sObjective

Opening your eyes the right way
Must be the hardest skill
You can (never) master.
You never know what`s awaiting you
On the other side of the eyelid.
Theory doesn’t really help.
Practice is scary.
Still, it`s never too late to
Try and open your eyes one more time.
Otherwise,
The most important thing in your life
Might remain a ghost
Forever right before your eyes…

Hang in there,
It`s not your time
To let go.
Maybe you’ll make it
A minute longer,
Or you may not make it
At all.
Just hang in there.
You try to keep that grip
Until you really know
You have to let go.
Then struggle a bit more.
Trust me.
Hang in there.
In these very last seconds,
In your last shower of sweat,
In the impossible screams,
You’ll meet your savior.
He`ll either lift you up
Or let you go down
In peace with yourself.
But you have to struggle,
Or you’ll be falling,
Forever wondering
What if…
It`s not about where you fall.
It`s about how you choose to.
And you may not fall at all.

Dare doing the song,
The dawn won`t wait,
The cornet can’t play itself
Away from this sad world.
Ask a bypasser for the tune
Or at least tell him your trouble,
For trouble it is what writes the notes
And singing it is what shares the pain;
Lonesome jazz is all but quiet.

Rumpled brass players often gather,
No arrangements whatsoever,
To set off the sweat off their cheeks,
Down along the veins
Under the black skin of their necks.
The suicide of the century.
They won`t show it in the papers,
They won`t shout it on the radio,
But the dawn will witness
The slaughter in those pork pie hats.
Overly haggard and very very drunk,
Still dismatched with the out-there,
The jazzmen can stop the sun
And cover it all with the dirt of their souls
And the blues of their notes.
The sun can then go
And take care of the day,
Not sure what else to do anyway.
The trouble will stay there,
Towards dawn,
Before any light appears
Above the horizon and beyond,
And will live in the bush.
For who else but a dumb bush
Has time for jazzmen`s trouble?…

I have been
Pushing myself so hard
Lately…
I`ve been doing
The staredown
For so long…

All I am is
Bright Wellingtons size 5s
Landing in a rain puddle.
No fear of the dirt.
Through the water and
Into the bottom of mud,
Huge splatter,
No one cares,
It’s just rubber,
Put it under the cold hose,
It’s gonna be fine,
He’s just a silly boy.

Altitude gain.
Stall.
Falldown.

So by the time the rise closes
And I feel like falling down,
Who’ll carry me home?

I can’t look up to my messiah
And do the staredown,
But I`ve been pushing to do it
For so long…

If the boy can`t sleep,
Pour 40 drops of liquor
Into his milk;
He`ll forget all there is,
His mouth soaked up with malt,
Until he rises.

With the rain I come,
With the rain I go.

Wind, wind, wind,
And your windy kin,
Where on Earth you takin me?…

Leave me just one morning
So I can soak up
Some lazy fellows
Still in bed at 11 AM,
Planning a brunch
With their clothes off,
Or maybe a pajama party
In the midst of the day.
Let go of your timing
And just let me
Wet up their last dreams
Like morning dew
On a silent hill,
Like water drops
From a wishing well.
Let the day be slow,
Let the time be gone.

Wind, wind, wind,
And you windy kin,
Where on Earth you takin me?…