09-20-2011, 12:24 PM
Oh dear, oh dear, Barbara's been raped behind the post office.
As we finished our spag bolls, drained china cups and sighed.
The music floating over roofs, in back yards, among dustbins,
which signifies another day with Mrs. Green the landlady,
her gay son still acting butch, his boyfriend, whose sister's a whore,
is a nihilistic song hummed by mermaids on the rocks:
"No matter what we do, children, nasty men will take our lives,
frame us for crimes we couldn't dream, and happiness is like a thought
half-realised during the night, when even savages must rest."
Mother and child meet at last in the doorway of a pub.
But no relief will be granted. Towards them both two headlights run.
There's always some ludicrous reason for pain.
As we finished our spag bolls, drained china cups and sighed.
The music floating over roofs, in back yards, among dustbins,
which signifies another day with Mrs. Green the landlady,
her gay son still acting butch, his boyfriend, whose sister's a whore,
is a nihilistic song hummed by mermaids on the rocks:
"No matter what we do, children, nasty men will take our lives,
frame us for crimes we couldn't dream, and happiness is like a thought
half-realised during the night, when even savages must rest."
Mother and child meet at last in the doorway of a pub.
But no relief will be granted. Towards them both two headlights run.
There's always some ludicrous reason for pain.
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe