Blacky Cee was loving me
and he’s loving me still
and his duality of feelings
shouldn’t be seen
as a problem,
‘cause his offense is too wee.
As Cee was before in the world,
much before than the older king,
there are many fishes he has fished.
So listen and shut up,
let the master speak.
He has eaten tar,
he has reached several peaks.
He said:”I cannot listen to this noisy record.
I must be in Paris on Wednesday night.
In this paper I’ve got the adresses.”
“It’s psicological”- he said –
“You’ll see it with your own eyes, men: forget the coins into the hat,
and crumbs of bread from sandwiches”
“My look is nice, your look is sad,
the guild requires certain pose.
Why not a piercing in the nose?
Why not some tears across your clothes?”
The streets were covered with puddles and orin.
No band had received more votes that night.
In vain we tried to feel satisfaction.
But the conclusions overturned,
it all suggested a retreat:
we stripped the passage to the moon,
the N-tracks’ studio in L.A.
Struggle is for bravest ones,
and this songs are not peddler’s wares.
Behind we left an anxious crowd
with minds that thought and tongues that said:
Who’s the winner? Who’s the winner?
Who’s the winner? Who’s the winner?
Who’s the winner? Who’s the winner?
Who’s the winner? Who’s the winner?
Won’t this shit be in silence?
My ears are burning.
I bet the blonde with the corset
wouldn’t know what’s a chord.
Your wheels made of metal
can’t run as our tyres.
You may look experienced
but you’re not wiser.
The other night a saw the girl
whose mind is really complicated,
in a peace of brain she kept
more ideas that some tendencies.
She hides a bomb and when it explodes
the shining covers up the stars.
Her body wouldn’t look for eyes,
in fact she’d turn off the lights,
she’s so coherent
she’s so coherent
she’s so coherent
she’s so coherent.
Serpents show off candid smiles
as rear-view mirrors look for cunts.
But tenderness is just a recall,
the silly side of us all
when to keep is like to loose
I throw the gift, I need to grow, I need
to be
to be coherent
to be coherent
to be coherent
to be coherent
to be coherent
to be coherent
to be coherent
to be coherent
Will I look the things I’ve done
and have for sure that noone’s wrong?
Or will I shout, shout, shout, shout, shout, shout, shout, shout,
shout, shout, shout, shout, shout, shout, shout.
Ahh!
Ahh!
Ahh!
Ahh!
Ahh!
Ahh!
Aaaaaaahh!
Really hard.
For who’s eyes?
Scratch my hair.
Muddled hair.
Know-it-all.
Natty.
Coherent.
Leonard Cohen.
They say they’ve heard the record and they’ve liked it.
There are few mistakes, it’s almost nice.
It is clear: we’ll never reach top ten.
But in two years they forsee a twenty five.
‘Cause this drums sound too much like “The Doors”.
My voice tries to be Tom Wait’s voice.
The bass player can’t disguise he’s a guitar player.
And the guitar player is balder than bold.
We’re all in a bad need of a shave.
Bad need of a shave.
Bad need of a shave.
Bad need of a shave.
We cannot hide our shortage.
But luckily we found the right way.
Their company is just like a lantern
that’s gonna guide us with its ray.
It’s a nasty world of nasty creatures,
of corpses, cocktails and false friends.
You’ll got to fight to keep your limbs quiet:
girls are gonna bend their knees.
We’re all in a bad need of a shave.
Bad need of a shave.
Bad need of a shave.
Bad need of a shave.
We’re all in a bad need of a shave.
Bad need of a shave.
Bad need of a shave.
Bad need of a shave
Seeing your aces’ repoker,
I would add two coins.
Another challenge for the world.
I know it’s risky, know it’s hard,
and my enemies will grow
but I ‘m always carrying with me my “Me wrong”.
I don’t want no team, no person.
I love walking alone.
Slaps fall over my cheeks
but the hand belongs to me:
Pain that doesn’t kill you
makes you strong.
Avenues at dawn are deserts,
snails in caverns of gold,
the lame lady rearranges her coat.
Manhood seems to be preparing
its dodger for the poors
that led astray somewhere along the road.
The wise man sat down in the center
the ones in white, we, sat down around,
he marked our direction:
“continuous reformulation”,
and condemned us to look for.
So here I’m walking the highways,
leaving fright behind,
outlining crossways to the crowds.
Disguising riddles as songs,
with a guitar as magic wand;
costs of material on my own.
And I can’t sleep at night though I try,
‘till I end my job.
