Clay

A boy on the platform
Taps his hand to the beat
Of a telephonically transmitted
Musical treat
My mind is on the woman
Whose mind is full of flame
We both did some damage
And went beyond guilt and blame

On the train, a white-haired man
Sits at his wife's side
His silver watch gleaming
Neath the white neon bar light
There's a lifetime of tenderness
In the touch of the hand
Which he lays on the knee
Of his sweet golden Madame

I should be making money now
Playing out on the street
But I can't hide tonight
In the trick of invisibility
Instead, going home, I write this song
And the words they won't stop
As it is mine to record
What otherwise would be lost

A sweating Arab man
Rolls a trolley full of steel
Down the very same street
Where allegedly
With her breasts cut off,
A dove flying from her neck
Santa Eulàlia rolled in a barrel
Through which knives were wedged

At the top, a tattooed lady
Stands tall and beautiful in her pride
Fishnet stockings, Doc Martens
And a red lipstick smile
Silver rings of spanners,
Skeletons, skulls and a bee
And a light all about her
That would keep a sailor from sea

And the whole city sweats
With sex-brimming spring
The plane trees leaf green,
To each other teenage lovers cling
There's ice in the coffee,
Fruit floating in wine
The only sacred concern
Seems to be having a good time

Oh, the dust is calling
Oh, the clay is falling

On the pavement
There's a independence flag
Stuck in a piece of dog shit
People laugh, wag their tails
Or they don't even notice it
In the names of ideals
People die but not of money
The only country I'll die for
Is independent me

Amid calls for water, calls for nails,
Calls for peace, and much more blood
There are billions to betray
If the world is a neighbourhood
And billions to honour
If you're that way inclined
Given the choice,
I'll choose a good heart every time

Amid the soul-sickening sentiment
That we've somehow been hoodwinked
That this is freshly broken,
That that's the missing link
Oh, if you love one, do tell,
But most important act
On your traceless signature
To the heavy human pact

And this human lot consists
Of martyrs, murderers and more
That maniac monologuing
At the shut supermarket door
The Senegalese singer
Sending his song straight from his gut
My lawyer friend with her head stuck
In a legislation book

The girls hip-hop dancing
On Parc de la Ciutadella bandstand
Where six Neo-Nazis
Sent Transexual Sonia to no man's land
The charming smiling bar girl,
Her hand in the till
The men on La Rambla
Negotiating a late-night thrill

The workers united
Outside the Picasso museum
The hungry little children
Who've been force-fed dreams
The men and women
Living out on death row
The ghost of sweet Molly
Still wheelin, still wheelin
Still wheeling, still wheeling
Her barrow

Oh, the dust is calling
Oh, the clay is falling

The dust is calling, the dust is calling
And the clay falling
On all the angels, the demons
And the refugees in mourning
On the money-thirsty vampires,
The strict and tender charities
On those in staggered silence,
Those bewildered like me

It's April Wednesday 18th, 2018
I should have been making money
Playing out on the street
But instead, I wrote this song,
And I am grateful for the lines
I'm back at the flat now, dear friends,
Thank you for your time