I've been in a downright rotten mood lately. Despondent, unmotivated, sad and generally not giving much of a fuck. (You have no home, you have no warmth.)
I think I've figured it out. (It'll be those who gave their island to survive.)
The 6th anniversary of September 11th, 6 days belated. Denying by ignoring, that I stood there watching, smelling, 17 blocks away, gets me through the day. (The actor's gone, there's only you and me.)
Sometimes the everything of that experience takes hold of me and shakes me like a grizzly bear would if she had hold of me. Not often, but when it does, it's like nothing else except that. (They'll use up what we used to be.)
We went up on the roof this year on the 11th and took a look at the blue beacons of light that they plugged in just for the festivities. (Signals grow on radios.)
It was beautiful. I told my girl that they should just leave it on and plant grass in the footprints of the WTC and be fucking done with it. (Still waiting for the swollen Eastern tide.)
Fucking. Done. With. It. (There's no point in direction.)
Memorial. Beacon. Thing. (We cannot even choose a side.)
Way more reverent then those horrid insect-like things full of Starbucks and Office Depots that the Beaurocrats and Scumbags are trying to "design." (On the tall cliffs they were getting older.)
But they won't do that. Nope, never. (The nail sunk in the cloud.)
It'll be horrible, just like everything else. (If again the seas are silent.)
And that makes me sad. (In the thunder crash.)
This song, an "oldie," triggered this rant tonight. It played randomly, and the grizzlies took hold. (We'll say goodbye to flesh and blood.)
Peace. (Drink up.)
Listen.HERE COMES THE FLOOD
(Peter Gabriel)
"When the night shows.
The signals grow on radios.
All the strange things.
They come and go, as early warnings.
Stranded starfish have no place to hide.
Still waiting for the swollen Easter tide.
There’s no point in direction, we cannot even choose a side.
I took the old track.
The hollow shoulder, across the waters.
On the tall cliffs.
They were getting older, sons and daughters.
The jaded underworld was riding high.
Waves of steel hurled metal at the sky.
And as the nail sunk in the cloud, the rain was warm and soaked the crowd.
Lord, here comes the flood.
We'll say goodbye to flesh and blood.
If again the seas are silent.
In any still alive.
It'll be those who gave their island to survive.
Drink up, dreamers, you're running dry.
When the flood calls.
You have no home, you have no walls.
In the thunder crash.
You're a thousand minds, within a flash.
Don’t be afraid to cry at what you see.
The actors gone, there's only you and me.
And if we break before the dawn, they'll use up what we used to be.
Lord, here comes the flood.
We'll say goodbye to flesh and blood.
If again, the seas are silent.
In any still alive.
It'll be those who gave their island to survive.
Drink up, dreamers, they're running dry.
Drink up, dream up your alibi."