My sensivity is my keeper,
I’m tied to my fate’s chains
and a mission of the above.
Luxes are small rewarding,
and pleasures too.
I‘d change myself for anyone if I could.
The bitter fruit of knownledge
stained me with its pulp
and I’d sell applauses for a boo.
So, bestializing my actions
arguments become proofs.
And I store up love and hate,
it goes with what I said,
so take my two coins,
won’t you take my two coins?
I store up love and hate,
it goes with what I said,
so take my two coins.
As days are going by, as I look around: is this the world where I want to live?
This boy’s got a nose that cries as a tap and he’s got me awarding here.
Who bought this curtains?
Who was the silly one that smoked behind the wall?
My stomach feels dizzy, like Miss Lizzy,
Am I alone, am I alone?
He pretends he is crazy, his eyeballs are pinballs, the smile of the white line.
This T-shirt’ s semirigid, it archs with my backbone,I am the king of fun.
My sperm is under zero, future scientifics
may need a clone of me.
There’s sun in my winters, I get sick of winning, succes is also a load.
You’re too namby-pamby to get into this,
not pretencious enough, look like naive.
You should change your face, I won’t give you a budget, I can’t invest on smoke.
So pick up your items, package your dreams,
sad jackleg, leave the zone.
And I stop my walk,
and say to myself :
oh, boy,
what a circus environment.
I was hungry for amusement,
I was tied up to spleen
my legs sinking in potter’s field.
So I went to see the doctor,
he said: “you need to be seen,
but admirers will make you healthier than me.”
The prescription seem easy,
at last at first sight:
“a stage and fans around”.
I had to shout and change my mind,
don’t listen to the wind
spreading its wings across the sky.
Like tightrope walkers,
walk far above the floor.
Nothing’s better,
you only got to look like sure.
Get the gist of life,
come on, realise,
that masses look for leaders
and that role is for the winners
with your port.
It’s erotic and fantastic,
when they turn the lights on me,
I would like to watch
what I can’t see.
All these heads and all these screams,
all the linen stained with creams,
like a strange rain satisfying
my deepest dreams.
In ev’ry crowd I see a face,
in ev’ry face a smile,
in ev’ry smile again a crowd.
And I spin as I am playing my guitar
I look like a twister,
altering all around.
Now I cannot understand
where have I been
untill I climbed to the stage,
aproached the micro
and began to sing.
That’s the gist of life,
it’s the flare that burns
inside of ev’ry chosen one.
I’m the locksmith, for
I open ev’ry door.
I will never sleep or
touch myself alone.
For the grey is white
and the dark is light
and this lines are helping me
to do not fall into depression
anymore.
It’s not boredom or sillyness,
well but then, tell me,
what is it?
Neither insecurity,
well, they seem to be sure
to do all those things.
They’ve surplus of underwear,
or they throw their money
as far as they get.
They are really sensible
or they are crying
like a crocodrile.
I might be short, but I can’t understand
what’s inside a fan, if there’s something.
I love some artists but I’d never make
of their lives and deaths the meaning of mine.
They move in herds
they all have
a very similar look.
They design T-shirts,
they need to show
they’re in a cult.
They spent some days
sat down in a queue.
They look like proud
to have reduced their lives
to background.
With shamelessness they show off their tattoos
and their barroque rooms, thematics.
They wait for hours to buy the first disk
‘cause they always guess when it gets for sale.
Sometimes they form couples,
where the third one is not the child.
I imagine their orgasms:
“Wow, Mary, I have looked like
him tonight”.
They feel they are champions
when they get a doubtful
autograph.
And an appareance on TV
could be the height of their
stupid acts.
And some pretend it is a sacrifice,
‘cause they realise, they’re loosing their time.
And I can’t guess how the hell do they grow old,
do they still hold on, or it decays?
I’m really interested in fan phenomenology,
it’s a mistery to me, are they human?
Or at last here we have the proof they said
of the gradual raid of alien form of life?
I take the marmalade,
spread it on the toast.
Here you have such a routine,
and me getting used to it.
In the darkness used to it,
in my sadness used to it,
in the waiting used to it,
in the patience used to it.
There is grease over the rope,
and crowes nip my flesh,
it is raining rocks and stones
and I’m getting used to it.
Now my hands are made of wire,
and they grasp well to the rope,
but they were not made of wire,
it’s a skill I’ve developed.
Nobody gave me a shove,
alone I jumped off the roof,
I got obsessed with your body
and with the way you move
but you just ask for a dance to stars
and your cannon is your word
as slowly you get young,
I am slowly getting old.
