I caught a glimpse of your eyes
Last night in a restless dream
Awaking out of green field blue seas stars
Your eyes arose like the spectres of flowers
I turned out the light and clicked fast the door
The book fell
I had so many thoughts, so many signs
I made sense of nothing at all
This green dream was unreal; the crickets sing
Across deserts and plains the lost feast
Whose shimmering teeth are marking the passing of time
A cloud falls; a bird shivers and sings, its beak stained with night
Pure gold: the dark is waiting, the darkness is hungry,
The deep is angry, and the telephone rings on
A film screen descends, and the silent movies play
Buster Keaton falls and rots, as Big Ben sings and boils
On an endless swamp; the silence is treacle thick
And calls us to prayer: paint God with your blood
And fill haunted women with knives and kites
And gauges and valves and make them weep long hyms
To gaseous and clumsy mortality whilst fish descend
Remember remember the burning ember
Embedded in your chest: the soul watches TV
And gorges itself on blood and popcorn
Now that's what I call decay decline and hard times
Hard times, very hard times, Mr. Lindsay
Hard times and winter so cruel: you have stopped my watch
At the stroke of three and call for the police
But there's a time for tea and a time for expiring
And the notice to quit is in the post:
And you should know: your
Little cow and calf is going to die
Last night in a restless dream
Awaking out of green field blue seas stars
Your eyes arose like the spectres of flowers
I turned out the light and clicked fast the door
The book fell
I had so many thoughts, so many signs
I made sense of nothing at all
This green dream was unreal; the crickets sing
Across deserts and plains the lost feast
Whose shimmering teeth are marking the passing of time
A cloud falls; a bird shivers and sings, its beak stained with night
Pure gold: the dark is waiting, the darkness is hungry,
The deep is angry, and the telephone rings on
A film screen descends, and the silent movies play
Buster Keaton falls and rots, as Big Ben sings and boils
On an endless swamp; the silence is treacle thick
And calls us to prayer: paint God with your blood
And fill haunted women with knives and kites
And gauges and valves and make them weep long hyms
To gaseous and clumsy mortality whilst fish descend
Remember remember the burning ember
Embedded in your chest: the soul watches TV
And gorges itself on blood and popcorn
Now that's what I call decay decline and hard times
Hard times, very hard times, Mr. Lindsay
Hard times and winter so cruel: you have stopped my watch
At the stroke of three and call for the police
But there's a time for tea and a time for expiring
And the notice to quit is in the post:
And you should know: your
Little cow and calf is going to die