That Petrol Emotion Stories Of The Street
The stories of the street are mine,the Spanish voices
laugh.
The Cadillacs go creeping now through the night and the
poison gas,
and I lean from my window sill in this old hotel I
chose,
yes one hand on my suicide, one hand on the rose.
I know you've heard it's over now and war must surely
come,
the cities they are broke in half and the middle men
are gone.
But let me ask you one more time, O children of the
dusk,
All these hunters who are shrieking now oh do they
speak for us?
And where do all these highways go, now that we are
free?
Why are the armies marching still that were coming home
to me?
O lady with your legs so fine O stranger at your wheel,
You are locked into your suffering and your pleasures
are the seal.
The age of lust is giving birth, and both the parents
ask
the nurse to tell them fairy tales on both sides of the
glass.
And now the infant with his cord is hauled in like a
kite,
and one eye filled with blueprints, one eye filled with
night.
O come with me my little one, we will find that farm
and grow us grass and apples there and keep all the
animals warm.
And if by chance I wake at night and I ask you who I
am,
O take me to the slaughterhouse, I will wait there with
the lamb.
With one hand on the hexagram and one hand on the girl
I balance on a wishing well that all men call the
world.
We are so small between the stars, so large against the
sky,
and lost among the subway crowds I try to catch your
eye.
