1. Four Until L8

Who is it,
that in expectancy binds
brittle matchsticks?
It might be the last man
to leave the celebration.

Who is it,
that in expectancy binds
little matchsticks?
It could be the last man.

I regard this clock,
its face red,
its hands without cufflinks.
Its face is red.
The perforated night is clumsy and red-faced.

What furtive absences
will supersede this thick, thick, thick moment?
Absences in wood, in metal, and in flesh.

I regard this clock,
its face red,
its face is red.

Who is it,
that in expectancy binds
little matchsticks?

I thought I heard you say
that silence cannot be equivocal,
but it was just silence
after all.


I know where we can go
when all the rules are broken.
Elation wells up down below.
When all the rules are broken,
I know where you and I can go
to shun the injuries our silence has awoken.

Distinguished guests, deadpan,
as we traverse the star chart.
Ingenious agents, in command.
As we traverse the star chart,
Distinguished guests are all deadpan,
oblivious as nations fall apart.

With roses on her back,
she's wandering for so long.
Now saddled with this cul-de-sac.
She's wandering for so long
with roses on her mother's back,
one step ahead of those who seek to do her wrong.

With bullets in your eye,
there's no convenient vaccine
when ice falls from the evening sky.
There's no convenient vaccine
with bullets haunting your mind's eye,
nor any human way to fathom what it means.

3. Pietà

These are not the happy days of my youth
that I'd looked ahead to reminiscing on.
The least that I can do now is try to speak the truth,
provide an explanation you can seize upon.

I once believed that this could be our fatherland.
I would raise my voice and sing the anthem loud.
With a banner in my hand I drew a line in the sand;
I believed in all the promises that had been avowed.

But the day that we were given notice,
like the ones who eat the lotus,
I lay down, bereft of appetite and will.
Though I know that I have come to be
a symbol of futility,
a spark of hope resides within me still.

These days I take my meals through a feeding tube,
and my body is festooned with open sores.
With nothing left to prove, I am melting like an ice cube;
I can't maintain coherence anymore.

My body is become water.

As I lay here in my dreamless slumber,
I know we're outmatched, outnumbered.
This sickness is too deep to just excise.
Though I know they think I'm feigning ill,
I cannot wake or budge until
this shroud of apathy is lifted from my eyes.

(text by Chris Fisher-Lochhead)