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You painted me cyan,
Pale both my chicks,
In the centre of the magazine there’s a lady covered in red –
She plays the myth,
In the coral moon
I recognize the time, from some other time,
A basis in the music in the sound
In the room
All in need
Tangled in an old, dirty curtain
Maybe someone’s screaming tonight,
I think the lady in the magazine knows this fiction very well,
She has such a pretty smile,
Half broken but still half alive,
You’re air inside this burning balloon,
I once wished for a world inside a bottle,
I made it clear, but I couldn’t make it crystal,
Like half the words of ‘Hollywood’
Or maybe a cup of tea that has grown cold.
It’s the time, you swear,
These are the veins.
I once turned all yellow
But still held my spring inside my ink pot.
You whispered some lovely words back then,
I’m pretty much sure it rained all afternoon
Those grey clouds,
You know exactly what I think about them
Yet you stayed, I remember
But still I could never look a butterfly in the eye
She is bleeding me pure,
Like a gentle caress that falls down to the ground
In a direction I wish I could follow
But instead I’m so ambivalent,
You see me disappear like dew drops in the grass
And then the morning always comes,
Sometimes it’s just so damn much obsolete
Sometimes you get just so damn solemn,
If I crack it’s for you only
And if I pray it’s for you solely
But I’m all cyan
Pale are both my chicks
And that rag doll won’t talk to me anymore
And you know this street; you’ve lived here for quite some time
Still I can’t understand
How can it be so naïve
To find your soul trying to escape through your window
And migrate to somewhere else.
The lady came from Asia,
She had some pretty nice legs
Her spirit was all cyan, just like her umbrella.
Something tells me she never read a newspaper in her whole life.
Yet she seems so alive,
And she walks so carelessly
I may be flying home but believe me,
It won’t happen tomorrow.
It’s the weather, I swear,
You know
These are the veins.
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