Lyrics from Sylvian's contributions to "Cartography" by Arve Henriksen
Thermal
Morning, you lay sleeping
Your small body clinging tightly to mine
With frightening dependency
Life defining, Impossible to betray
And with that....
The mattress rose
Set adrift on the burgeoning emotional tide
Colliding with the once stationary objects
Of an uninhabited life
What had been concealed
Was exhaled from god knows where
Colour-drained. unsalvageable
Shape shifting
And, with function relinquished
Resigned from service
Two blue sleeping bags
Nudged against one another
Bearing the once warm imprint of your bodies
The sun-baked stone garden
Retracted its promise
It was cold in that place of perpetual summer
If you were afraid you didn't show it
You who were born bearing the face
Of irrepressible grief
So as not to disappoint you
I lay motionless
Rapt by the rise and stall of your breathing
Your fingertips and thighs
Quietly affirming my place at your side
Before And Afterlife
We started in the suburbs of smaller cities
and as we followed the nomadic call our nobler instincts led us further
from society's centre
Westward, to a cabin hoisted aloft on faulty foundations far above the
Napa Valley
where the rain-soaked earth shifted beneath us and trees caught like
kindling
smoke clouds ripening in the vintners sun
but part of us refused to follow
interior distractions beckoned, rallied
snagged we'd return to the cities on day trips and long weekends
self perversion
anonymity found only in the midst of bricks and mortar
the hustle of strangers
we were worldly people after all
but the haze of the rural and the agents of pollination clung to us
sparked like hayseed halos in the western sunlight
no one let on they'd noticed
but we saw, we knew
I watched my parents as they stood in a crowded Euston station up fresh
from the country
suitcases at their sides, waiting on my arrival
illuminated in an otherwise sea of grey
not at this moment
we were tempted back repeatedly until the lure of the cosmopolitan lay
beyond reach
we moved East in to the forests and the mountains where life's
desires tore us apart
how cruel to find oneself alone at that altitude
at what point did the fear of numbers set in
and the recognition of internal isolation place us outside of
belonging?
but then wasn't that always the case?
weren't we simply allowed to forget?
on Temple Mountain I threw down a rope that others might follow
no one came