Every time the sky opens up,
says 'welcome back',
you can either thank the sun
for its return,
for its determination
to glow, to burn -
for the warmth, on those better days,
which strokes the skin
and sets the pace
so every time we close our eyes
all we see are blue, blue skies...
Or you can roll over in bed,
feel it's morning,
die inside.
Avoid mirrors and coffee spoons;
take your caffeine,
see no purpose.
Take too much: the nerves get nervous.
No intention of a good strong day,
live to love to waste away.
Anxiety weighs a fucking ton -
molten metal inside boiling chests,
crying shoulder blades,
and burning breasts.
Mist lives in the eye of the consumer;
money is pretty, the television is on.
Just the same melancholy song:
"'nineteen dead in what is believed to be...", "the Prime Minister's controversial decision to...", "British national shot dead in..." -
When did this all start? Did it
ever really begin,
or fade
the way the sun does
at the end of the day, slipping
behind the horizon;
another world it goes to brighten.
Now what was it about the sun -
Oh yes! it's determination
to glow, to burn...
Now that must be enough,
it will be, must me,
to work the courage up
to look in mirrors,
look in the eyes of strangers.
Turn the television off,
rip out the plug, shut it up.
Step outside, rain or shine;
a hail storm couldn't keep us,
a thunder storm is nothing but
a little light, a little noise.
Let it strike, let it go.
Electric world, electric world.
