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This song was part of Fictitious Exhibition No. 5 curated by Rebecca Feiner (www.feinerart.freeola.com)

[ mp3 ]

Moments Arrived

© Gibbens/Weston

When it turned out the way it was going,
You can’t tell me you were shocked.
The wind went the way it was blowing,
The foundations of nothing were rocked.

And the pundits that leapt on their laptops
To point out the blame and the praise
Captured the moment in snapshots
Whose colours degraded to greys.

Yellow lights burn on the plaza
Where no-one would willingly walk,
Developing into disaster,
A slice of an ersatz New York.

You do pick on interesting places,
She said as we watched through the grille
The crackheads without any faces
Abandon their hope and their will.

It was hardly a century later
When the waters were lapping beneath,
She caught the eye of our waiter
Who brought us our bill in his teeth.

In the South there’s a thunderstorm brewing
By a will that’s allegedly God’s
But the newsman won’t tell us whose doing
Undid all those unlucky sods.

There’s plenty of life on the boulevard,
Though none of it actually human.
As long as it still has a credit card,
As long as it keeps on consuming,

They won’t dream of calling last orders,
The DJ can keep spinning tracks
And the dealers and whores and defrauders
Keep dancing with knives in their backs.

When the outcome has filled up the cupboard,
It comes trickling under the door.
The chairman’s expression grows troubled,
He says, Bring me the head of the poor.

But the poor have no room in their diary,
They’re really tied up, I’m afraid.
They’re searching the woods for their fiery
Sword with the double-edged blade.

We set out to stand up to tyrants,
For a life that’s fruitful and whole,
And hour by hour the requirements
Of our endgame corrupted the soul.

Yes we fought for a cause that was holy,
Or so we believed at the time,
Failing to see the way slowly
It turned to a species of crime.

D’you wanna come back for a coffee,
She said as we stepped off the bus,
So I got some beers from the offy
And that was the birthday of us.

Who sent you rolling and reeling,
Weeping and shaking and bruised,
To bring me this tenderest feeling?
Well, I’m grateful to the accused.

We’ll run through the rain to the river
And under the bridge we’ll be dry.
On the water the longing lights shiver
And the moments arrive and pass by.

And the wind goes the way that it’s blowing
Then turns back to see if we’ve gone
And the river has no way of knowing
And the moment arrived and went on.

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