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lyrics
Then, I closed too many eyes and grew so tired,
standing by to watch the sun burn grass because it could.
And I ran like a coward between blood and raindrops:
I ran from the rage and the numb;
I ran from my own epitaph.
Changed my name, packed a fresh persona,
said a quick prayer to Saint Peseta.
Now, lizards run across my walls
and leave their tails in my hands.
I stand between the minarets and think them geese
with their long necks and high cries.
And I buy myself green mangoes
in the markets of Madras;
and call to the log-cabined Catskills:
songs of harsh guitars and hidden lust!
I cut my candle into pieces,
Burning all the ends and all the middles.
I ran to be a nomad in a momentary land:
to leave and leave until there were no new places left.
To be anywhere, but understood.
Now, I am restless, reckless and wandering,
I'm coffee-drenched to flirt
with all the madness of the night,
and I grow immune to the nicotine
and the rambling wizard, Merlot;
I grow wild in the spread of palm leaves,
fill my days with love and other vices.
Sometimes, I nearly burst
with sticky-hot dates and fire-walker fantasies.
Now, I am late-night laughter crackling through your walls -
the castanet chatter of women in cheap cafés.
I am the standing ovation
and the next, fresh, painful fall;
I am the smack of kisses in the cinematic air;
I am the pins and needles in my legs when
I stay too long in gentle, anxious arms.
I ran to be a nomad in a momentary land:
to leave and leave until there were no new places left.
To be anywhere, but understood.
Now, I pick out Scorpio scything in the darkness,
tearing up a bright, pale face between his claws;
and I see Mercury streak past it all and hear,
'You are a beach of unturned stones.'
And it's like a look,
pinning me down and out,
pulling my wings apart
to see me properly:
I'm just a sentimentalist,
saving time.
Not mad, not ill,
just frenzied and afraid,
and singing songs into bottles,
under sandalwood skies:
'Can you hear the music?'
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