She smiles at me
from beyond the eastern sea-shore.
Flashing jewelled eyes,
she hoists her skirts so high.
Nouvelle cuisine or an oyster bar --
it's really up to her.
I'll write every cheque she brings to me.
She shoots on sight --
it's her European Legacy.
Round the castle walls --
about the Highlands and the Islands
the faint reminders stand.
Visitors who took a hand
a thousand years ago, or so --
stranded high and dry by tides --
washed up a new identity.
The channel's wide --
but it's their European legacy.
I strain my eyes
against the southern light advancing.
On whiter cliffs I'm high.
The sea birds roll and tumble as they fly.
I hear distant mainland music echo
in my island ears.
My feet begin to move instinctively
to the warmer beat of my European
Legacy.
Later, that same evening, she ran.
I think she ran alone.
Later, she had early warning from
a hidden phone.
Checked with the embassy --
she might have been
a million miles away.
Should I circulate her likeness
at all airports without delay?
It was later --
Later, that same evening.
Earlier, we had had a drink or four
in some Kensington hotel.
Hard -- It was hard to keep my mind
on what she had to sell.
And with all business done
we took a cab --
should it be her place or mine?
Good security prevailed
and I was home just after nine.
It was later --
Later, that same evening.
Now I want you back.
Yes, they want you back.
We want you back.
My country wants you back.
Later, in the wee small hours
there was heavy traffic on the radio.
Scare, at a channel port --
small craft warnings to keep to shore.
Lobstermen thought they saw
a submarine
half submerged suspiciously.
'Though I arrived too late.
I'm sure she blew a kiss to me
as the sub sailed out to sea.
In and out of shady places --
walking on cold corners of the maze.
Following the trace you leave unwittingly.
I wanna be no Saboteur.
Oh, no, me no Saboteur.
Painted ducks across your landscape --
happy in your domesticity (It don't
come free).
Misfortune, like a Sparrow Hawk, hangs
over you.
Wanna be no Saboteur.
Deepest regrets I humbly offer you
as I cut into your life.
With clean precision, all is simplified --
pass the hat and pass the knife.
By now you must be worried, wondering
who is me and what lies behind my art.
I'm only removing broken sea-shells from
the beach --
Oh, no, me no Saboteur.
There's at least one of me inside
your ranks
in your factory or school.
I anticipate a cleansing opportunity
to take the horns by the bull.
History forever writing
pages to be cut or painted grey,
or celebrated like Jesus in his
temple rage
as he chased the money-men away.
Tune into messages
from the Eastern avenue.
Lock on to the ether --
squeeze the signal through and through.
War of the air-waves
making scare-waves.
I'm getting pictures
from my radio.
Moscow Radio.
Voice of America --
symbol of the free.
Mine of disinformation
pleading sympathy.
Down in the cold-war games
forever naming names.
I'm getting pictures
from my Radio (Free Moscow).
Keep getting pictures
from my Radio (Free Moscow).
I put my headphones on --
reach out on the beam.
Shutter up the windows --
I'm getting up some steam.
Somebody's at the door
catching me in the act --
they've been keeping the score.
I'm getting pictures
from my Radio (Free Moscow).
Yes, I'm getting pictures
from my Radio (Free Moscow).
The middle lane has trapped my car
in red-light claustrophobia.
I slip the shackles, cut the rope--
stand naked with a telescope
as the cat walks alone
under a big sky.
Against the dark so thin and white--
gonna be a big sky night.
Miss Galileo, come with me
and view the new Astronomy.
Black hole dressing on salad plate--
Quasar at the kissing gate.
Now the cat, he walks alone
under a big sky.
Umbrella dome pin-pricked in lights--
gonna be a big sky night.
My spectacles, my white lab coat--
my coffee, thermos and my notes.
I pat my pocket. I got the keys
to the secrets of the observatory.
And closing the door,
I feel a new dawn
as the darker slides align--
you to yours and me to mine.
And now you stand, assisting me--
I can touch what I can see, see, see.
I look in wonder, I feel no shame--
see the consequences of the game.
Expand my universe.
Head for the Big Bang.
Reach for my switch and shout--
gonna turn the big sky out.
Short Arctic desert day --
and someone left their snow-shoes in
the Tundra.
Look around every which way
but I can't see just where the footprints
go.
Is it a casual disappearance? --
plucked from the middle atmosphere
like straw wind-blown.
No speck on the horizon --
no simple message scrawled
upon the snow.
Unearthly visitation --
someone left their snow-shoes in the
Tundra.
Hungry buzzard flier
circling round and round
rattling death's tambourine.
Have to run it down the cold wire --
late insertion in tomorrow's lost and
found.
Should I spread out searching? --
but I'm a little thin upon the ground.
So I raise my lips to coax
the last drop of brandy from the bottle.
Rest my feet and contemplate
the mystery that's haunting
this Siberian space.
Show-shoes they bind me down --
I'm just one more parasite of the surface
layer.
I begin to get the feeling
I've been on this stage before
and I'm the only player.
One more Arctic desert day --
another set of shoes out in the Tundra
snow.
I make my fade to white-out
and you can't see me where my foot-
prints go.
Black Volga following me --
Nobody's Car.
Mr. No-one at the wheel of
Nobody's Car.
Wet pavements, thin apartments --
quiet dissent from darkened doorways.
I want out alive.
Speak up for me if you can.
So, careful how you drive
in tourist city.
