On a cheap gold-plated toothbrush, 

Portrait sketched at the Place du Tertre,

Paperback books 

By Symbolist poets,

Second hand volumes 

By Trakl and Deleve,

And a leather jacket from 

The flea market

At the Porte de Clignancourt.

                                                                    

Metro taken to Montparnasse, 

Where I slowly sipped

A demi blonde

In one of those brasseries

(Perhaps)

Immortalised by Brassai;

Bewhiskered old man

In a naval officer's cap,

His table bestrewn

With empty wine bottles

And cigarette butts,

Repeatedly screeched the name

"Phillippe!" until a bartender

With patent leather hair,

Filled his wineglass to the brim,

With a mock-obsequious:

"Voila, mon Captaine!"

                                                                    

I cut into the Rue du Bac,

Traversed the Pont Royal,

Briefly beheld

Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois,

With its gothic tower,

Constructed only latterly,

In order that

The 6th Century church

Might complement

The style of the remainder

Of the 1er Arrondissement,

Before steering for the

Place du Chatelet,

And onwards...Les Halles!