I press your buttons
You lend me your hi-fi controller
Do you know what this means to me
To think that I have inspired you
Dance, music
You are a folk-stock rock and roller
Do you know what this means to me
My iPod sits at ease beside you
You smile
At my laughter, I stand taller
Do I know what this means to you
I fall but your love saves me from growing older
We stretch out our cushions
Pledge the future of first steps
I hesitate
Then hold a candle to your shoulder
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Always with a surprise
Yesterday a kimono
A white fabric, hardy
And well hung
Your smile gives away your pleasure
Today and for a long time
A presence more than being
Softly strung
You get on, and you keep at it
Whatever got you down
You got it, shook it
Worried it right out of the town
In touch with your sensitive senses
You mend those unknowns who broke you apart
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Pastel colours, quiet refrains
Hands still, on the chiming clock
Whisper, in case I hear myself
Looking behind the picture frames
Dust is a relief of many years standing
Unplugged from the upright room light
Unmoved from your mother's generation
Flock wallpaper is still though the memory
Even of just and only the place
Billericay Close or Quebec Narrows
All I ask is contemplation
About and around
A race of which I'm out
All I ask is elevation
About to
Surround myself
Unable to be without
Pastels, flocks and dust
Trust the background music, the mood
They create, that is Richie Havens and Arlo Guthrie
Paisley patterns of young men in bare feet
Pylons and stanchions, mill floors ransomed
Derelict cotton works
West wind blown cotton fields
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In your room I am ironing
I feel pretty good about myself
I feel that goodness usually reserved
Or given a fairly lofty price tag
Much the same when you return
From your dutiful day at work
While all the while I toyed
With some unlikely protestation
Then we sit on the three seater
Share the newspapers, I am leaning in
I feel pretty good about you yourself
We did kiss but that was somewhat earlier
The iron is still
Something else is steaming
Outside you cut the grass
You mow the lawn
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Sentimental, awash with nostalgia
Do you remember, or are you scared
Think on; only of or from the past
No ideas here, for an unknown future
Even Nineteen-Eighty-Four is way back
There now a place no more than a wilderness
The easy rider’s have smoked their last cheroot
Today is it then only a reflection
But what of tomorrow; to walk naked
Down the high street, or some other form
Of soul baring, or extravagant expression
Rose petals in gardens falling, more or less to be
See, with our own eyes wide open
Close them only
For ourselves to dream
There to intensify our own, fresher thoughts
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