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None Of The Above
Peter Hammill
None Of The Above
Naming the Rose
Between the light and the shadow,
out of the corner of my eye
I saw your feathers all ruffled,
anticipating the sky....
You've got no reason to stay,
day by day your impatience has grown.
I'm caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, I know.
I'm reaching out
but we are touch and go.
Making a meal of the moment
I might cook up a story or two,
but the dish of the day's getting colder
and I know that, pretty soon,
you'll pick up your bed and walk,
open your wings and fly away from me
across the leaden, hammer-headed sky
while I can't breathe a word,
no matter how I try.
So scared
it shows
that we are touch and go.
I never brought myself to tell you
how you kept all my demons at bay
but my silence came out as indifference
and now my diffidence has driven you away.
You'll be the one with the wings,
I'm going down in flames,
still mouthing out the mystery, my angel, of your name.
How touch and go our tenderness became.
(So scared to show
I know we're touch and go)
So touch and go,
so much I can't explain.
(So much is unexplained.)
Tango for One
And every time you call me
I wait to hear what favour you require of me this time....
The object of your own desire,
not everything's about you,
I'm not exactly hanging on your words,
this audience is restive,
perhaps you've not observed
because it's me, me, me with you
and what I feel means not a lot.
No, I don't need this,
you're welcome to what you've got.
Not everything's about you,
my world does not revolve
around whatever problem you want solved;
perhaps you might do better with a fresh resolve.
But it's always me, me, me with you
and I have had it up to here;
no, I don't need this -
you're welcome to yourself, my dear.
You're welcome to the party,
so glad your guests have all arrived.
They're all reflecting your brilliance in their adoring eyes.
You're welcome to this moment,
everybody's here for you...
but you'll be dancing by yourself before the night is through.
Not everything's about you,
not everything's about you,
not everything about you's true.
And every time you call me
your self-obsession grows:
you'll stew in your own juices, I suppose.
I've had enough of listening, there's nobody at home;
not everything's about you, everybody knows
that everything about you's emperor's new clothes.
You're welcome to the party,
so glad that everybody came;
oh, how they admire you as your worth is self-proclaimed!
The spittoons fill up with vitriol
while you're puffing up your name.
Yes, you're welcome to this moment
you perceive as your righteous fame;
and if exhausting our patience
has long been your chosen game
you're a winner, you're a champion...
in your own eyes you're a saint.
Is that what you've become?
Yes, you're welcome to yourself
but when this one-off race is run
not everything's about you.
Not everything's about you,
and getting on without you won't be hard,
if of comfort that's a crumb.
It's always me, me, me with you;
surely it can't be so much fun
to find you're dancing a tango for one?
How Far I Fell
(Here's the old man and his not-so-childlike bride;
here's the humbling of us all, delusion never dies;
here's the story: anyone can fall at any time at all.
We're born to be fools in life.)
I was the king of the mountain,
I had everything that money couldn't buy:
at the summit of ambition I was ready for the sky.
I viewed the world from this, my citadel...
oh, how I fell.
Silent and sleeping, the volcano,
so I thought that I stood square upon my feet.
I ignored the warning tremors in my hubris, I repeat -
I never saw you coming, Jezebel...
oh, how I fell.
As I look back now on the tears I was to cry
I am holding on to the vestiges of pride,
I am holding on, but I will never be the one to tell
how far I fell.
(Here's the old man and his not-so-childlike bride;
here's the humbling of us all, delusion never dies;
here's the story: anyone can fall at any time at all.
We're born to be fools in life.)
A fool and his money are soon parted
and there's nothing like an old fool, so they say:
once the plastic had been melted quickly you were on your way,
leaving me drowning in the wishing-well -
oh, how I fell.
You'll never know how deep you cut me,
although anyone can see the state I'm in.
So I pay the price of such unoriginal sin...
but I will never bring myself to tell
how far I fell.
Somebody Bad Enough
I keep your picture in the back of the book
as index to my hidden pages;
a secret life
is where we meet
and I'll not let you go.
I know you think that I'm a bit of a creep
but I will grow on you in stages
until you recognise that we're both in so deep
that it's contagious.
And if you love somebody bad enough
I believe in the end they will offer you in their lives.
I keep the website stocked with pictures of you;
I love to scan your shocked expression.
I know that you're the only one
who really understands
all about possession.
And if you love somebody bad enough
you will follow their footsteps wherever they're going in life;
and if you love somebody bad enough
I believe in the end they let you in their lives.
And if you love somebody bad enough
you will follow their footsteps wherever they lead you in life;
and, yes, I love somebody bad enough
I believe in the end you will let me in your life.
Tango for One
And every time you call me
I wait to hear what favour you require of me this time....
