lirik lagu piano magic – the journal of a disappointed man
i slip and slide through my life,
trying to get a grip on the rail.
i m grasping in the dark for a switch
that ll turn on some almighty bright white light and thus, illuminate the way, the path, make everything clear as day. and every breath i take seems to be quickly rolled up behind me and filed away in memory.
only a particular scent or dose of weather can pinpr-ck the past and even then,
the drawer opens flirtatiously for just a moment.
i have lost touch with everyone i went to school with, everyone in the village where i spent most of my formulative years,
everyone i went to college with,
everyone i ever worked with.
they too, are filed away, often angrily slamming the drawer behind them,
over something i said or something i didn t say.
my lovers cannot be traced.
i know. i ve tried.
i’ve taken trains to their cities and stood on street corners in the miraculous
off-chance that they might wander by.
but each time, i have returned home,
defeated and had to force myself to sleep
so that my heart didn t kill me.
i began my autobiography at 23 years old,
with the intention that i wouldn t live ’til 25.
but i d done nothing, loved no-one,
said nothing of any great importance by that time.
the journal of a disappointed man.
i took a position at the natural history museum
but left after only 3 months due to allergies.
whilst deluding myself that i could reinforce
the scientist s power of detached -n-lysis
with a poetic intensity,
i would cough up my guts on the gl-ss
that held the giant stuffed man-o-war.
i had a gift of incisive and candid comment,
but i failed to ignite it
when faced with the apple-cheeked irish girl
who served the tea in the bas-m-nt canteen.
drunk most nights, in the black swan on c-n-l st,
i would attempt to put my own complicated nature
under the microscope of a beer gl-ss.
i walked home alone, opening the air with bolshy,
slurred dictums against religion,
ethics, love and life itself.
lonely, penniless, paralysed by the guilt
of never having told my father i loved him,
i wander hospital corridors, posing as a visitor.
i have wept, enjoyed, struggled and overcome
but i remain disappointed.
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