I’m at sea again And now your hurricanes have brought down this ocean rain To bathe me again My ship’s a sail Can you hear its tender frame Screaming from beneath the waves Screaming from beneath your waves
All hands on deck at dawn Sailing to sadder shores Your port in my heavy storms Harbours the blackest thoughts
Ian McCulloch/Echo and the Bunnymen
Along with the Standing on a Beach tour for the Cure (where I got to hand with the guys backstage after the show for an hour or so), the EatB show I saw in support of the “grey album” (which included the hit Lips Like Sugar) makes up the two best concerts I ever saw growing up. Both hit quite a few of the earlier songs at the time and I recall Ian singing this song. I’ll never forget that moment, a moment when I was suddenly not bummed that I was at the show by myself (sans a girlfriend, or any other friend, for that matter), and suddenly I realized that someone “got it”. Ian was crooning, holding the microphone like a lover, and I was there too, loving whomever the song was for at the same moment.
It seems that this song captures most of my relationships, good and bad, in retrospect. It always seems as if it is my storm or another’s that rocks the boat.
I’m not an easy person to live with, or even be around.
“I dun know, man.” John watched all the people strolling by in the late afternoon oppressively humid streets. His guitar case dangled by two fingers and threatened to fall to the brick sidewalk, except some strange magnetism or magic coursing through his fingertips prevented it from doing just that. “This’n may not be the most brill trick, now we’re here.”
Stage fright, Sean thought. John had never busked before, but they were both ass poor and needed some cash.
“C’mon, don’t be a baby,” he chided John. “We do this until we can buy a few packs of smokes and we’ll quit. ‘Kay?”
John looked dubiously at the business professionals hurrying past them, mindful only of not colliding with the two gutterpunks. in the way. “I dun know, Sean,” he said shaking his head. “Seems like we more like get arrested than get money.”
walk down by the river through to the rushes through to the memories through to the self hate fingers glancing blows over tall grass cutting like memories her name her face fading away fading away fading...
denise with the
black and sick-green
painted nails and the
rat's nest siouxsie hair
hefted each of her knit long sleeves
showed me her arms
etched with words like:
in block letters
to scare me away
"i'm ugly, on medication and
i cut myself. see?
doesn't that scare you?"
expecting me to make excuses
as to why i had to leave
i smiled sadly,
not sure how to tell her
i'd share her pain,
if she'd only let me
sharing not in her nature --
she drifted away without waiting for
ophelia in the weeds