| Come with me
|
| Fall into the wildscape
|
| Reverse the church bells
|
| Swiping in the mud
|
| With two fingers
|
| And one in your mouth, wandering
|
| I was a thumbsucker, what am I now?
|
| I was a thumbsucker, what am I now?
|
| Am I a traveller, was I ever?
|
| Or do I just colour 'round the clear lines?
|
| Do I just turn away from every confrontation?
|
| Biting until bleeding
|
| She says she knows
|
| This is my strange voice
|
| She say she’s close
|
| Once I was a thumbsucker
|
| Doesn’t say to what
|
| Once I was a runaway
|
| The forest is all sorts of forests
|
| Hid in tight places and World War II bunkers
|
| It seems to be adapting itself, she says
|
| Found secret tree huts, spiralling
|
| Alternating between mountains and marshland
|
| A self-harming vampire, she always says
|
| Of the tender kind, she always says
|
| A compensation, she always says
|
| For something too wild, for something too wild
|
| For something too wild, something too wild
|
| For something too wild, for something too wild
|
| In this way
|
| Alternating mouth and thumb
|
| Forest and human
|
| Both transforming
|
| Forest and humans
|
| Producing nothing. |
| Until
|
| Are equals
|
| I got afraid that I’d dug too deep
|
| Stirred up something in the body
|
| The glands of instinct, fear and desire
|
| Clanking from a distant engine
|
| Iron shafts and idler-wheels
|
| And then there is release
|
| Whatever it is you are doing to yourself
|
| You are always performing some kind of internal construction work
|
| I was a thumbsucker, what am I now
|
| Am I a runaway, was I ever?
|
| It’s all in the wrist
|
| Sketching out the wildscapes
|
| Sucking on the church bells
|
| The hunger of the clappers
|
| Withdrawing word by word
|
| Back into the rabbit hole |