The object of your own desire,
not everything's about you,
I'm not exactly hanging on your words,
this audience is restive,
perhaps you've not observed
because it's me, me, me with you
and what I feel means not a lot.
No, I don't need this,
you're welcome to what you've got.
Not everything's about you,
my world does not revolve
around whatever problem you want solved;
perhaps you might do better with a fresh resolve.
But it's always me, me, me with you
and I have had it up to here;
no, I don't need this -
you're welcome to yourself, my dear.
You're welcome to the party,
so glad your guests have all arrived.
They're all reflecting your brilliance in their adoring eyes.
You're welcome to this moment,
everybody's here for you...
but you'll be dancing by yourself before the night is through.
Not everything's about you,
not everything's about you,
not everything about you's true.
And every time you call me
your self-obsession grows:
you'll stew in your own juices, I suppose.
I've had enough of listening, there's nobody at home;
not everything's about you, everybody knows
that everything about you's emperor's new clothes.
You're welcome to the party,
so glad that everybody came;
oh, how they admire you as your worth is self-proclaimed!
The spittoons fill up with vitriol
while you're puffing up your name.
Yes, you're welcome to this moment
you perceive as your righteous fame;
and if exhausting our patience
has long been your chosen game
you're a winner, you're a champion...
in your own eyes you're a saint.
Is that what you've become?
Yes, you're welcome to yourself
but when this one-off race is run
not everything's about you.
Not everything's about you,
and getting on without you won't be hard,
if of comfort that's a crumb.
It's always me, me, me with you;
surely it can't be so much fun
to find you're dancing a tango for one?
Like Veronica
Wear your hair like Veronica Lake
and he says you look ever so pretty
as he brushes the tear from your cheek almost tenderly...
soon he'll be home.
Falling in love was your first mistake,
with a heart that held no trace of pity.
As you look in the mirror you wonder what face you will see
when he comes home.
Soon he'll be
in through the door in a cloud of rage and impotence;
calling you whore, his greeting is a Glasgow Kiss;
down on the floor you raise your arms but there is no defence...
he's only in love with his fists.
Wear your hair like Veronica Lake
and the bruises won't show where he hits you;
safe behind the curtain, in private, in secret nobody will see
how he comes home.
Soon he'll be
into your face in a spittle-stream of vitriol and abuse,
filling the place with the stench of alcohol and piss;
no saving grace, no comfort, no escape and no excuse:
he's only in love with his fists.
If this is all that there is
isn't there somewhere to run to?
Or do you think in the future he'll change his ways?
Is that why you stay?
He is not your heaven-sent protector, he is not an angel from above,
he is not the man that you once married: now his fists are all he loves.
He is just a weakling and a bully, he is not the devil in disguise;
he is not the man that you once married, he only wants to see you cry.
He only wants to hear you beg, he only wants to see you hurt,
he only wants to see you bleed, he only want to make you cry.He is not your heaven-sent
protector, he is not an angel from above,
he is not the man that you once married: now his fists are all he loves.
Oh, darling, darling, is that why you stay?
His fists are all he loves.
In a Bottle
With the sense of anticipation burning on his skin
and the train of consequences running at full throttle,
before the touch, before the kiss,
this moment just before their history begins,
he'd give anything to put this in a bottle.
No sense of time, no sense of place,
in case of senselessness he'll swear to her alone,
(He'll swear to her alone.)
though he knows tomorrow this will be another face he's forgotten
(No memory's quite his own)
before the fire, before the fall, all this is magical,
the future so unknown,
he'd pay anything to get this in a bottle,
(as if that's a thing he could ever own)
he'd pay anything to get this in a bottle.
Don Juan had been so careful but he let it slip
that the elixir he craved was moist upon her faithless lips
and in the hint of her perfume that lingered on his fingertips...
distillation.
Overstrength, this eau-de-vie.
(What a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip finally....
He got the bottle, he knocked back the eau-de-vie.)
He's stripped of recollection,
he's left with no protection,
this won't come again,
although he always knew that he'd foresee
much more than he'd ever remember.
(This won't come again.)
Losing the thread, losing the plot,
it wasn't/not possible to stay on fire as he was then,
he'd do anything to breathe life in these embers.
(But the secret stays untold...)
He'd give anything to get life from these embers.
(and the fire has grown cold, cold, cold.)
Between the present and the past, his mouth agape
and the elixir he drained has twisted essence out of shape;
and with dark perfume he is wraithed
now that the genie has escaped from the bottle.
Sangrial, the eau-d-vie.
(What a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip finally....
eau-de-vie, eau-de-vie.
Don Juan had been so careful but he let it slip.
Don Juan had been so careful.
Eau-de-vie...)
Astart
Always we're too young to understand
that life is neither cruel nor fair,
at random or well-planned.
