He got her drunk very quickly
|
Holding hands, they found the broom-cupboard
|
Where he had control as far as the fall
|
When his hand covered wet hair
|
She took over among furniture wax
|
Dust, and the cloying yellow of polishing-cloth
|
When he was sick, she comforted him
|
|
Oh hush, my friend, and sleep
|
And cuddle to the wind
|
Sleep on through the waves
|
That may wet your lover's dream
|
|
We have been far through this night long hours
|
We will go far, tomorrow, out of sight, ooh...
|
|
He couldn't do it properly
|
The disco, the office, the pub,
|
Had left out those details of delight.
|
Satisfied, he would collapse out,
|
Puzzled at why she still squirmed,
|
Held onto him, tears curling into her mouth
|
This was something their stories always omitted
|
That her joy would seem like pain
|
When he focused after his release.
|
|
Do sand and shells and stones
|
Peep in through your night?
|
But you should not be hurt
|
For all will pass with time.
|
|
We have been far through this night long hours
|
We will go far, tomorrow, out of sight, ooh...
|
|
In the third week of the relationship
|
She was tripping on organic acid
|
Would stop to pick up a rained-out leaf
|
Would give it tenderly into his hand
|
Full of dead things before they reached the car
|
|
When they drove she sat with mouth open
|
As though photographed on the impact of a stomach punch
|
Her right fist gripping the skin of his left leg
|
|
Hooking the steering-wheel closer to his heart
|
He feared her, and slapped out sideways into her face
|
She entered the cut with her tongue
|
Gurgling gratitude for the strange taste
|
|
Do you fear the dark?
|
Then hush, and realise
|
That though the angels never come
|
Prayers can soothe your mind
|
|
We have been far through this night long hour
|
We will go far, tomorrow, out of sight, ooh...
|
|
There was no premonition of the wet Hog's Back
|
The sportscar slumped, snout into a beech
|
Their corpses giving the vehicle arms
|
Petrol and blood at last dripping together
|
But quick flashes of a planned lunch
|
Cold red beef, white cloth by a cherrywood fire
|
Game pie, and for him two pints of colder beer
|
The winter air tucking under their eyelids
|
As they spun on the gravel at Clandon
|
Their hands steaming from quick moisture
|
The aromatic finger drawn up to his nostril
|
Dazed after mutual masturbation
|
They zigzagged into a conservative end
|
|
Oh hush, my friend, asleep
|
|
-----------------
|
Organic Acid
|
| Kate Bush |
