Van Der Graaf Generator

He's a blind man, crouching by the pavement,
only seeing with his third eye,
and clutching at the astral shadow
of every passer-by.

He's a wise man, trumping all the answers;
she's a wild girl, trying to keep his feet on the floor
in whispered physical litanies:

Pretty keen - yes, my hobby keeps me busy
and if I talk to myself, what's the crime?
In the darkroom I am a dealer in space and time....
When all memory is mellowed,
when the photograph is yellowed,
still it never lies.

There you are, your eyes laced with secret pleasure,
saying that you're on the way to change,
devouring in inordinate measure
every diversion that's arranged.
For every appetite, a cruel attraction,
but there's a panic in your actions...
oh, I never saw you look so strange.

Fixing memory chemically,
holding time on the stop-clock,
hanging back from that last frame
just in case it didn't show you
in the way I used to know you...
I thought you'd always stay the same.
(But you won't.)

Oh, the red light, the silver, the black and the bromide;
the silence, the waiting for overview....
The past seems under-exposed, low tide,
but still the images ghost through.
And you're there in the bath,
which is all this has led to,
and I can't say your path
is a right one to choose....

But then I only have a negative of you.

If I'm the mirror and you're the image
then what's the secret between the two,
these 'me's and 'you's, how many can there be?
Oh, I don't mind all that around the place,
as long as you keep it
well away from me.

I've begun to regret that we ever met
between the dimensions.
It gets such a strain to pretend that the change
is anything but cheap...
with your infant pique and your angst pretensions
sometimes you act like a creep.

And now I'm standing in the corner,
looking at the room and the furniture
in cheap imitation of alienation and grief.
And now we're going to the kitchen,
fix ourselves a drink and a cigarette,
getting no closer to being the joker or thief.

Still, I reflect, this nervous wreck
who stands before me can see as well,
can surely tell that he's not yet free;
he can turn aside, but can no more ignore me
than know which one of us is he,
than tell what we are going to be,
than know which one of is me.

And now we're going to the kitchen,
fix ourselves a drink and a cigarette,
getting no closer to being the joker or thief.

These mirror images,
these mirror images
won't stay, go away, are no help.

In these mirror images of myself
there are no secrets.

fingers groping for the galaxies,
reddened eyes stared up into the void,
1000 stars to be exploited
Somebody help me I'm falling, somebody help me, I'm falling down
Into sky, into earth, into sky, into earth .....
It is so dark around, no life, no hope, no sound
no chance of seeing home again ...
The universe is on fire, exploding without flame.
We are the lost ones; we are the pioneers;
we are the lost ones
We are the ones they are going to build a statue for
ten centuries ago or were going to fifteen forward ...

One Last brief whisper in our loved ones' ears
to reassure them and to pierce the fear
standing at controls then still unknown
we told the world we were about to go
Somebody help me I'm missing, somebody help me
I'm missing now
touch with my mind, I have no frame,
touch with my mind, I have no frame ...
Well now where is the time and who the hell am I,
here floating in an aimless way?
No-one knows where we are, they can't feel us precisely ..

There is no fear here.
How can such a thing exist in a place where
living and knowing
and being have never been heard of?

Doomed to vanish in the flickering light,
disappearing to a darker night,
doomed to vanish in a living death, living anti-matter, anti-breath
Somebody help me I'm losing, somebody help me, I'm losing now
people around, there's no-one to touch,
no people around, no-one to touch.
I am now quite alone, part of a vacant time-zone,
here floating in the void,
only dimly aware of existence, a dimly existing awareness,
I am the lost one, I am the one you fear,
I am the lost one,
I am the one who went up into space, or stayed where I was,

The captain's in a coma, the lieutenant's on a drunk;
the owner's in his cabin with his special friend, the monk;
the midget's on the bridge, dispensing platitudes and junk -
those wild and special places,
those strange and dangerous places,
those sad, sweet faces,
it's a Ship of Fools.
The nurse in black seamed stockings, she's already on patrol
for fake fur starlets panicked by the watering-hole;
everybody's waiting for the drama to unfold
in those cold and treasured places,
those old and degenerate places;
those posed, posed, empty faces
it's a Ship of Fools.

Run, rabbit, run, you're the only one that can do it;
turn, baby, turn, there's a ring of fire
and you've got to go through it.
Fun, baby, fun, when the sands have run to the limit
turn, baby, turn, there's a ring of fire and you're in it.

Looking for logic and adventure
down the dark end of the street,
open city, open season, open lips that gleam so sweet
offer kisses like piranhas
to the soft flesh of your feet,
and any man's poison is every man's meat
in those mad and special places,
those sad and desperate places,
those sad, sweet soul embraces,
it's a Ship of Fools
Those strange and special places
those wild and dangerous places,
those dead, dead, dead faces...
It's a Ship of Fools; no rules.

What have we become?
What have we chosen to be?
Now all history is reduced to the syllables
or our name -
nothing can ever be the same:
now the Immortals are here.
At the time it seemed a reasonable course
to harness all the force
of life without the threat of death, but
soon we found that boredom and inertia
are not negative, but all the law we know,
and dead are will and words like survival
Arrival at immunity from all age, all fear
and all end...
why do I pretend?
Our essence is distilled
and all familiar taste is now drained
and though purity is maintained
it leaves us sterile, living through the
millions of years,
a laugh as close as any tear;
living, if you claim that all
that entails is breathing, eating,
defacating, screwing, drinking, spewing,
sleeping, sinking ever down and down
and ultimately passing away time which
no longer has any meaning.

Take away the threat of death and all
you're left with is a round
if make-believe.
Marshall every sullen breath and though
you're ultimately bored by endless ectasy
it's still the ring by which you hope to be
engaged
to marry the girl who will give you
forever - it's crazy and plainly
that simply is not enough.

What is this dulles and bluntest of pains,
such that my eyes never close without
feeling it there?
What abject despair demands an end to
all things of infinity?
If we have gained, how do we now meet
the cost?
What have we bargained, and what have
we lost?
What have we relinquished, never
knowing it was thee?

What thoughts now of holding fast the
line, defying death and time?
Everything we had is gone,
everything we laboured for and favoured
more that earthly things reveals
the hollow ring of false hope and
false deliverance.

But now the nuptial bed is made, the
dowry has been paid:
the toothless, haggard features of eternity
now welcome me between the sheets
to couple with her withered body -
my wife.
Hers forever,
hers forever,
hers forever,
in still life