Instrumental

It’s not so bad,
But I’d quite like to feel well.
It’s fine and all, the alongside and the attendant.
The sickly and the trembling,
Like we took the cheapest flight out of hell
And reality has the mother of all jetlags.
But…
It’s fine, it’s fine, all shits and giggles, but I’ll put it like this:
Imagine my chest is a cheap set of bellows,
And my mouth is some weird instrument that only weirdos learn to play.
That would be quite tiring, would it not?
To be quite frank, I’d quite like to feel well now.

On The Bus

On the bus, and it’s an odd thing, because where are we now?
Don’t you think?
Could you look me in the eye please?
Yeah, it’s a belly alright,
Where we sit row by row.
This be its belly, but don't fear.
The monster’s benign.
Don’t you think though?
We’re its shifting gizzards, and all our sickly motions.
Such a beastly carapace, and the reek of intent!

That’s us, the smell, so don’t blame the demon, don't blame the beast.

There’s a thick haze, clouds not the eyes though.
Different senses.
It’s the smell of vaporous dreams and destinations.
You’ll not look at me, not see me.
This place is not a place. This where is not a where.

The place between the “where”s.

The view changes. Breathing by my side.
I looked up and they where all dead in the aisles,
In the seats, hanging by the handrails.
I had never known them, never would.
So much loss to be a stranger…

I am a fish, you too, and this a tank filled with time and such humanity.
The dead lie around me and the view is always changing.

Don’t you think though, strange corpse?
Dead in your right time,
But dead for me now, in mine.
Oh, you’re such a tender young thing,
And you’re good to humour an old man.
But you’ll not look at me, I know that much.

My stop? Oh no, not for me.
Not for me.
Not for me.