Now I love, once I was loved
when I didn’t had this beard
I am happier being fire
than being firegirl.
I see you climbing to the tube,
you saluting to the crowd,
the half smile and the wink,
the gunshot and the flight.
Taxi cabs are parking down on main street,
I call the room service: there’s caviar in my shoes.
Over the springboard, old sparkle of thrill;
cards are jiggling, the bell is ringing: new shoes.
I rearrange the white line,
and take a look around me.
I close my eyelids to the sun.
Tonight I’ll sing my Pop song,
this city waited for too long,
at last I’ll stand on its square.
There is time still for a happy bitch,
now I yearn for a transformist,
sure the bellboy will transact for it,
now that my translator is outta here,
in a boring museum or something like this.
Skipping puddles, walking to the stage.
People recognize my face.
Sign on my dress, touch (please) my legs,
smile beside me.
Wink me the eye, accept my knicks,
take my poetry.
I bless the day I found it
when I turned into a locksmith,
I had been sleeping ‘till that day.
But since I found the Pop song
girls sing it as they suck it,
they play to a game named
“The microphone limb”.
All this world’s around, Copernican style,
someone had to be the central star,
my elbows are friends of my mind,
my dick is the best friend of my heart,
and my heart’s reflected in my art.
I never wonder why am I a winner,
I used think that luck was weak.
Many places, they all made for my dreaming,
all this cities, all this people, all for me?
My mummy told me one day
that I was born from a broken thing,
from an unknown man.
Now I’m smiling for you, my darling,
each one can feel it’s for her,
each one’s special in my eyes.
And I work through girls to eternity,
there’s a photo of me in Newsweek,
and encyclopedias for kids,
I found the key, I found the key.
There’s Xenon in my body and I,
I want to let it flow.
Solstice is coming and before the dusk
the blizzard erodes my front.
Any forfeit would be welcomed,
even the stoning.
Headwind, I am
joining pieces
so stupid.
Looking back I loved to
justify it all.
All your curls,
I stole them.
Time’s got you down to a fine art;
surprised I admit it
with the pride of the strangest son.
I filched the gem and I
played with the sceptre.
I shot to sculptor’s arm.
I sold off cheap the precious stone.
Spent love juggling with your tears.
I spoiled the party and poetry.
All it’s got me down on my knees.
You shiny, statue shiny
behind the gates of dawn.
Dogs barking, bow wow wow,
gardens full of snow.
Soft mist, no ray of sun.
Beyond the group of trees, you look so divine.
I recognize the robe and the shoes.
And your wild violet’s perfume.
I blew the monument,
I was the guilty hand,
I put the bomb below,
and I never told it ‘till today.
By this time I began to run,
unable even to look back,
I had done all that harm
and I was afraid then of my darkest face.
I remember the monument,
I remember the monument,
I remember the monument,
I remember the monument,
I blew the monument.
I lost myself along the evercycling road.
Get into it, we’re gonna have some fun
My legs were logs, my arms were columns, paralyzed
Get into it! I wanna have some fun.
None of your shoes were made to
Walk by the streets in search of
Rests of a carrot, potato skins, begging for crumbs
Well, I’m not sure, if I could,
I’d like to try if I could
But I have always been as sad as a sewer rat.
Put the best of you, put the best of you
In everything you do
I’m really tired and sick of this boring night
Get int it! No more lonely nights.
I think I could sell a fridge in the North Pole
Get into it, it’s only rock and roll
Do you remember Europe?
They were like you and now you know what they are and what they represent
“The final countdown” today is a hymn of masses and they are rich and handsome
And they no longer need to work.
So aspirate to it, get into it!
If you are looking for something in life that make you feel fine, then you’ll feel really fine.
Here girls are like boys: they always want to fuck
Get into it, everybody wants to fuck.
You look so nice, there, chewing
They ask you what are you doing,
Everybody wants to have you inside, maybe just for a while,
So join us in the circus, each month seems an august, full time parties, holidays, weekend, sex and drugs.
So get into it, get into it, yes, that’s all you need.
I see that I begin to feel my packet grown, I’ve got a hard on
My hips are shaking, my lips taking a circle form get into it
Pink caves are getting warm
World in need of symbols
And maybe you and your balls
Could reach the dream, could find the step
Could rise the bar
There’s a gist of life that tells you
You’ll get the golden dreams of treasures Of open chambers nobody dares to get in
Get into it get into it!