Lyrics

"To be loved out of paralysis."

BUNNY BROWN IN FLAMES

MARCH
March is where I came in, like a lamb.
But I want to go out like a lion, if I can.
Put up a good fight, and you could still put it right.
Right for once, if you have hope.

The spring rain fell and soaked my clothes completely.
And on the sidewalk all the worms came out to meet me.
We were young and just starting school.
April is the cruelest month, if you have hope.

When you're in the family business,
cutthroat and reckless,
so deeply twisted, they'll have you for breakfast.
But grace is the ideal.
To feel how the worms feel.
There's no need to get real.
You bet your life if you have hope.

And still the same old syndicates prevail.
We've got to sneak out all our lovebirds through the mail.
You dream there might be a chance their May - December romance
won't bite the dust, if you have hope.

But oh, it gets cold in Janu-weary.
And I feel a hundred years old in Feb-brrrrr-dreary.
The heart can't see its way to face another birthday.
But it does, if you have hope.

When you're in the family business,
greedy and gutless,
so deeply twisted, they hate what you love best.
But grace is the ideal.
To feel how the birds feel.
There's no need to get real.
You bet your life if you have hope.

You take a great risk.
It's dangerous to have hope.
But there's no place like hope.
In the bleak midwinter. . .

March is where I came in, like a lamb.
But I want to go out like a lion, if I can.

GLENELLEN DRIVE - BY
On my bike with dad behind me holding on as I start riding.
He lets go and I keep pedaling away from thirty-one Glenellen Drive.

In my snowsuit I begin to make a snowman. He melts into
swimming pool and watermelon summer at thirty-one Glenellen Drive.

Brother Rick, one floor below me, sings along to David Bowie.
Brother Ron drives up in a custom, souped-up, rumbling, fire-red Mustang.

Neighbourhood kids press their faces up to windows in the basement
when his rock group called The Villains plays at thirty-one Glenellen Drive.

Overcome on one holiday, mum breaks down and then walks away.
Dad goes out and brings her in and no one mentions it again.

A little poodle rolls in leaves. Grandma sings Bringing In The Sheaves.
Oven's on with pot roast smelling good at thirty-one Glenellen Drive.

On my swing and mum is pushing. Raiding the raspberry bush.
When life is new and all is well. I'm safe at thirty-one Glenellen Drive.

Drive down Bunting. Turn on Gormley. Pass Dunraven and Hawthorne.
See the glassed-in porch and blue Impala?
You're at thirty-one Glenellen Drive.

The bear is sleeping in his den. He's on the midnight shift again.
And mum has got a mean migraine.
Unless you want to start a riot
keep the noise down and be quiet.
Shhhh!

On my bike with dad behind me holding on as I start riding.
He lets go and I keep pedaling away from thirty-one Glenellen Drive.

TWIDDLEY - DEE
Can't you see we're meant to be like the ghosts in the radio?
Tesla's floating signals going places no one else will go.

'Cause they say they care but they don't mean it.
They're only there when it's convenient.
Soon as asphalt turns to gravel they can't be found
when all we've tried to do is stick around,
and hold this rhythm down.

Twiddley - dee! It's like money in the bank when you strike that chord
and sound on sound the reels go 'round.
They are Les Paul and Mary Ford!

Then my hardest labour is a pleasure.
A trip down a trail to a treasure.
The featherweights flew when they found out it's all up hill.
But all I've tried to do is keep the will,
when every jackpot's nil.
'Cause, twiddley-dee-daw,
it gives me a thrill.
Still.

ACHILLES AT MY HEELS
I am floating in a body that is slowly shifting shape.
And I'm tearing bits of skin off to let the fear escape.
And plucking all my nerve up 'cause chance favours the bold
I strike out into the world but miss a step
and knock myself out cold.

Stumbling down the road, I hug my crutches tight,
like pylons around the site of an accident-prone soul,
keeps falling down a manhole
to a reservoir of pain, with Achilles at my heels again.

