I've got a place inside me where I'm seeking self-knowledge
Where I think about my life and what I feel
And you're not supporting me if you disagree
with what I feel, you're attacking me for real
I've had some bruising battles in my fight for self-fulfillment
So I can feel what it feels to be a Haitian
You don't have to be in chains or blown up to know pain
You don't have to be in Bosnia to suffer devastation
I'm trying to meditate but I'm dying of headache
Oh why can't Mario put a muffler on that mower?
Flora's scratching the finish on my new designer tub
and Pedro couldn't do the pool any slower
I understand El Salvador 'cause it's just like my life
I mean we're all victims one way or another
But the hispanics that work for me don't seem to like my company
Must be playing out some drama with their mothers
Jim Morrison might have written a song for you but I won't
He was a big fat rock star who liked 'em hot
He might have had a poem for you but I don't
'Cause he was almost brain-dead and I'm not
I wonder if women are from Venus and men from Mars
I wonder if it's me or just L.A.
I wonder if I'm a woman who runs with wolves
I wonder if I should just run away
Instead of making Coke ads I could be taking soul vitamins
I could fine-tune my creative core and psychic alinement
Yes, I could take that cut in pay and get out of L.A.
Sell the Porsche and just say no to my soul's confinement
But I can't find anything but my face on a map
I can't find anything but my life in a book
I can't find anything but my pain in a painting
And when I can't find that it's not worth a second look
Jim Morrison might have written a song for you but I won't
He was a big fat rock star and I'm not
He might have had a poem for you but I don't
'Cause he was almost brain-dead and I'm not
Jim Morrison might have written a song for you but I won't
He might have touched your soul with a load of lyric rot
Yes he might have had a way with words that I don't
But he's six feet under in Père Lachaise and I'm not
The valley was her sweeping arms
The river was her rippling fingers
The hole was her swirling soul so deep
And her cast an emerald gaze so sweet
It lands lightly
and lightly lingers
The line was a life of longing
The fly was her dancing disdain
The hook was relief for an overflowing heart
And the barb was her flesh poured like art
Poured like mountains
Poured like rain
He rose for a casual taste or a touch
He let instinct go to hell
He circled and dipped and nibbled and slipped
and the lure finally caught his lip
He swallowed
Hook, line and green-eyed belle
The duel went on for an eon
for the barb locked her deep in his gut
He shimmied and shimmered in his cool, clear river
Diving to keep what he couldn't give her
still he wanted to die
when the line she did cut
Oh green-eyed belle
How could you give up?
The line was a life of longing
The fly was her dancing disdain
Her hook was relief for an overflowing heart
Now she's inside him till death does its part
Poured like a river
Poured like rain
Oh green-eyed belle
Come fishing again
J'ai un chien
Il est beau comme un dieu
Mais ce chien n'a rien
De la grâce de tes yeux
Corinne Corinne
Dis-moi comment tes yeux
Corinne Corinne
Sont devenus si bleus
J'ai une jument bordeaux
Elle a un cou comme une reine
Mais devant l'éclat de ta peau
Mon palefroi peint est blême
Corinne Corinne
Dis-moi comment ça se fait
Corinne Corinne
Que tu sois si satinée
Mais si tu ne me prends plus dans tes bras, mamour, je vais mourir de froid
J'ai un agneau noir
Tout pur, tout petit
Mais cet ange n'a rien
De la noblesse de ton esprit
Corinne Corinne
Dis-moi comment ton essence
Corinne Corinne
Transcende toute connaissance
J'ai un loup blanc
Il chante comme Caruso
Mais son aria s'efface
Devant ton bel canto
Corinne Corinne
Je ne pense qu'a toi
Corinne Corinne
Je n'entends que ta voix
Et si tu ne penses plus à moi, je vais mourir de désarroi
Et si tu ne me prends plus dans tes bras, mamour, je vais mourir de froid
Oh malheureuse, sirène sabordeuse ! Oh ma fille, vilaine savoureuse !
