Lake Drive

It’s a scrambling kind of life,

it could finish any time,

of hard to locate station, a flickering picture kind

of over supply of days, then always exhausted time,

of ambient desperation, a keening wave of sine.

And really baby really, that would probably be fine,

Never sure if what I thought, was a clambering up, a climb

wasn’t a pivot down, wasn’t

a slow decline,

When you’re always scrambling you’re always digging

down into the hungry lime.

The deep moronic base,

The ruthless icing on the cake,

the puling soggy centre,

makes for sentimental paste.

Profane geography does the range of dividing make -

I couldn’t mander the gerry,

I drove my car into the lake.

Nothing made sense anymore…(not that it ever did)

Nothing makes sense anymore…(not that it ever will)

A little early in the piece

To be from my senses released,

A little green for a critical break,

Still, I drove my car into the lake.

When you’re not dying you’re not dying, you’re not really living not really,

the thing you reach out to touch it isn’t much, it’s touchy feely.

It’s a scrambling kind of life, a spanning of barely par,

A scrambling life that isn’t? Well they rarely are.

Heaven has always been on earth, it’s for the bankers and killers,

magnum daddies and their pretties, mercenary gorillas.

It isn’t for me anymore…(not that it ever was)

It’s all just a little bit fake, so I drive my car into the lake…