Much in Little
Lyrics by John Brenner.
Touch Me Not
I hear the old sounds, the soundless wailing. You are a ghost
tossing old coins, the action of shadows, a poverty of spirit. these bleeding
hands we feel touch me not. We would see a sign: a flowering Judas, the man with
heavy eyes dying with a patience, the wild thyme, dung, soil, and death. Men and
bits of paper touch me not.
Another Self
Should I speak or hold my tongue? Or do what silence requires? I should not want to spoil this with an answer. No earthquakes are permissible for this particular timbre. If there are no questions, there is no message. An individual matter: an ear, alone, is not being. To move over better waters, the whole world is my temple.
Mystic Cynic
To hide beauty, we grow thin inside. What is possessed is nothing but empty notions, curious trifles; the water is thick with monsters. If anything big were like loneliness, this mirage would disappear.
Come What May
Tripping together with destiny, or another way, desperation. A secret of leaves, love falling, a good-bye of liquid, hurried beyond today. We beat our course along that way and came forth to see again the stars. It's an indoor game: inch closer. So much is at stake with a soul. We beat our course along that way and came forth to see again the stars.
Much in Little
As if speaking were not enough, I sat beneath your window. Field of summer reeds, dry and brittle needs. You clutch handfuls, elbow them into corners. Was that your voice? What to avoid? We must guard against such sudden flames.