Si tu ne me prends plus dans tes bras, mamour, je vais mourir de froid
My little man talks like a tango
My little man walks like a waltz
My little man balks when I try to lead
for fear that my step prove false
Her voice is smoke and honey,
a sigh rising from the deep
Her song is an aching invocation
to stand at her cliff and leap
She scrapes me broken and beat off the street, fills my cold holes with her healing heat, like a triumph of will, she will, I will... Yes
She's the gnawing ache dripping disdain for fate
She's the lack of in-between between living and dying;
My little man is a siren with a song of asylum, cutting short my reedy breath
The black forest, the dark rose resistant, in the way, in the way of day to day death
My little man laughs with her eyes
My little man dances with her hands
My little man eats like an orphan
and my little man drinks like sand
My little man is an ocean
and her eyes are the darkest wells
daring me to dive in
and lose myself in her swells
And the mescal flows with an odor of urgency leading to bourbon and beer
until manic delight is drowned by the night, breeding a fragrance of fear
And my little man wonders if I'm lying, wonders if we're an indecent sight
in a city crying with bodies flying, she wonders if a kiss is right...
And while I pray the Lord my soul she'll keep, a bomb goes off at my feet
and my little man dances and dives and runs and fires and slides
I take one in the chest and she takes me inside and flushes my flesh with desire and pride,
with the blood of my wound... wonders if it's love or the moon...
My little man wonders... if she kissed me too soon
My little man feeds me her heart
because she sees me too thin
My little man suckles me with her mind
and wraps me up in her skin
From Helsinki to Hell to Her I sail
battling sleaze, sleet, snow and hail
And every day as I make my way
I thank the gods my little man is female
For my little man is an ocean
and her eyes are the darkest wells
daring me to dive in
and lose myself in her swells
Yes her voice is smoke and honey,
a sigh rising from the deep
and her song is the sweetest incantation
to ever penetrate my sleep
Ils ne prennent pas le métro
Ils comprennent mal les rues
Un café en retard peut leur coller le cafard
et l'eau du robinet les tue
Ils vont à la gym pour parler anglais
Ils prennent du gin et des cachets de bien
Leur peau, ils la font parfaire au papier de verre
et ils la découpent quand elle ne gaine plus rien
Quand on est riche on est différent
On a plus d'argent qu'autrui
On a de la terre par l'arrière grand-mère
et l'argent allonge nos viesQuand vous êtes riche vous êtes différents
Vous avez plus d'argent que nous
Vous êtes inodores et la mort vous ignore
et tout le monde veut être vous
Ils ont un labrador "yellow"
et leurs enfants ont la vie sans boutons
Leurs garçons ont des dents comme des pianos
et leurs filles ont des nez comme des bouchons
Quand ils sont bons, ils sont marrants
Quand ils sont mauvais, ils peuvent faire de la peine
Et quand ils sont mécontents, ils sont effrayants
Mais ils s'abstiennent de faire des scènes
Quand on est riche on est différent
On a plus d'argent qu'autrui
On a des grandes baignoires et une maison à Dinard
et des enfants qui sont riches aussi
Quand vous êtes riches vous êtes différents
Vous avez plus d'argent que nous
Vous ne tâtez pas la poubelle ni la vaisselle
Des étrangers font ça pour vous
Quand on est...
Quand vous êtes...
O Dieu, trouve-moi du crack qui dure et dure et dure
Contre la sottise qui nous enlise, Dieu trouve-moi des murs
Une drogue qui ne fait pas mal, mon Dieu, je la cherche toujours
Car le mensonge qui serre nos cœurs, mon Dieu, a toujours libre cours:
Remplaçons l'intelligence par la loi du marché
Mettons le profit devant l'humanité
Le socialisme est défunt, cédons à nos vrais instincts
Au diable l'idée d'améliorer la société
O Dieu, trouve-moi une amour qui dure et dure et dure
Contre l'immondice du monde odieux, trouve-moi quelque chose de pur
Une amour qui écrase l'exécrable, mon Dieu, je la cherche toujours
Car la faim profonde, mon Dieu, elle a toujours libre cours :
Mangeons, mangeons, mangeons, avant que l'écume nous écrase
Vive le réinvestissement des bénéfices pour en tirer davantage
Vendons, vendons, vendons tant qu'il y a de la matière de base
Avant qu'il n'y ait plus rien à prendre, vendons tout et sans gage...
