Locks On Our Doors Not On Our Hearts by Tarquin Manek Lyrics
Once a time bomb ticking,
Now a kitten, softly mewing,
The hunter within is still there,
Growing up all over again
And again
As hunters tend to do.
It seemed to me everything was deranged from the inside out.
I was playing the part of the quiet start[?] and that gave me reason enough to wipe the mirror clean.
Rather than just stand naked and write in the fog with my finger, I would unhinge the glass and take it outside, where the steam would rise up off it and disappear abruptly, like unwanted ghosts.
Good riddance and goodbye forever and ever.
Maybe they'd send the postcard one day, or an unwanted knock at the door:
Soul debt collecting.
Damage control.
Cold comfort calling.
Reflecting on reflection gave rise to questioning narcissistic tendencies and traits I may have harboured.
A glorious world, full of self-deceit
And ultimately destructive dipping and diving.
I could swim with all life there,
Under there where nothing was yet or ever to be extinct.
What a prospect for a man with no other prospects
No other plans or hopes or dreaming demons -
Nightmares, I think he'd call them,
Galloping in from afar, hooves thundering horrendously eventually.
But the beginning (as the clumping was very far echoing in from a horizon) made it seem like the lack of control that would take him over was avoidable,
Easily avoidable.
It would just take in a shrug, a breath, an awareness of hindsight as to remind him - how many times?
One million,
Two billion,
Three trillion,
Four quadrillion,
Five quintillion,
Six sex.
He told me once about the locks being changed,
About his years being lost,
About his coma.
It seemed to me barely a cloak,
More like shower curtain in place of a poncho.
What good is a broom with no bristles?
What use is a broom at all if you can't fly without it?
The only time I got a glimpse of the real him was when he told that story, though. He bit his tongue in the middle and bled on the carpet but I cajoled him and brought it all out of him!
He really took me by surprise.
The rarest of treats: the truth.
Not cold and hard like they warned us but warm and wet and grey and hideous.
Soft crumbling fucking fairy floss that was too late to eat, too sweet to swallow.
Seriously my throat would clench tighter than my buttocks.
There was no breathing then.
The last breath a baited one,
Waiting,
Waiting,
Waiting.
I used to like watching him undress and think about all of the caresses I'd already felt.
I'd never look away.
Even if I was bored I could run a mile in an instant and no ice could slip me up.
I was a raucous skater on the thinness of the tightrope,
On the well of time.
On the ice I was never lost.
If there was any crime committed it would be both of us that were thrown under the train
But there was always that whiff about him that he would be grateful for that moment if it were indeed to eventuate:
A perfect ending,
A sudden stop of pain,
No more preening,
Primping,
Popping or being plastered.
That was obviously what he would miss, if you could miss things About life being
Dead.
There were no tunnels in his eyes towards the end
There was always something else distracting him
Taking his time away and tucking it into the bags under his eyes
Maybe he would choose to miss loving her?
That was doubtful.
It would be an obviously ridiculous thing to miss.
A moment unheard of,
Unmissable and inadmissable.
He had lost the old evidence now and I had the new stuff.
The good stuff.
The last of the good stuff.
Now a kitten, softly mewing,
The hunter within is still there,
Growing up all over again
And again
As hunters tend to do.
It seemed to me everything was deranged from the inside out.
I was playing the part of the quiet start[?] and that gave me reason enough to wipe the mirror clean.
Rather than just stand naked and write in the fog with my finger, I would unhinge the glass and take it outside, where the steam would rise up off it and disappear abruptly, like unwanted ghosts.
Good riddance and goodbye forever and ever.
Maybe they'd send the postcard one day, or an unwanted knock at the door:
Soul debt collecting.
Damage control.
Cold comfort calling.
Reflecting on reflection gave rise to questioning narcissistic tendencies and traits I may have harboured.
A glorious world, full of self-deceit
And ultimately destructive dipping and diving.
I could swim with all life there,
Under there where nothing was yet or ever to be extinct.
What a prospect for a man with no other prospects
No other plans or hopes or dreaming demons -
Nightmares, I think he'd call them,
Galloping in from afar, hooves thundering horrendously eventually.
But the beginning (as the clumping was very far echoing in from a horizon) made it seem like the lack of control that would take him over was avoidable,
Easily avoidable.
It would just take in a shrug, a breath, an awareness of hindsight as to remind him - how many times?
One million,
Two billion,
Three trillion,
Four quadrillion,
Five quintillion,
Six sex.
He told me once about the locks being changed,
About his years being lost,
About his coma.
It seemed to me barely a cloak,
More like shower curtain in place of a poncho.
What good is a broom with no bristles?
What use is a broom at all if you can't fly without it?
The only time I got a glimpse of the real him was when he told that story, though. He bit his tongue in the middle and bled on the carpet but I cajoled him and brought it all out of him!
He really took me by surprise.
The rarest of treats: the truth.
Not cold and hard like they warned us but warm and wet and grey and hideous.
Soft crumbling fucking fairy floss that was too late to eat, too sweet to swallow.
Seriously my throat would clench tighter than my buttocks.
There was no breathing then.
The last breath a baited one,
Waiting,
Waiting,
Waiting.
I used to like watching him undress and think about all of the caresses I'd already felt.
I'd never look away.
Even if I was bored I could run a mile in an instant and no ice could slip me up.
I was a raucous skater on the thinness of the tightrope,
On the well of time.
On the ice I was never lost.
If there was any crime committed it would be both of us that were thrown under the train
But there was always that whiff about him that he would be grateful for that moment if it were indeed to eventuate:
A perfect ending,
A sudden stop of pain,
No more preening,
Primping,
Popping or being plastered.
That was obviously what he would miss, if you could miss things About life being
Dead.
There were no tunnels in his eyes towards the end
There was always something else distracting him
Taking his time away and tucking it into the bags under his eyes
Maybe he would choose to miss loving her?
That was doubtful.
It would be an obviously ridiculous thing to miss.
A moment unheard of,
Unmissable and inadmissable.
He had lost the old evidence now and I had the new stuff.
The good stuff.
The last of the good stuff.