Slap in front of my hotel --
it's Nobody's Car.
Is that my limousine?
No, it's Nobody's Car.
Are you on routine assignment?
Plastic shades on black-browed eye-hole.
I read this book before.
I even saw the film.
How did the ending go?
(Intourist city.)
Black out.
It's a weird scenario
I've seen a thousand times before
but only on the video.
Feel my steps quick in the headlights
of Nobody's Car.
Down cobbled alley with no exit from
Nobody's Car.
Doors slam, two figures silhouette --
somewhere before, I feel we've met.
Can't tell you anymore.
I agreed to go along
with all they asked of me.
Intourist city.
When the rats are running
and the boys are gunning
for heads on a tin plate --
you can hear the footfall
softly in the back yard.
And the black jack is called
face up on the last card.
You'd better call your witness
in your dirty business.
Trop tard sera le cri.
Better run while you can --
better set the tall sail.
Better make deep cover
before the boys have you nailed.
There's just one chance to get away --
I'll catch up with you another day.
I'll close my eyes and count to ten
and come right after you again.
Grab your credit cards --
cash in on your resources.
Take your passport from the drawer,
don't stop to change the horses.
Get out of the Heat.
Now can you feel the pressure?
Have you got the measure
of being a wanted man?
Cold drink in your hand --
hot sweat on your brow.
And there's no understanding
going to help you now.
Notify all parties
of an earlier vacation.
No use trying to board the train
after it's left the station.
Paparazzi, can't make the man.
Paparazzi, can't break the man.
Next to the transit lounge
see the Paparazzi tears.
No-one came today
from Boston or Tangiers.
And in departures -- only
faceless trippers trip,
loaded with duty free
held in white knuckle grip.
Snap it up, flash away --
steal a camel for a day.
Break the story in heavy type --
the news is running late tonight.
Be-decked with Nikon necklaces
hear the Paparazzi cries.
Under their noses walk
the famous in disguise.
Conspicuously huddled there
but no-one stops to look.
They've got their crayons out
to colour in the book.
Snap it up, flash away --
steal a camel for a day.
Break the story in heavy type --
Paparazzi won't be home tonight.
Paparazzi -- write it down.
Paparazzi -- turn it around.
Paparazzi -- take it, fake it,
break it.
'cos it's a story.
Now someone's cut the lines
communication's down.
All photo film is fogged.
Celebrities surround
and jab their fingers at me.
They kiss but I can't tell.
Even poor Paparazzi
must have privacy as well.
Sailing round the true-blue sphere--
is it too late to bale out of here?
Well, there has to be some better way
to turn back the night,
spin on to yesterday.
The old man and his crew--
after all these years,
it's Apogee.
Pilot training and remorse--
spirit friends fly too,
at Apogee.
Apogee-- solar bright
Apogee-- through the night
Apogee-- overground
Don't think I'll be coming down.
Screened for a stable mate
with nerves of ice we flew,
at Apogee.
No creativity allowed
to pass throgh stainless veins of steel,
at Apogee.
Apogee-- put the kettle on
Tight-lipped-- soldier on
High point-- communicate
Don't forget to urinate.
So glad they put this window in.
How to explain, how to begin?
See! Tennyson and Wordsworth there
waiting for me in the cold, thin air.
Beware a host of unearthly daffodils
drifting golden, turned up loud.
Tell the boys back home,
I'm gonna get some.
The Wrong Stuff's loose in here--
I'm climbing up the walls,
at Apogee.
So hoist the skull and bones--
death and glory's free,
at Apogee.
A stranger wind, a solar breeze--
I'm walking out upon the starry seas.
See pyramids, see standing stones--
pink cotton undies and blue telephones.
Goodbye, cruel world that was my home--
there's cleaner space out here to roam.
Put my feet up on the moons of mars--
sit back, relax and count the stars.
In the hands of science --
the complete appliance.
We're moved to motor.
We're moved to motor.
Do you fly a Spitfire?
Do you slide on a tea-tray?
Or walk on a short trip (Sundays).
Or drive come what may (enjoy).
Automotive science and engineering.
When big was better --
and fast was chic,
the oil was cheaper --
now we're up the creek.
But the Japs are coming
and everyone's turbo'd
and carbon fibre
is the way to go, go.
Down at the robot factory
things are humming.
New radical suspension --
no humans testing.
(Wind it up, wind it up.)
Take a trip
in your Freudian slip.
Doctor Ferdinand (Ferdie)
has you in his grip.
It's an old profession
of subtle artillery.
Rough wheels meshing --
button out, button in.
The tall General will mine
a few bridges tonight,
stroking soft machinery.
Fanfare at dawn
courting green steel
lined up for World War One
(Two, Three, Four).
It's an old profession
of subtle artillery.
Rough wheels meshing
on a landscape with no tree.
The tall General points
to the distance --
disconnects his power supply.
Writes a stiff note to his nearest
and dearest --
he takes the battle plan
and contemplates his fly.
The tall General
flies by the seat of history.
The tall General
is crossing.
The tall General
he thinks inevitability.
The tall General
is definitely crossing.
With spit and with polish --
time for desperate measures.
The pain in the forehead
from holding up to the pressures
of life on the rim
of the convenient alliance.
Out on the rim --
let me out in the rim.
The tall General will walk
across the compound
with his briefcase and I.D.
Later they'll post him
seemingly missing --
Under Wraps