Comment ne pas être, mon Dieu, malade de rage?
Le fruit de vos profits sont vos excès dépravés –
Vos Yamamotos moches à 12 000 le complet
Que vos impôts montent pour éponger cette honte ;
Que vos commerces crêvent pour tous vos péchés
D'un lac d'arrogance coule un fleuve d'oppulence à prendre et à rediriger
Il y a un amas d'âmes à irriguer et un marché malfaiteur à noyer décapité
Comment ne pas être, mon Dieu, infecté?
J'ai enfin les bras cassés à force de câliner des nuées, comme l'autre disait...
J'ai enfin le ventre troué, par tout ce spleen ravalé, par toutes ces vies brisées...
par le pouls palpitant du profit débridé qui prend l'avant devant l'humanité
par la carence de décence et de vérité : J'ai l'âme échinée par le désir outré
Salisseurs de cerveaux, prêtres de l'échec
saboteurs de visées intellectuelles
Il faut vous déconstruire vos gueules et vous faire lire vos têtes
selon le très, très vrai George Orwell
Des faits peuvent être établis et selon Antonio Gramsci :
La vérité est toujours révolutionnaire
Dire qu'on ne peut pas la connaître, que la chercher est faux et traître
c'est embrasser un cul de sac autoritaire
Ce n'est pas facile de s'échapper – héroïne, naphtaline et le foot à la télé
L'amour physique et la musique beatnique, le grand sommeil ou bien une bouteille...
une belle dose des quatre roses,
ou bien, mon Dieu – goujat odieux : Du rosé, du rosé
J'ai enfin les bras cassés à force de câliner des nuées
J'ai enfin le ventre troué, par tout ce spleen ravalé, par l'amour remué...
par l'usure de la vomissure qui tire un trait entre nous et Dieu
par la haine sans pause d'une vie sans cause et les vœux piteux de la soif de mieux
par le pouls palpitant du profit débridé qui prend l'avant devant l'humanité
par la carence de décence et de vérité : J'ai l'âme assommée par le désir outré
words to this song are a combination of two poems by Dorothy Parker:
"Résumé" and "The Trifler"
For you happy believers, death is just a step
But the moment that step's been taken
lifeless slumber is all you get
Once you're dead you never awaken
So start a nuclear war; take that righteous risk
Push the button with a smile on your face
But once we've all been burned to a crisp
we'll all go to the same place... and that's nowhere
>>
No you won't be sitting on the right hand of God
or come back as something soft and furry
You'll just decay and rot away under the sod
if you're lucky enough to be buried
So strap that bomb to your body if you must
and be a kamikaze sensation
But once you've been blown to bits of dust
there'll be no heaven, hell or transmigration... just nowhere
>>
Now we all know life on earth is trial and toil
sound and fury, hard huffing and puffing
But when you've given up the old mortal coil
there's nothing left for you but nothing
So you can drink your bible and eat your koran
Wage war against the worldling sinner
Expel the infidel from your land if you can
But when you die you're just another worm's dinner... nowhere
>>>>
When you die you don't go to heaven
You don't even go to hell
There's no foul fiend or fiery furnace
no angels, harps or bells
There's no salvation or life ever after
once you finally stop breathing
It would be so nice just to go around twice
But it's over when your heart stops beating
Quand les anges renverseront leurs coupes de colère
dans l'air, dans la mer et sur la terre
Quand nos aïeux nourris à l'hostie auront compris
le secret de notre péché mystère
Quand ils se mettront à ronger ta chair
Quand ils boiront ton sang mon frère
Alors tu sentiras la flamme humide de ma langue
de feu caresser ta crinière
Et je t'aimerai et tu m'aimeras
Et cet amour, mon amour, te libèrera
Quand l'ardante Absinthe, l'étoile amère
sera tombée pour infecter les eaux
