I hear disease, inaction appease distraction,
hear the sound of Time pulsing gruntingly
and the soaring guitar lead of Dave Gilmour
the soft touch of drums, the thud of Waters' Bass
the fine delectation of Dark Side echoing in a room
at 150 decibels and more, the sorrowful whine
the elliptical elocution of erudite phraseology
the start of a new song soon, a downbeat, upbeat
any beat to announce the Pink Floyd sound
and then, the dulcet tones of a new song, old song
good song, whistling, whittling trees, chainsaws
the sound of hard out voices, the grind of organs,
Farmisa, Moog, Meletron, the monkey man,
then the next song, not True Floyd, Dave Inc,
Take It Back, a song of love, hope chastity,
the soft lead, the chiming keys, the pigskins softly beat,
and the unmistakeable soaring vocals of Dave,
the imploring guilt of a mixed marriage, divorce,
Roger left in the railway siding, to beat his meat,
yet as in marriage, their companionship soared,
Dark Side, Wish You Were Here, Animals
and the coup de gras – The Wall. Yet Division Bell
sings on my computer, through a 200 RMS stereo
that hardly gets to half on the volume scale,
still the song soars, the instrumentals playing polka
and in the middle, the voice soars, what a vocal
the drums beat sensual, the keyboards stroke orgasm,
and the Floyd play on as if time was a conquerors dream.
And then the Darkishness of Floyd, the deep drums,
the organs playing death music, the guitar silent,
suddenly awakening, keyboards soar, and song is borne,
and soon lost in the reality of Roger’s genius,
Every Strangers Eyes assails vocalisations
the lyrics of a true master, Pink, attacks the senses
those eyes of deep melancholy shine deep,
his voice far more removed from Pink Floyd days,
the true worth of his message kept by a rabid few.
The pulsating rhythm of Careful with that Axe Eugene,
and Ricks soaring Keys, the pulse of Rogers Bass,
the shuffle of the drums of peace, drums of war,
the inclination that even in the early days,
Floyd would be a soco voco in the world of music,
heck, the other day, a classical pianist recreated.
And then, the rising sound of air passing, death,
the parachute wide open, the corner of a foreign field,
and The Gunners Dream rushes into my ears, soothing,
Max and Ma, the children, the bandsman by remote control,
the lasting misery of war and pain and memories again,
and yes, no one kills the children any more, the law
we have recourse to the law, yet the children die,
case in point, many in this country, these past years.
And the silk in your lapel rises to meet the comfort of the band,
take her frail hand, and hold on to the dream,
the dream we all aspire to attain, good for all, for most
good for the Kings and the Queens, Tyrants and Dictators,
for all in control, in command, in a reigning glory,
and yes old heroes do shuffle safely, no one ever disappears,
please don’t relax, grow wiser, idealistic, the law,
and no one kills the children anymore, they live,
they love, they linger on the tip of our finger,
do we really look hard enough at war graves,
do we learn, do we yearn, do we listen, take heed,
and then Mother comes on asking about dropping the bomb,
yes my child, they’ll like the song, even breaking my balls,
ooooh maaaaa, yes build the wall sonny, you need it,
nooooo not president, you need to be a man, not a goat.
Yes Trust the government and avoid the firing line,
ma, it’s really a supreme waste of time, hush
now baby baby don’t you cry, laugh, sing, cajole,
but that was Mother, and cosy and warm and ooh babes,
and I’ve been out of the room for thirty minutes,
now Paranoid Eyes is playing, spooky song,
about lost hopes, lost dreams, lost hopes, lost sight
of the reaction after a war or two or maybe even three,
the dalliance of prophecy versus the green eyed monster,
yes we dally in the truth as told or withheld, so be it,
we reach for the unattainable, peace in all times
war without recriminations, death with dignity,
suddenly, the stereo dies, and leaves nothing to chance,
Comfortably Numb, Dave and Rogers’ song,
the moment when two greats shared the limelight,
I’d like to continue this, but my patience for Floyd,
is thin and egalitarian, baneful and wasteful, shocked
I simper into a delirium rocked with analogy and truth,
past the bucket of swollen hands blue, and shit on the TV,
the roast dinner in the oven fried to Atom Heart Mother,
the wine in the rack bubbling UmmaGumma/Meddle
the walls etched with decibels of Animals and WYWH,
the floor trampled under Dark Side and The Wall,
the furniture turned to the Old Stuff, the New Stuff
and stuff it all, we gotta get outta this.
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