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Winter Morning
There's a threat to us in this holding light.
It's a police state, Thanatos on the march.
Kicking up the torment and the guilt.
There's a large element of insanity
incureable in yesterday's red sunrise.
Looking under the beds of prisoners answering to nobody.
Legislation pinned to the door.
The cold water has become a deep loch unforgiving.
Tremble while the load is shifted,
You are looking for work and food to eat,
the rain provokes a burning itch, running down your back.
There is demolition on the street of Jesus.
The sun comes on like Tina Turner.
And then she's gone.
The republique offers jewellery firmly treasured,
while I.
Comb the pebbled beach for the philosopher's stone.
Someone wants to do everything for you.
What have they done so far?
When to trust the homo sapiens?
The winter morning is when he kills his competitors.
To escape a sordid fate,
legless in septic-dogville.
Catoranach, the name of the devils mother.
She is not listed in the telephone directory.
But she has a hand in my destiny
and that is why I make revolution.
January 2004 Marseille. Philip Hartigan Winter
Morning
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