et que les astres aux cieux seront cachés à tes yeux
par un mur de fumée et de fléaux
Quand tu seras porté disparu dans la nuit infinie
d'une guerre infiniment perdue
Je serai sur le rivage pour te cueillir de l'orage
et soulager ton corps battu
Et je t'aimerai et tu m'aimeras
Et cet amour, mon amour, te libèrera
Quand les anges renverseront leurs coupes de colère
Quand le sang gonflera les fleuves
Quand on aura couché la terre sous des draps d'ulcères,
de soufre et de couleuvres
Quand dans une brume assoiffée tu seras longtemps poussé
par un vent aride andalou
Quand tu seras fouetté et piraté du sommeil
par les typhons qui tomberont de partout
Quand la mer bouillonne et que ses conques sonnent
Quand ses lames auront tout écorché
Quand elle aura ravi ton équipage au sombre naufrage
dans le ventre de sa saumure affamée
Quand ses flots jailliront à bord, que tu perdras le Nord
et que ton corps ne sentira plus rien
Alors ma voix prendra la barre et te ramènera du large
pour unir ton pauvre cœur au mien
Tu m'entendras et ma voix te sauvera des eaux
Tu m'aimeras et ta foi m'amènera ton radeau
Ce chant est une promesse d'une cascade des caresses, la chaleur pour l'éternité
Car je t'aimerai, toujours, loin des flots
Tu es le cœur qui sera réanimé
par le bruit de mon chœur de minuit
Ravivé par mon eau de vie
Restauré par une nuit dans mon puits
Je suis la plume qui trace ton sillon
Je suis la boussole qui te tient sur ma voie
Je suis l'amour qui chantera la berceuse de ton âme
Quand tu viendras dormir dans mes bras
Je t'aimerai et tu m'aimeras
Viens dormir, viens dormir dans mes bras.
The Andalusian waiter sings along with the radio
Sings a song of wrong done long, long ago
He's got the golden throat and the fine-cut silhouette
He's got the matador calves shining bright with every step
He's got the flamenco shoulders and black eyes of the south
He's got jamon serrano to melt in your mouth
He was born too late, too young and too poor
Now he's stuck in this café on Plaza Mayor
He was born to believe in the future's open door
Now he's stuck in the present and the present's a whore
He's got no good, brave causes left to sing for anymore
Just cafe con leche y coñac por favor
>>
And I can't stop this music exploding in my head, hounding me down the street
and waking the dead
They sing a song of struggle like a lovelorn sigh, crawling from the rubble where
they went to die
I can't stop this music and I know why. Now I'll sing it and scream it
'til the sweet bye and bye
>>
My heart is pounding like a storm trooper search
and there's an echo in my head like a big gothic church
There's the strains of strings wafting down the stairs
where the pain takes wings, grabs my heart and tears
And I can't stop my feet and I can't stop my legs
I can't forget the sweet heat of better days
They're alive and watching me from the sky
and I can't stop running and I know why
Their voices are humming behind the night
and they're singing the songs of the long gone good fight
And I can't stop that midnight train to Teruel
I can't stop their bleeding and burning all to hell
>>
And I can't stop this...
>>
Twenty years ago general pig gave his last snort
Never tried for hispanocide in any Spanish court
That he died in bed is a god awful crime
An insult to the fallen of his bloody trail of slime
But I can almost see light at the end of the cave
One more offensive and we'll get back what we gave
We'll cross the river for the Republic that we can still save
and the rain in Spain will fall on fascism's grave
And then the light goes dim as the sun fades
as the locusts roar in on a lethal lead wave
breaking on and over my heart
Oh show your face now, God, and I'll tear it apart
>>
And I can't stop this...
