| Neal and
        Jack and Me I'm wheels, I am moving wheels
 I am a 1952 studebaker coupe
 I'm wheels, I am moving wheels moving wheels
 I am a 1952 starlite coupe...
 En route.....les Souterrains
 Des visions du Cody...Sartori a Paris...
 Strange spaghetti in this solemn city...
 There's a postcard we're all seen before...
 Past wild-haired teens in dark clothing
 With hands-full of autographed napkins we
 eat apples in vans with sandwiches ... rush
 Into the lobby life of hurry up and wait
 Hurry up and wait for all the odd-shaped keys
 Which lead to new soap and envelopes...
 Hotel room homesickness on a fresh blue bed
 And the longest-ever phone call home.....no
 Sleep no sleep no sleep no sleep and no mad
 Video machine to eat time... a city scene
 I can't explain, the Seine alone at 4am
 The Seine alone at 4am....Neal and Jack and me
 Absent lovers, absent lovers...
 To Top
 
 HeartbeatI need to feel your heartbeat heartbeat
 so close, feels like mine
 all mine
 I need to feel your heartbeat heartbeat
 so close it feels like mine
 all mine...
 I remember the feeling
 my hands in your hair
 hands in your hair
 I remember the feeling
 of the rhythm we made
 the rhythm we made
 I need to land sometime
 right next to you
 feel your heartbeat heartbeat
 right next to me.....
 To Top Satori In Tangier
 
 Waiting Man
 I come back...come back
 you see my return
 my returning face is smiling
 smile of a waiting man...
 I be home soon soon soon
 soon cry on your shoulder
 your shoulder against my burning tears
 tears of a waiting man...
 one two three four one two three...
 I wait every moment
 I wait, wait for my chance
 I wait for my friend to say
 hello, you waiting man
 feel no fret feel no fret feel no fret
 you can wait and feel no fret
 and so I wait so I wait so I wait so I wait
 I return face is smiling
 be home soon cry on your shoulder
 tears of a waiting man
 every moment wait for my chance
 my friend say hello feel no fret
 you can wait and I wait and I wait
 and home I am...
 To Top NeuroticaGood morning, it's 3am in this great roaring
 city full of garbage eaters ravaging parking
 spots beneath my plaza window I see cheetah in their
 tight skins and tired heels all-night hippo in
 the diner crossing the street swarthy heards of young
 impala flambastic gibbon even a struggling monza
 and over there that brilliant head ornament on that
 Japanese macaque but look closely at the hammerhead hand
 in hand with the mandrill, it's a sight you're
 unlikely to see anywhere else on the planet...
 the stench and the noise, yes, yes, the howler'sresonating repertoire is not too bad when mixed with
 the more musical twern of the tropical warbler but the
 impatient taxi blare the squawking elderly ibis and
 the glass-eye snapper hawking papers I can certainly
 live without also be cautious of the poisonous
 boomslang laughter social droppings of the fruit bat
 and purple queen fish and who's that babbler conversing
 with a magazine stand? evidently he's getting a good
 reply...
 arrive in neuroticathrough neon heat disease
 I swear at the swarming heards
 I sweat the foul terrain
 I rove the moving scenery
 I have no fin
 no wing no stinger
 no claw no camouflage
 I have no more to say...
 Say...isn't that an elephant fish on the corner overthere look at that blush baby mud puppy noolbenger
 rhinoderma marmoset spring peeper shingleback skink
 siren skate starling sun-gazer spoonbill and suckers,
 they seem to be everywhere, well it's a live revue
 random animal parts now playing nightly right here in
 neurotica...
 so long...
 To Top Two HandsOh they're touching
 They're touching each other
 They're feeling
 They push and move
 And love each other, love each other
 They fit together like two hands...
 I am a facein the painting on the wall
 I pose and shudder
 And watch from the foot of the bed
 Sometimes I think I can
 Feel everything...
 The wind is blowingMy hair in their direction
 The wind is bending my hair
 There are no windows in the painting
 No open windows, no open windows, no...
 To Top The HowlerHere is the angel of the world's desire
 Placed on trial
 To hide in shrouded alley sihouettes
 With cigarette coiled
 To stike at passing voices
 Dark and suspect
 Here is the howling ire
 Here is the sacred face of rendevousIn subway sour
 Whose grand delusions prey like intellect
 In lunatic minds
 Intent and focused on
 The long thin matches
 To light the howling fire...
 No, no, not me,Burn, I don't wanna burn.....
 Requiem To Top |