Oh come away from the day, here I stay. Living on the bottom of the sea. Down metal snake corridors steely grey. Engines hum for nobody but me. No sound comes from the sea above me.
I got a letter; it came in the mail today. I saw by the stamp it was written an ocean away. No need to open it, I know what it must say. Ill just go back to the dream I was having.
When the cock crows. And the wind blows. And the primrose of dawn. Is at your windows. Moving through the deep. You chase dreams across your sleep. Scarecrows, waiting at your door.
When I get even more old than I am now. I'll have a house overlooking the water. I'll read all the books that I never got 'round to. Pile my suitcases up in the corner.
It's a shame about Stalin, the curator said. He really was one of the best. Just look at the detail on that head. Too bad to melt him down with the rest.
Indian summer, the shops are shuttered and the crowds are gone. The souvenir sellers are moving on. Like summer lovers. Indian summer. . The earth is cracked beneath the midday sun.
Oh I come from Pittsburgh to study astrology. She said as she stepped on my instep. I could show you New York with a walk between Fourth Street and Nine.
Nothing that's forced can ever be right. If it doesn't come naturally, leave it. That's what she said as she turned out the light. And we bent our backs as slaves of the night.
Oh, kid you're in a terrible state. You better pick yourself up before it gets too late. You're into phyiscal fitness and emotional fatness. You think you're an actress, you act like a mattress.
It's a good day. for going to sea. Hanno the Navigator said to me.. There's an open sky and a steady breeze. out beyond the Pillars of Hercules.. Above the foam-kissed waves seagulls scream.
Torn between the Gypsy and the Rose. . I was led on I suppose. For the Gypsy was always out of reach. I crossed her palm with silver just to know. What the future had to hold.
Gina in the King's Road, 1968. Blonde hair and eyeshadow, I hyperventilate. Purple leather mini, legs up to there. Don't you cast aspersions on my naugahyde affair.
With your photographs of Kitty Hawk. And the biplanes on your wall. You were always Amy Johnson. From the time that you were small. No schoolroom kept you grounded.
In the center of the field. stands the favorite player. The ball comes floating in. They say a silent prayer for him. . Fifty yards away. A minute left to go.
His flying jacket still has her perfume. Memories of the night. Play across his mind. High above the fields of France. . A single biplane in a clear blue sky.
And in the evening when the day goes down. She leaves the bright house lights. Stands and watches with her coat pulled around. At torches light the western skies.
There is an independent book store. the last one that remained. all the othres you might look for. have been eaten by the chains. the soldier on. on one cleans the windows panes.
Shots split the night, a bullet lodged in his brain. He must have died instantly, he felt no pain. A crowd quickly gathered to the feast of the gun. Waiting for the ambulance and cops to come.
The sun is going down across the great unknown. Lights come on inside the towers made of stone. A muffled drum plays out of sight and all alone. Summer is over.
Across the western world. The fights are going down. The gypsy armies of the evening. Have lit their fires across. The nether side of town. They will not pass this way again.