1. |
Celluloid Rain
05:33
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I dreamt of the rain last night.
Restless fireflies settled down in a pond of silver.
I try to keep the sky from caving in
by pulling on the frayed, silver strings.
And, all the slow shadows are slipping in.
Celluloid rain dripping down on celluloid loins.
Celluloid rain dripping down on these android limbs.
The city is humming to the hollow tune.
I dreamt of the rain again last night.
The rain revealing secrets soiled by the sun,
as the street retreats into grey rags.
I move, with caution ease, through the thunderstorm.
Then, run rings around the moon as all the silver rays are running out.
Celluloid rain dripping down on celluloid loins.
Celluloid rain dripping down on these android limbs.
The city is humming to the hollow tune.
I dreamt my way across the city, from west 98th and Broadway to Brooklyn in a blunt second.
From the rim of the Pacific to the banks of the Thames
at the blink of an eye.
Celluloid rain dripping down.
I was somewhere on Avenue A when the rain hit, and the reel broke off.
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2. |
Cobalt Note
03:36
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Riding on the sun ship
through the waves of gold dust
awaiting the weight of dusk.
Riding on the sun ship
driven on spindrift wishes.
Through the mercury years,
through the crimson skies,
the eloped echo flies.
A golden ghost ship through the mist,
I’m in it, silver stars in my pocket.
Through the waves of lunar dust
I wade knee-deep in cobalt dreams.
Through the mercury years,
through the crimson skies,
the eloped echo flies.
Went the rounds, kicked the clouds.
Went the rounds, kicked the clouds.
Through the mercury years.
Through the crimson skies.
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3. |
Synchronicity
05:07
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Computer guy conducting the head-phone symphony,
coaxed by chaos within the cash-register cacophony.
The day drips and melts into a mega-cycle of monotony.
At beat one, bar two, a crooked chord sets my spinal cord on fire.
Then, the next note is provided by the subway choir - an iron dove
desiring to drift ever higher.
I’m just a cockroach rebel in the clam-soup kitchen.
To the cocktease bitches, I’m a real rogue kingpin.
Headless, limbless, like a torso trapped in time.
Tangled up in the weave as the threads start to unwind.
This is the zone, where it all starts and stops.
This is the zone, where the dice rolls and the coin drops.
This is the zone where I’m prone to dance to the deep drone.
I’m calm like death in the old Colfax Country courthouse ,
where the damned danced in despair with the devil’s spouse.
Under duress I must confess, I’m thrilled by that carcass caress.
There are few thrills to be had for a pawn in this game of chess.
Though I smell secrets in this sacred space as I kneel,
I follow you down, moved along by another turn of the wheel.
I’m just a cockroach rebel in the clam-soup kitchen.
To the cocktease bitches, I’m a real rogue kingpin.
Headless, limbless, like a torso trapped in time.
Tangled up in the weave as the threads start to unwind.
This is the zone, where it all starts and stops.
This is the zone, where the dice rolls and the coin drops.
This is the zone where I’m prone to dance to the deep drone.
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4. |
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If the world ends tonight, we’ll have front row seats.
The sky split open by cut-throat daggers that pierce the sea with fierce joy.
If the world ends tonight and the roaring sea sings a rowdy chanty,
we’ll chant with the winds until curtain call.
Under the sky of this make-belief city, the make-shift houses of worship
shelter the pagan and believer both.
I move through the streets, from stem to stern, at the blink of an eye.
The city is lifted, pushed by the pillars of light.
If the world ends tonight and the roaring sea sings a rowdy chanty,
we’ll chant with the winds until curtain call.
We’ll chant with the Tramontana winds
If the world ends tonight and the roaring sea sings a rowdy chanty,
we’ll chant with the winds until curtain call.
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Meerkeime Bergen, Norway
Meerkeime is Bo Vibe, chordsmith and wordsmith backed up by a global village people of troubadours who've had their hands in
snooty jazz projects, electronic noise making, classic rock-posturing and too much (and unsavoury) else too mention.
Sounds like marooned sailors wooing maidens of ill repute in a back-alley behind the ruins of a burnt-out opera house.
... more
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