1. |
Pass Between Houses
03:53
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Eyes forward, forward step.
The temptation divides to spite itself.
“Oh, where I go, actuation rules.
Vacate the room. Your signs are grieving.”
I saw, through a great whirlwind,
unknown stations laid still as time was shaking.
“Oh, will I know agitations bloomed,
raised true? A light without envy—”
“How, when faced with demons and foulness?”
I see it now!
In cities robbed of their wreaths,
grasping at outlines of accelerating imagery,
proceed, take action, and protect your reverie.
Pass between houses; reject expectant history.
“Alone, I strive. I have no brothers.
Anticipation defines our fight for life—“ Lies!
We cease loping forward; as you stand, you are.
I see it now!
I see it frame the Real, arising:
You say, you will, arising.
Say you ‘will’, and the ‘will’ is right!
Say what you will, or our lives run aground.
You say, you will: it’s so good!
Say what you will, or our lives run aground.
You say, you will, and the will is right.
Say “you will.” I say: “Alright!”
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2. |
Theatre for Change
06:07
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Streetlights survey the room.
His ashes circulate the parquet,
spill like wine.
Go long, go on.
The vectors wind.
*
In houses at night, where the theatre comes in,
through singing kitchens
where our stakes in the world are reclaimed,
in with bad academics, slouched
at the window there, there where I
kissed you and the tin-foil melted,
stuck to the beams, our hair was rushes
there, where the rushing felt like home.
And in our rushing,
are seeds propelled
as the jerking and the yelling
of the sad casinos intensifies?
Are our lives
going missing in a dust cloud
out there?
**
Where?
So close. Our lines leapt and bound
like smoke.
**
It happened innocently
when you offered your hand—
searchlight cast across wreckage
for stillness,
—wishing for a settlement
some miles from the stage.
New theatre for change:
love song with roots renovated
to wrap around arms.
That night was a terror:
outsourced, in the waiting room!
“As peace expired, clung to my side,
I saw vile doctors shout ‘CRIMINAL’,
(certified by knives)
and the short one said ‘HANDS WHERE I
CAN SEE THEM’,
while drifting away,
and in his wisdom, turned pagan to soil in the spinning heat—“
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3. |
Real Home
03:21
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Real independence is what?
We lie out, like sleeping z’s; like swans.
Real fevers are in orbit: the real
engines go forever on.
How do, real alleluia?
To home through the fog.
A dell of respite.
A walk in the park?
Smell of inside.
Damned if I don’t aspire
to wild boasts that police
our strange lives;
I cross and wind to you.
Smell of inside.
A vault through the night?
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4. |
Treat Me a Stranger
00:44
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The message, though simple,
is hanging on the line
I don’t know why
And the clouds smoke the sky
And you treat me a stranger
And I can’t go on
The sun has gone
And I miss you
I’m half-dead
And I can’t make the bed
And you treat me a stranger
And I can’t go on
So I tried to write you this message
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5. |
Utopia of Bog
04:57
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As the working day decays, and the city-song starts to bleat,
won't you take your turn, return upon the heath?
It has no images, or signs.
A home, a range,
all peace-like, to aerate your brains.
It doesn't change.
As peat soils drink carbon up from the wild country air
all at once, in silence,
will their vastness save us all from our history,
kept once and for all from its tide?
Caught outside!
Will a hook, that I free,
cast off galleon, catch on
the deep behind the deep?
On the past foaming underground;
on the last crimes of the paramount
that made up our lives?
Utopia of bog: if you could just
whisper, then I would run
straight into your arms.
I'm terrified!
To have withstood these ordeals...
To press the vapours underfoot,
to mask the trial of having withstood;
would it be alright,
reborn like a parallel of God?
Will a hook, that I seek,
set our hearts by some new device
without wrongs?
Will a hook? Will a hook
replace this darkness with something
alive, or not?
Will a hook, direct
as a child, cry out?