Be still, my beating heart.

Well I know forewarned is forearmed but lately I'm all thumbs.
I am marching with two left feet behind the fifes and drums.
And holding up a brave face 'cause fate favours the strong
I trip over a boot lace and then I wonder,
what the hell went wrong?

Steady as she goes along. The bumps and bruises beam
like fire trucks upon the scene of an accident-prone soul,
keeps slipping through a manhole
to a reservoir of pain,
with Achilles at my heels.

Be still, my bleeding heart.

Look at all the maple leaves tumbling from the tallest trees.
Lining streets with some star-crossed, ancient reminder
of what was loved
and what was lost.

Stumbling down the road, I squeeze my crutches tight
like pylons around the site of an accident-prone soul,
keeps crashing down a manhole to a reservoir of pain
with Achilles at my heels.

Be still, my breaking heart.

Look at all the maple leaves tumbling from the tallest trees.
Lining streets with some star-crossed, ancient reminder
of what was loved
and what was lost.

Be still, my bursting heart.

A QUIET DEMON
There's a quiet demon dug in at my side,
knocking the cat off the bed in the middle of the night,
messing up my apartment till I can get nothing done.
Open up the cabinet, there's a quiet demon.

I go out searching for things as they once were
but hovering about me is a quiet follower,
and like my mother would have said
"You make a better door than a window!"
Blocking out the sun.
You quiet demon.

And a grievous sea pitches and pulls at my insides
till it drowns the fishes and the little boats capsize
and against all my wishes that old salt appears. In tears.
Holding on for dear life.

There's a quiet demon who just remains aloof,
boxing with my shadow and tearing shingles off my roof.
And what am I supposed to do?
Should I fight or should I run?
Open up a suitcase, there's a quiet demon.
Holding on for dear life.

BIRDS AND BEES
You're only human, you do what you can, but what can you do?
But turn a kind eye and not a blind eye to our shared apocalyptic view.
So is this how you know that you've got soul,
by the way you feel the pain swallow it whole?

Then let's go back to the things that we knew around the age of three
when we were stronger, when we belonged here, with articles of faith
like birds and bees, flying in the sky where we could see them
and not parked inside some dark warplane museum.

'Cause all I've ever learned is I am at your service.
And 'cause you make a furnace of my heart I burn this way.
You are a dream and I keep waking up in ashes.

Oh I need some help to forget myself
when the scientist in me wants to make sense of this.
So do you suppose we could doff these clothes?
Maybe we'll expose the secret of how it goes. . .

. . . to be grateful and not hateful, to be possessed
and not haunted, to be wanted, to be loved out of paralysis.
Let the academics map desire, I only want to throw myself into this fire.

'Cause all I've ever learned is I am at your service.
And 'cause you make a furnace of my heart I burn this way.
You are a dream, a searing vision, the brightest flame
that my lucky eyes have ever seen.
But I keep waking up in ashes.

SITTING DUCK
See the sitting duck adrift upon the pond,
and a ripple is guiding it along.
It sits unhurried, just bobbing sure and slow.
Not worried about the currents below.

But, freak of nature, what the pond has spawned.
Another creature our reason can't explain.
Just out of reach there, of our long lost calm.
Side by each in hope and horror.

O, freak of nature, what the pond hath spawned!
Such a creature our senses can't contain.
Still under siege there, by an age old qualm.
Side by each in need and terror.
Everyone is the same.

DREAM DATE
I won't be going out tonight. Going to stay in out of sight.
But I will be all right. I've got a date with a dream.
Life's demands are very fierce. Only seem to be getting worse.
So I'm making myself scarce. I've got a date with a dream.

Where the fearless upstarts and the dearest sweethearts
and all my countless counterparts are playing for the winning team.

Easy come and easy go. Some you beat and others, no.
I'm increasing my odds though 'cause I've got a date with a dream.

Oh what a situation, but imagination is sweet salvation,
dire as it all may seem.

