Writing About Music

Well, I am not the Fred Astaire of words.
I just dance about architecture:
The home we built to calm your nerves,
Plus your desk job in the public sector.
I fill four columns weekly,
a sharper pen for my softer heart.
And a judgement passes easily,
I dissect them into smaller parts when

There's a plane, no address, no terrain.
And I'll point it out.
They would run, had a plan, got a gun.
And I'd point it out
With my cold, dead hands.
Cause I'm half empty

From ABC to XTC,
I pulled them out and rearranged.
With a nod to High Fidelity,
how I once could hear the full range.
The piercing highs, and the rumbling lows.
All the details
in between personas and characters.
They would all relate to me.

Here's a hill, here's a rock, show your skills.
And I'll point it out.
Rinse, repeat. Glue your drums to the beat.
And I'll point it out
With my cold dead hands.

New clouds overhead,
as we watched the rose parade.
"There's a rumoured possibility of rain"
Is what you said to me,
Then you sighed.
'Cause I'm half empty. And you're half empty.
We're filled with reason and regrets and irony.
You help yourself, and I'll need your help.
I understand it, I'd just rather be anywhere else.