Don’t do that, it’s dangerous
You shouldn’t do that
We’re only playing
Yes, but it’s dangerous
But how did they
How did they capture
With his label and his aching drum?

In a dream
Remember I remember
A vortex churning
Where?
Somewhere, everywhere
Whichwhere?
The only where,
There was only one where
A machine that couldn’t be stopped
Pulsing, pulsating
Pulsing me
Enveloping me in a red fleshy cushion
Throbbing, pushing
Sucking, sucking
Always sucking

In a dream
Remember I remember
The same feeling
Before or after I don’t know
Did the hands remind me of the dream?
Did the dream remind me of the hands?


A gramophone in the attic
And blisters on my hand from winding
A scratchy sound
A yearning needle
Something lost, a boy
My neck in his hands
That yearning now part of scratchy me
Remembering feeling
Born and bred, born and bred
Dougan, Dougan, I can name him
A captured boy
A colonial boy

 

 


I remember the feeling
But not much else
The feeling that it gave me
In the garden behind the yew tree
His hands on my neck
Not squeezing but holding
I remember the feeling
Not stroking but holding

What is it?
Then I couldn’t name it
Now I can
I asked my mum
Why does it feel so nice?

Don’t do that, it’s dangerous
You shouldn’t do that
We’re only playing
Yes, but it’s dangerous
But why does it, why does it feel so,
Does it feel, why does it feel so nice?


. .
SONGS