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When should I wash the smell of you from my hands?
I've a bottle set by for the afternoon but I've yet to make my plans.
I been trying to clean up,
But there's always another nest of glass, another nick above the eye,
trails of blood in the grass,
But the folly wants reason, thinks it's justified,
that I should parse the matter…?
I tried to care for you the best I could,
We mapped it out and reconfigured the old neighbourhood,
But time is a bastard, time is vial of petty sands,
the body's a basket emptying to the niggardly hands
Of Aeon for his array of our strung out decay,
A little more each day, such is the arrangement.
In the years, in a vigilant garden, nothing to fear,
O in the years receiving your love, having your love.
Send a message to the Hell of the hounds,
Not a hair on this pair will e're your Cerberus stare down.
To Elysium express, to the hedgerow of the blessed,
Make it wide and warm egress, no more Winter for them.
Honour to the animal,
Come to me in my new pall,
and embrace me at the wall,
make it crumble and fall…
In the years, in a vigilant garden, nothing to fear,
O in the years receiving your love, having your love.
When should I wash the smell of you from my hands?
I've a bottle set by for the afternoon but I've yet to make my plans.
Better than blue skies, jasmine in the Spring,
Thinking to conquer death with a whiff of the other thing...
But today it rains on, and the mountain is mist-ified,
With Toby already gone, now Billy has gently died.
