The Channel

Artists : Ballydowse : The Channel

How many mornings lay against their evenings
With nothing worth remembering in between
The last dune rises in the lower glass
One pull would snap these bracelets clean
Walk me to the edge of no returning
Let the hands lead the tongue into unlearning
The likes of which my eyes have never seen

The gates of the Bastille hang from their hinges
No more waiting for the living to begin
Lather me from head to toe in sheep fat
For the cold dark channel I shall swim

What do you offer that we really need
What do you starve- what do you feed?
Artless forms untouched by craft
No potter's breath just industrial craft
Technicians fill our empty feeders
With bits of business from producing theatres
We're consumed and all the junk remains

The gates of the Bastille hang from their hinges
Cut the cords of possessions from my neck
Toss your scepter in mud, Otto of Brunswick
Naked we will walk from this wreck

The chains of shallow solutions
Protect arrogance from the persecutions
Without which Faith will surely die
Look full in the eyes that suffer
The fighter is the only lover
One pull would snap these bracelets clean

The gates of the Bastille hang from their hinges
Run out beyond their swaying pipes so strong
We sleep not with crusaders or cynics
We'll wake tomorrow in the rain where we belong