Moi Caprice When Cushions Were Softer
go for the balls, just go.
You go for the balls,
make sure he’s wounded.
Half the world will know…
Half of the world will seem astounded.
A spitting resistance
within kissing distance,
with a dream behind laughter
of when cushions were softer
you sit by the door
as ashtrays get filled
with millions of axes,
but no one to kill.
You babble non-stop
about your vision of hell:
That all pain produced
reproduces itself and then
go for the balls, just go.
You go for the balls,
make sure he’s wounded.
Half the world will know…
Half of the world will seem astounded.
Go for the balls, just go,
make sure that he’s hurt.
And still by a fire escape you’d turn,
lose ambition and choose to burn.
As through ashes design your curse:
You’re a love song in slow reverse.
If your heart bursts in Ferris wheels
and your nerves strain in sunlit fields…
We all have to learn how to heal:
You – the opposite of a shield –
go for the balls, just go.
You go for the balls,
make sure he’s wounded.
Half of the world will know…
Half of the world will seem astounded.
Go for the balls, just go,
go for the balls
until you hear that scream.
Then go for your heart, just go
and turn to your dream
of when cushions were softer.
Back in the days when cushions were softer.
A long, long time ago.