So we stride along the shoreline
while our footprints in the sand
are washed away and then
say "Can I begin again?"
But where you come from's who you've been
and try as you may your debts all stay unredeemed
(maybe that's why they seem)
when all history's as distant as your dreams
you close your eyes and count to ten,
say "Can I begin again?"
Every action, every passion,
every rational retraction, every breath a start....
Always we're too young to comprehend,
nobody here will ever know the whole story,
how it ends.
(Our lovers and our friends...)
Holding them closely in the noblest of pretence -
life's just got started when
you find you can't begin again.
(Every action, every passion,
forms a little chain reaction, every breath astart.
Every moment, lost or stolen
forms the story, base or golden: go from where we are.)
Always we're too young to understand....
(Every action, every passion,
forms a little chain reaction, every breath astart.)
Ninguna de las anteriores
Nombrando la rosa
Entre la luz y la sombra,
de reojo
Vi tus plumas todas alborotadas,
anticipando el cielo...
No tienes razón para quedarte,
día a día tu impaciencia ha crecido.
Estoy atrapado entre la espada y la pared, lo sé.
Estoy extendiendo la mano
pero estamos en un vaivén.
Haciendo una comida del momento
Podría inventar una historia o dos,
pero el plato del día se enfría
y sé que, muy pronto,
tomarás tu cama y te irás,
abrirás tus alas y volarás lejos de mí
a través del plomizo cielo martilleado
mientras no puedo decir ni una palabra,
por más que lo intente.
Tan asustado
se nota
que estamos en un vaivén.
Nunca me animé a decirte
cómo mantenías a raya a todos mis demonios
pero mi silencio salió como indiferencia
y ahora mi timidez te ha alejado.
Serás el que tenga las alas,
yo me estoy hundiendo en llamas,
seguiré murmurando el misterio, mi ángel, de tu nombre.
Qué vaivén se volvió nuestra ternura.
(Tan asustado de mostrar
sé que estamos en un vaivén)
Tan en un vaivén,
tanto que no puedo explicar.
(Tanto queda sin explicación.)
Tango para uno
Y cada vez que me llamas
espero escuchar qué favor necesitas de mí esta vez...
El objeto de tu propio deseo,
no todo se trata de ti,
no estoy exactamente pendiente de tus palabras,
esta audiencia está inquieta,
tal vez no lo has notado
porque se trata de mí, mí, mí contigo
y lo que siento no significa mucho.
No, no necesito esto,
eres bienvenido a lo que tienes.
No todo se trata de ti,
mi mundo no gira
en torno al problema que quieres resolver;
tal vez te iría mejor con una nueva resolución.
Pero siempre se trata de mí, mí, mí contigo
y ya he tenido suficiente;
no, no necesito esto -
eres bienvenido a ti mismo, mi querido.
Eres bienvenido a la fiesta,
tan contento de que todos tus invitados hayan llegado.
Todos reflejan tu brillantez en sus ojos adoradores.
Eres bienvenido a este momento,
todos están aquí por ti...
pero estarás bailando solo antes de que termine la noche.
No todo se trata de ti,
no todo se trata de ti,
no todo sobre ti es verdad.
Y cada vez que me llamas
tu auto-obsesión crece:
te cocerás en tus propios jugos, supongo.
He tenido suficiente de escuchar, no hay nadie en casa;
no todo se trata de ti, todos saben
que todo sobre ti es la ropa nueva del emperador.
Eres bienvenido a la fiesta,
tan contento de que todos hayan venido;
¡oh, cómo te admiran mientras tu valía es autoproclamada!
Los escupideros se llenan de vitriolo
mientras te inflas con tu nombre.
Sí, eres bienvenido a este momento
que percibes como tu fama justa;
y si agotar nuestra paciencia
ha sido tu juego elegido durante mucho tiempo
eres un ganador, eres un campeón...
en tus propios ojos eres un santo.
¿Es eso en lo que te has convertido?
Sí, eres bienvenido a ti mismo
pero cuando esta carrera única termine
no todo se trata de ti.
No todo se trata de ti,
y seguir adelante sin ti no será difícil,
si eso es un consuelo.
Siempre se trata de mí, mí, mí contigo;
seguro que no puede ser tan divertido
darse cuenta de que estás bailando un tango para uno?
Como Veronica
Lleva tu cabello como Veronica Lake
y él dice que te ves muy bonita
mientras limpia la lágrima de tu mejilla casi tiernamente...
pronto estará en casa.
Enamorarse fue tu primer error,
con un corazón que no tenía rastro de piedad.
Mientras te miras en el espejo te preguntas qué rostro verás
cuando él llegue a casa.
Pronto estará
entrando por la puerta en una nube de rabia e impotencia;
llamándote puta, su saludo es un beso de Glasgow;
tirada en el suelo levantas los brazos pero no hay defensa...
solo está enamorado de sus puños.
