[HOPE GOES BOTH WAYS:] a monument to subtext [Viennagram:]
August 17, 2004, 02:42

!!![SUBTEXT:]???[SUBTEXT:]!!!

“Hello red phone, red line, I’ve been hired by the Czech Republic Gardens.
It was the Skunk that hipped them to my whereabouts and my current situation.
The situation involving tape worms, Swedish crowns, offsets, presets, Hi-Fi's, the Love is Dead. Where will I be next? Berlin or Quebec? No, tending to Czech republic denizens, dears, darlings. The circle shall continue to close in, electric loves.
Here’s to you, true believers; Check your master and as always: Viva! Viva! Vienna!”

Primus Inter Parus,
A.V. Vienna

{dawn}
such big secrets, deep in the air
rest and relaxation, appalling the Clamp and Crosby
something’s gone wrong in the white flag procession
the duchess has gotten sick with the flu
wouldn’t you?
Dionysius and the bassoon are always leaving on que
No, my little ice queen, don’t hush your twin caterpillar lips with a gypsy charm
The fairest riles of the yeast, of my esteem 
Remember Mistachua and your social security number for black ticket/black tie
DO NOT ENTER WITHOUT EXIT
When the roans start marching, listen closely and hear the siren’s call
Your gypsy lap sisters will not understand the call
Your sins were never really yours, they say, believe it
…but you're leaving for a hot date
They’ve been looking for you; a table for two
But at a gypsy moth ball, 
they’d never understand that this is kind of confusing Confucius 
Hush my little Russian exile, hush my little debutante 
I’ll leave the harsh light

You say we’re moving too fast, to that scorpion subtle bath
I said “I might be english, but I happen to like math”
I read her body language like a japanese fire engine
Like a stove and a toddler
She’s wearing the mark of the widowmaker

I think we’re moving so, so slow
But you happen to insist
That I must be English…

{midday}
Czech republic daughter, black tie babies
I’ve got a signature move
And it will outlast you
I’ve pulled the stye from Babylon
I’m not a rich man, but I’ve needed help
Now I’m waiting, waiting to wake up
And I’m working so hard for the Czech Republic
I’ve seen the bright lights of the city
They go on, they go off, they go on, they go off, they go off
Ran out of red tape in shanghai
And stand by me and the bright lights of the city
The spot lights sink the trauma so pretty
Xanalogue, Xanalogue
I need my analogue, Sans the law
Danalogue, I need my time in radio motion
And I’ve been through the nights of the lonely trial
I’ve hung in the stalks of a duchess defiled
Oh, Xanalogue take me home…
I’ve been here for so long
As we listen to the A/F radio
I’ve crossed the faust for soul
I’ve burned the skirt of rome, never to return
I left my morals in there, and its chafed me for so long, Xanalogue
That detail job in analog…

{sundown}
some people say new beginning with the tv on
some people buy new beginnings, but not for me
I’m waking up, soft, to the tone 
Of a late night touch mutiny
And I’ve pulled out too many pages from the bible
That there’s no salvation left for me…
I’m practicing the speech to my own eulogy
Not even mother mary will come weeping for me.
I’ve been reborn, que the confetti 
Are you ready for total abandon?
Are you ready for The Velvet Touch?

{dusk}
I’ve got a kamikaze with your name on it
I’ve seen Clamp and Crosby getting down with the love is dead
It was a gypsy-silk suit mystery man waiting for the sailors.
“I’ve seen you hiding out behind the black power
there was an atrophy on the mayflower
The ghost is always running for you, but I’ve read the ‘hold me close’ 
Is it true? Is it kosher? Looking for the statue of Caesar?”
-Chinese Checkers made in Japan

We’ve had to shock them with a saltine sun; waxen vaccination 
I’ve seen in the past and future with a glass eye protein hum
The walls, the walls are crooning satin
Some men, cannot surpass, they’ve been slowly Dying like Latin
Some may even tell the truth, but they’re going to die like latin, too.
But I prefer to go a different way.
Some may prefer guns of golden, or sweat of potpourri 
Oh no, I haven’t got an antidote for them
But I’ve been looking for a lot of people to use.
Because there’s an awful lot of work to do
And there’s a lot a lot of people to meet
And there’s a lot of filthy hands to shake
But there’s not a minute to waste
I’ve been working, trying not to die like Latin
Yes, working, like a wild card, every minute, every day 
I suppose nothing can save your soul.

There’s a romance novel tonight, dear
No, not even I can save your soul from the diametric claws of Latin
Someone might die for you someday, but that someone won’t be me
Someone might sing in Latin for you, but that troubadour ain’t going to be me. 
Turn out four wheels; peeling, peeling, peeling for you
You live the widowmaker’s private peep show
All in vain, you’ve search the world for electric love before you’re out like Latin
Your wedding band is for Czar Alexander the first.
He’s busy mixed drinking on your good side and if your sways of summer country sides, I was somewhere in the Catskills, some parfait in the north atlantic, wrestling sea snakes every four weeks, four weeks pregnant it feels slight diametric residence. 

Under pressure, picking up something on my old fashioned dialysis:
Czar Alexander the first killing all gypsy moths, feed em to the ‘pedes
We’ll wait a hundred years underground, less talk why not?

Someone in your neighborhood is a gypsy when the tide comes in
But I’m always smiling on a mission wanted:
Cho-Cho, had his viet-knees on trial when I said “please can I take your order?”
A new world order, instead, like a bed of bouquets only to encrypt the ocean floors. 
Well, I served that man, but only association was he was a man of scales.

Asking, the troubadour, waiting in concrete stills.
The fog the fog, they’ve sent, it’s getting a little too hot in here 
The foe the foe to me, may I see your license please?
(it was only red dot dot dot dot line dot)
so the fog said to the fuzz: “It’s getting a little too hot in here”
Sugar killed the Native Americans but your mother just doesn’t care
She’s not feeding you, she’s feeding the yeast
Oh, another Mary is fooled again…
Too much, too much, she found a roman but it’s only for the touch
Too much, I’m waiting like some kind of guilt seeking yeast
I’m waiting for a hundred years and Czar Alexander the First 
Someone’s spraying a heat seek jazz all over Leningrad…
Say businessmen, say gentlemen, I’ve heard a little
Sometimes in the hospital they wear tuxedos. For what?
Sleeping at sunrise, I’ll tell you what: every urchin can smell your fear 
Push the pushy baby right out of the womb and sell the smell in the powder room
Your lovers answer: “something has tainted my babe” 
But learn to keep the cool because they ain’t giving you nothing
Because Czech is your master
And all the sugar in this world will never take away the sting
And all the heat in this world will never ever cease
And all the sinners in this world will never wash your bed
Not as long as Czech is your master…

They say a widowmaking heart is blacker than an ocean
They wouldn’t lie to you, because they’ve had you from beginning
And they’ll be grinning at the end, 
grinning like a step daughter with a noose in her hand. 

let it bloom…

{twilight}
waiting for the lights to turn on when czech is your master
you must be the last, last of the sirens
and a’ whistling to the end
put on that ruby red lipstick for your man
she had a taste for the red
a communist pocketbook
say we’re moving too fast?
Widowmaker wore our mothers skin…

and the stars they send will scratch the ornamental sun
before the battleship will leave us once again
I know you can’t wait when Czech will fast forever
We’ll grab it’s swollen bones and write notes to long lost lives

[END VIENNAGRAM:]