don't clap it startles me
released january 2000 on skipworth records

solace / back to the trains / the true art of rebellion / wire wool / hand hold high

frank: my useless fingers cannot seal together to help me catch to falling stream of promise that scald my hands. my eyes kept down on the tourniquet of lies that stems the flow and clous my vision. we must face despair, defiant and clinging to shards of hope that cut my fingers. but whn i catch me staring at you i can't help hoping that i'll make it through. twelve straight hours with no sleep, only candlelight to guide, spilling hope hate and love, cleansing everything anew. in these moments of exhaustion, skin damp with relief, we can be each other's crutch. please never let me go. out of tears and ashes hope. i find solace in these little victories.
chris: when i forget the pain, the loss, the never ever having been there, i cling to the momentary blindness i see in others every day. but optimism isn't an option for those cursed with sight. the path is dark and uninviting, but follow it we must. treacherous fucking world - i won't be fooled again. i'll feel no pain now. never again will i crack under the pressure of this world. hope against hope, when every day the load gets heavier. but with every step i take my back grows straighter and the focus i retain will bring me to the end. i find solace in these little victories.
ben: why can't i find love, heart broken, soul destroyed. six hours with you: six weeks of pain. perhaps in time it will fade, perhaps in time it will go away. at least i'm safe from the devil in my own hell. i find solace in these little victories.
[go home]

back to the trains
frank: we used to walk these streets, heads high and back, eyes wide in wonder of what we've become. i used to have it all planned out, i used to know where i was going. "and every way you turn leads the same way" - you break the silence with these words and with a call back to the trains that drag us home by our hair. there is no sanctuary in nostalgia. i love you... i just want to melt into the dark warm living earth and find that special place i sought when i was a child playing hide and seek. here i can hide without fear of discovery. leave me alone, i'm just a child inside this empty shell, i cannot hide, i know i can't hide wihtout fear of discovery.
chris: it never ends, they never fade, these scars on my heart from self-inflicted injuries. you fucking traitress.
ben: how much longer must i see you with other before you notice me staring longingly at you. in the time it takes for one single raindrop to fall down your cheek i have said "i love you" a thousand times in my head. how much longer can i be a friend and nothing more.
[go home]

the true art of rebellion
frank: fifteen years old, i delved to discover a counter-culture, a kick against stagnation. but even within this underground i found a festering mainstream bleeding us all dry white. but i cannot feely condemn - by being here we've made a step away, but i just get so frustrated by coming acrossthis cancer. we cannot escape living by the system we hate, but we can at least disassociate. you don't even try - i see the cowardice in your eyes. piss your life away just like your fucking parents. don't just say it, fucking mean it - that is the key. fake, clutch at the old tear-stained sleeve. your pathetic conformity can only corrupt the true art of rebellion.
ben: guilty of crying, guilty of trying, guilty of caring... this is my rebellion.
chris: this scene is a wonderful tool for compassionate youth to rebel against the evils of society. but your token gesturing, rebellion squandered uselessly, brings nothing but shame upon us all.
[go home]

wire wool
frank: and the sun breaks through my nocturnal sanctuary and burns these battlements to dust, leaves me naked. the sun bleeds through my curtains like light into a womb, and i cannot say for certain whatever i would do. rise sun, burn me with hope, till i cannot crawl from cover. the sun is strong and hurts me, bleaching all my skin. i was never good at allowing this heat in. from heat to burn, from health to pain, and every part of me is sore. my skin is red, my eyes are dull, and my fingertips are numb. it's like wire wool - it looks so beautiful, crystalline, but tinged with red. i can feel in my gut that i've failed again, and broken the handful that i value. my hands are tied, my feet are weighted down [and it smashes]. it blurs as one - glass and wire - and i surrender. i'm sorry i forgot to say that everything is not ok, and i cannot find a reason to move. i'm naked but for this cover of wire wool.
ben: my eyes open and i don't move, desperation rules this broken heart. and i would not move even if pain seared through this shunned body... no pain is like that which i have felt, and i break down and cry. i carry on but i will not be happy until i die.
[go home]

hand hold high
frank: traffic stops, clocks pause, great crowds fall silent, the tv multitude lean a little closer to the screen. and then... exhale, relax, it's over. gentle eyelids softly close. at least the muscles in my neck are finally softening again. sofa's, parks and riverbanks, all glow with a little heat - the fading traces of a pssion passing through. novels, necklaces, kitsch cups, a photo of you at the station... these things i clutch at and keep them close to my heart. with these memories like cool wind on my back i grit my teeth and mofe on. the last notes of parisian autumn pianos float into corners of empty concert halls, and the air is sweet. i onyl ever wanted you to feel my hands firm on your shoulderblades and you fell back and i caught you. but somehow you kept on falling the other way. a sad smile, a squeeze of my arm, and you drift away. whatever happened to afternoons of glory wasted gently in the sun? i'm sorry i can't justify and words are not enough, so try and understand as we stretch our hands... hands held high, these innocent hands held high above our heads. but i can never be happy knowing you are sad.
[go home]