Lleva tu cabello como Veronica Lake
y los moretones no se verán donde te golpea;
segura detrás de la cortina, en privado, en secreto nadie verá
cómo él llega a casa.
Pronto estará
en tu cara en un chorro de vitriolo y abuso,
llenando el lugar con el hedor de alcohol y orina;
sin gracia salvadora, sin consuelo, sin escape y sin excusa:
solo está enamorado de sus puños.
Si esto es todo lo que hay
¿no hay algún lugar al que correr?
¿O crees que en el futuro cambiará sus formas?
¿Es por eso que te quedas?
Él no es tu protector enviado del cielo, no es un ángel del cielo,
no es el hombre con el que te casaste: ahora sus puños son todo lo que ama.
Es solo un cobarde y un matón, no es el diablo disfrazado;
no es el hombre con el que te casaste, solo quiere verte llorar.
Solo quiere escucharte suplicar, solo quiere verte herida,
solo quiere verte sangrar, solo quiere hacerte llorar.
No es tu protector enviado del cielo, no es un ángel del cielo,
no es el hombre con el que te casaste: ahora sus puños son todo lo que ama.
Oh, cariño, cariño, ¿es por eso que te quedas?
Sus puños son todo lo que ama.
En una botella
Con el sentido de anticipación quemando en su piel
y el tren de consecuencias corriendo a toda velocidad,
antes del toque, antes del beso,
este momento justo antes de que su historia comience,
daría cualquier cosa por poner esto en una botella.
Sin sentido del tiempo, sin sentido del lugar,
en caso de sin sentido, le jurará solo a ella,
(Le jurará solo a ella.)
aunque sabe que mañana esto será otra cara que ha olvidado
(Ningún recuerdo es del todo suyo)
antes del fuego, antes de la caída, todo esto es mágico,
el futuro tan desconocido,
daría cualquier cosa por poner esto en una botella,
(como si eso fuera algo que pudiera poseer)
daría cualquier cosa por poner esto en una botella.
Don Juan había sido tan cuidadoso pero se le escapó
que el elixir que ansiaba estaba húmedo en los labios infieles de ella
y en el rastro de su perfume que quedaba en sus dedos...
destilación.
Sobreestimado, este eau-de-vie.
(Qué desliz entre la copa y los labios finalmente...
Consiguió la botella, se tomó el eau-de-vie.)
Está despojado de recuerdos,
está sin protección,
esto no volverá,
aunque siempre supo que prevería
mucho más de lo que recordaría nunca.
(Esto no volverá.)
Perdiendo el hilo, perdiendo la trama,
no era posible mantenerse encendido como lo estaba entonces,
daría cualquier cosa por dar vida a estas brasas.
(Pero el secreto queda sin contar...)
Daría cualquier cosa por dar vida a estas brasas.
(y el fuego se ha apagado, apagado, apagado.)
Entre el presente y el pasado, con la boca abierta
y el elixir que bebió ha retorcido la esencia,
y con un oscuro perfume está envuelto
ahora que el genio ha escapado de la botella.
Sangrial, el eau-d-vie.
(Qué desliz entre la copa y los labios finalmente...
eau-de-vie, eau-de-vie.
Don Juan había sido tan cuidadoso pero se le escapó.
Don Juan había sido tan cuidadoso.
Eau-de-vie...)
Astarte
Siempre somos demasiado jóvenes para entender
que la vida no es ni cruel ni justa,
al azar o bien planeada.
Así que caminamos por la orilla
mientras nuestras huellas en la arena
son lavadas y luego
decimos '¿Puedo empezar de nuevo?'
Pero de dónde vienes es quién has sido
y por más que lo intentes tus deudas permanecen sin redimirse
(tal vez por eso parecen)
cuando toda la historia es tan distante como tus sueños
cierras los ojos y cuentas hasta diez,
dices '¿Puedo empezar de nuevo?'
Cada acción, cada pasión,
cada retractación racional, cada aliento un comienzo...
Siempre somos demasiado jóvenes para comprender,
nadie aquí sabrá nunca la historia completa,
cómo termina.
(Nuestros amantes y nuestros amigos...)
Sosteniéndolos cerca en la más noble de las pretensiones -
la vida apenas ha comenzado cuando
te das cuenta de que no puedes empezar de nuevo.
(Cada acción, cada pasión,
forma una pequeña reacción en cadena, cada aliento un comienzo.
Cada momento, perdido o robado,
forma la historia, base o dorada: vamos desde donde estamos.)
Siempre somos demasiado jóvenes para entender...
(Cada acción, cada pasión,
forma una pequeña reacción en cadena, cada aliento un comienzo.)
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