... Now I'll howl it and yowl it 'til the end is nigh. I'll sing this song, mamita mia,
'till the day I die
I've written songs about baseball and songs about death
I've written songs about Ventoline and the struggle for breath
I've written songs about Franz Kline and abstract cool
and the mortal blue gaze of Peter O'Toole
I've written songs about red hair, anger and drugs
about Carson McCullers and longing lost loves--
young Mick, good Biff, Jake and Reeves
Dr. Copeland, little Bubber and Portia on her knees
I've written songs about volcanoes burning to blow
and songs about the cursed reaping what they sow
The Reverend Ian Paisley having Senator Robert Dole
with Sanchez Covisa in a carnal quid pro quo
I've written songs about Luz Blanca and Mathilde de la Mole
Louise Michel, fresh hell and the black bottom of the hole
an Andalusian Zorro, a class war in Idaho
and a beacon blue-eyed Little Wolf with a howling soul
AND I'M TIRED
I've written songs about Blacks and Whites and blues
and a whole lot of Reds and a slew of Jews,
about hope and yearning and hunger burning through
with Bukharin's girlfriend and Kafka's too
I've written songs about Paris and the mur des Fédérés,
living at night and dying in the day,
Père Lachaise, Pont Neuf and the porcine plague
Love lilting, wilting and waltzing away
I've written songs about Kazettlers turning into Zeks
and "Peoples' Courts" stringing up anti-fascist Czechs
while cops tipped their hats to Herr Bert Brecht
and the State smiled down on their pliant, poet-pet
I've written songs about Havel, Olaf Palme and dogs
I've written songs of exaltation and songs bashing frogs
I wrote a song about speakerines and that was the worst
I've written songs about thirst, thirst, thirst, thirst and thirst
AND I'M TIRED; I'M SO TIRED
I've written songs about Monaco, McEnroe and Spokane
Songs about trout, moral wreckage and sham
I've written songs full of roses, righteous poses and wars
and songs about Hollywood ear and eyesores
I've written songs about truth and common decency
and Saint George Orwell dumping on the bourgeoisie
Songs for Chief Joseph and purple mountain majesty
Corinne Corinne, Oh Rosa and Lucybel Lee
I've written songs about wrongs and songs about rights
I've written songs about Wobbly blood and heroic strikes
about Los Cuatro Generales and the eternal fight
against the brown shirt, Christian, lunatic blight
Moodswings, mescal flings, white heat and white light
A kiss like an explosion in the middle of the night
I've written songs so strong so many times it's trite
I've written songs so long that they just roll out of sight
AND I'M TIRED; I'M TIRED; I'M SO TIRED
I've felt the river flow from my mouth with a smile
I've fast talked and name-dropped 'til the cows came home
But there were songs I had to cough out like unnecessary bile
and there were times when the lines left me cold and alone
So this might be the song of slow suffocation
Mediocre torpor and creeping incrustation
Bypassed only by sweet inebriation
This is the song of choking frustration
I've written songs to make you laugh and songs to make you weep
Songs of blessed sex and the quest for real sleep
I've written songs about Republicans and Lord I was Pro-Choice,
wishing they'd been vacuumed or curated while still moist
I've written songs about 1899 and 1913
I've written songs about everything I've ever seen
Collaboration, violation, alienation and my brother
Big Bill Haywood and my great grandmother
There was a song with Harvey Milk, Toni Morrison and Vanzetti,
and a Williams called Ted and another known as Tennessee
Along with songs about the longest war in history--
the war against the female half of humanity
I've written songs about the conscience and the will of a child
La fée verte absinthe and good old Oscar Wilde
I've written songs about desire like a runaway train
and long, thin fingers like a silver chain
I've written songs of drunks draining Velvet nights in Prague
I've written songs about the invasion of the moron demagogues,
streams of spleen on the new Newts rising from the bog
I've written songs about God, God, God, God, God, God...
AND I'M TIRED; I'M SO TIRED... I'M TIRED; I'M SO TIRED
I've felt the river flow from my mouth with a smile
I've fast talked and name-dropped 'til the cows came home
But there were songs I had to cough out like unnecessary bile
and there were times when the lines left me cold and alone
And no matter how finely honed my knife might have seemed
it hasn't even threatened the profit-mad powers that be
or lanced the boil on the nation and cut out the gangrene
to spark the transformation of this shark society
No, no matter how sweet and sharp my knife might have seemed
It hasn't opened up the heart of the dark rose of my dreams
And no matter how many songs I've ever written and screamed
I'm still alone and railing and wading up love streams