It comes from a depth without perimeter, without the boundary of God
In the cover of trees when the moon shines no light
The ancient men would beat their feet against the bare ground in honour
Leaves flying around the feathers in their hair
I have to tell you about the unbending, heavenly, rock hard pulse
Great war machines of men can not contain this thing
It comes from the natural grit of sandy plain and foamy shore
The angel's stench of sweat is its cause to grin and it bares all in the distance of time
The Stinging Pulse that all bow down to, all wise men must follow
And search their adolescent pockets and their death beds for
The silent spark in the eyes of the dead that explodes like a fire cracker
above the heads of the children that go mad with the excitement and become slaves
To the urge, to the musk of that heavenly beat
It is the sport of kings, of Emperors, of Princes and Lords
Conquering to find the land where knowledge of the fair boys died
The fair boys who knew how to conquer this stinging pulse
With the mythical phallic clubs and spitting embraces
Like the Greeks before them who it is said released the thuddering western desire
And watched it teach Dionysus to rut tender and rough with the down lined crevices
Of the Travelling philosophers who went on to spread joy
Like the stars that were spread across the night sky
So the generations died and fought and fucked
and Secrets were made and lost and mastered
and the Piercing, Stinging Pulse gathered both honour, brilliance and structures of worship
And still we search, still we dig at the eternal iron heart
We feel a gentle drive at downy crevices and moan for the stinging pulse
and we feel a dream like shudder as the stars bend toward us
And we roll over and plan to build great Zeppelin ships to take us over the deadly marshes
and take us to the land of the fair boys.
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