How this world can get you down, living in a lost town.
But they won't have me to kick around. I've got a date with a dream.

I've got a dream date.
Dire as it all may seem, I've got a date with a dream.

FORECAST OF THE WEATHER
What can I tell you? What can I say? I really wish the news was better.
The truth has been written, filed away and buried like a dead letter.
But my uneasy prophecies continue to amass.
I take no measure of pleasure as they come to pass.

You can all wait for stars to align and planets to enter their houses
before you decide on changing your minds
and getting up off your couches.
If my outrage was contagious you would be making
the things that hurt you a virtue and suffer their meaning.

Forecast of the weather, by joints that swell in pain,
that fail their use but never go wrong about the rain.
What's your aim? Use your heart. Where's your brain?
The human race can be so lame. They give up being wise to be clever.
I really wish the news was better. Forecast of weather.

A little too rash, a little too brash, a little too quick to excuse it,
a little too loud, a little too proud, a little too much party music
to hear the very small canary deep inside the mine
with emphysema, whispering to seek and ye shall find.
Don't leave your umbrella behind!

Forecast of the weather, by joints that swell in vain,
that fail their use but never go wrong about the rain.
What's your aim? Use your heart. Where's your brain?
The human race is so insane, they give up being wise to be clever.
I really wish the news was better. Forecast of the weather.

MISSING MAN
A little crowd gathers on the ground for a solemn observation
and the planes fly overhead in a missing man formation.
A missing man formation, for a missing man of action
with the missing information, in a mission of destruction.

I was cold so I bought gloves at an army surplus store.
But I know there's no way I'm ever going to win this war
in someone else's clothes, serving someone else's aims
with someone else's hands pulling all the strings.

Oh beautiful ghost of the past, who takes the amnesia to task
is victory lost to you now, or can you still win out some how?

Dark dove of peace, flight of the damned,
all the world's flags wave to you at half-mast.
Still awaiting permission to land.
Hauling such fragile cargo as you fly past.
Missing man. Missing man.

Can we still hope to build a new humanity that's just?
Where you die to what you love, instead of dying if needs must?
Dying if needs must, on the beaches at Dieppe,
or the nightmare in Iraq. Have we had enough of that yet?

Oh dutiful ghost of the past who takes the amnesia to task
is victory lost to you now or will the truth still out somehow?

Dark dove of peace, flight of the damned,
all the world's flags wave to you at half-mast.
Still awaiting permission to land.
Hauling such fragile cargo as you fly past.
Mark of the beast, blood of the lamb,
all the world's flags wave to you at half-mast.
Still awaiting permission to land.
Hauling such precious cargo as you fly past.
Missing man. Missing man. Missing woman. Missing man.

When your unknown soldier comes home, stand firm below,
open your soul and let him land. Missing man.

SWAN SONG
In the salon de refuse the people point and laugh
and spew their glib reactions to all the mad abstractions.
The world is theirs, we just live downstairs,
in the basement with the draft.
The roommate from St. Catharines swirls out with the bath.
Baby, it's always going to be that way.
When are you going to embrace your painful beauty
that doesn't want to show its face out in the daylight,
haunting you at night?

See the tongue-tied, doe-eyed darlings of the dark side
swinging deals behind the scenes with two fists.
Truth is, what's come home to roost? Just humanoid bank machines?
Still, there must be a place for us little burnt out sunbeams.
Baby, it's always going to be that way.
When are you going to embrace the painful beauty
that doesn't want to show...
What have they done to you?
Weren't they the same ones who once booed Bob Dylan too?

It's a shame so much affection is wasted on perfection.
Blown on a swan that anyone can see the glory of.
But objects in the mirror are grosser than they appear.
Admire them, desire them, but only a mother could love such an ugly. . .
. . . baby, it's always going to be that way.
When are you going to embrace your painful beauty
that doesn't want to show. What have they done to you?
Aren't they the same ones who once booed Bob Dylan too?