The Green Plastic Gloaming
IN the early days of sailing there were no life jackets, just a starter’s gun and a pack of sandwiches. People in tents on the shore. They want to be there, not someone else or they’ll explode. The horns. Just guitar. (That’s where the keyboards come in.) Well, break the door down, it’s better with the lights out but that whistle doesn’t turn off. Does it? As much as the horns cheer for themselves. Light as air. Ding but, ding, ding. The speak of us. A quiet lap. A handshake of carbon monoxide. No one knows. If there are surprises. No one knows the applause, again, of a crescendo. It makes a pig look uglier somehow, that kind of memory thundering down the lane, an electric machete scratching every detail. We remember a great many people recalled the height of the rain in church. A second voice reminds you. On, from the vantage point. Chorus. It’s a dirty way to scream at the panic in godly country. Even if the cat got their tongue, even if they have no etc. against a sheer drop. Swept up, clicking, always with a beer and an idea — didn’t you see the whole string? Whistling where it wandered through the woods. Everything looking — easy, echoing, two ideas now. In the riff 1–2 if you got a ticket.