(As if words were invented
to be drowned by marsh
then rectified)
The heath, till the heath;
a terrible portent;
(Cry out)
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6. |
Void Attentive
02:45
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7. |
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When you say things I can’t express
When thought does a runner, and I get distressed
My love, let’s take the stage tonight
There’s fear in the heart that the taking dispels
My heart longs to bring you news of something else
Beyond the mirror, it’s a chaos: we’ve got to brace ourselves,
but outside, we’ll see a half-moon smile
It seems by love my life is rectified
It seems by love my life does right
Answering you
Just like we were meeting again
On the curb with our heads spent
On the stairs of a basement
At a crossroads in Europe
In a lake with your hair up
Always the first time
One deepening encounter
We don’t have to yawn, withdraw when it gets dark
Leave the rubbish, leave the dishes and let the sink block
The night’s young, but still it’ll take too long
We don’t have to trudge on, left, right—
You know I used to be hostile, and I felt so alone
But you shook me, you said: “Don’t be foolish!
You can’t hide— no don’t you moan— just
stay at my side! Just look at that sky tonight!”
The moon made wishbone trails on the water
You said: “Do you have the time?”, and time multiplied
We said: “Let’s stay awhile— it feels right”,
but pulling at the breach, with wild wind hair
were our futures impressing on the world,
impressing on the world,
impressing on the world,
impressing on the world—
If we could see it take
The shape of our image
The shape of our image
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8. |
the Kiss
09:46
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I like to boast
with you waltzing around.
“Can’t you see those fictional listeners?
Do you hear me?”
Out corralling ghosts,
the brushfires pace through the fog.
But feeling you trace my hips,
it dawns on me I am a stranger
to my senses, to my sight.
No work-around: this is the arrow, this is the flight.
But what names can I give that don’t
conceal their course like crimes?
No work-around; no imitation life.
The chorus falls backward; the put-ons expire—
The record isn’t real.
But so what?
Just to say that I like that. Wonderful.
So much
I have lost to a great noise.
**
Out of the writhing, westbound evening,
exhumed, exhumed
idol of meaning, engraved
caught on a gesture made just for you.
Bold as a shop-steward, I took your arm
and we made our exit (we were heading for the coast),
but were then separated not fifty yards from our posts.
In a maelstrom, I fell or melted.
Outside was windswept. Red foxes hovered.
Clave of thorns; fanfare of lawns.
I held your image like a lantern (side-on
and dimming).
Fences rattled like phantoms.
Phantom hour, where the dead run amok
and so I reached out looking for you,
and then a voice said:
"YOU CAN'T COME IN. NO NORTH, NO COURSE."
I reached out a second time, and the voice said:
"YOU CAN'T COME IN. NO NORTH, NO COURSE."
I reached out a third time, and the voice said:
"YOU CAN'T COME IN. NO NORTH, NO COURSE."
I reached out a last time, and the voice said — nothing,
as the fever revealed some promise,
we begin to see ourselves,
begin to see ourselves...
(I like that…)
**
A kiss, a kiss.
Fountain of memory
brings words to you,
my coastline, my parallel.
“You were selfish. Cast nets
to catch on simple things you could have simply touched.
Performance vessel. Oh, love of mine,
is our love a vessel? To dress with sails, to drive?
The flowers throw your veils down, and still they thrive.”
Far on, far out, the flower is singing,
unheld, far on, far out, the silence is singing,
like stone, far out, the silence is singing,
unheld — far out — like stone — a kiss —
our lives — unheld — far out —
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9. |
He Had Always Led
04:45
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Outstanding home
where the decades sat proud,
flat as Bibles.
I put trust in our pictures,
so we didn’t have to speak.
You know, I harboured true affection.
No poems.
You were warm soil,
you were steeples and domes.
The rest, kept encased
in our system. I played my bit part.
And when He took you,
and the stillness ignited—
life companions— we split like a stone.
Spilt colours from unborn summers,
when I thought that I knew you,
when the world seemed much wiser.
**
Double vision: the living room splits, and I see
something withheld, something wild —
I stand swaying, my tethers undone.
Oh, my selfish quiet, my proud silence.
For you, only now do words come
at your window, hidden in oils, I’ve run aground.
At your window—
it is not something— it is not reversible.
My selfish peace, undoing. So come back now;
hidden in oils, I’ve run aground.
At your window, hidden in oils, I’m full of life.
So come back now,
hidden in oils, there are two homes now;
home for you, come back,
come back,
for one last
take
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Kiran Leonard England, UK
Click the link for discog (strands) guide
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