Promises

Will you promise me that every time you see a river in flood you will think of me?

Will you promise me that every time a light bulb burns out you will think of waking up in an empty bed?

Every time the music is a little too loud you will think of our moods in the autumn?

And when you try to name the constellations through dusty binoculars you will think of feigned suprise?

And if the mocking birds are all dead

Then what shall we kill?

And if everyone is on the road 

Then why are we resting?

Caught between youth and old age, wishing on rusted aeroplanes in the distance

We thought they were shooting stars

Who knew they were crashing

So beautiful, so beautiful as they plummet in to land

You clap your hands against your chest as you judge the happiness

I think about the miracles as they come to hand, I'm not dead yet

I can remember how to sing, and to mock

Maybe we should steal some bread, or better yet a coat

We might find a map in the pocket, find our way to a church

Something to think about, try to find our souls between the walls and the windows

And our reputations will precede us but our self worth comes last

So we hug in tight for warmth and get strapped in for safety

But everything we try to believe gets washed away to Europe

And oh we could write a book about Europe

Something about a library full of damp books on fire

And in Europe they have no insect fire brigades

So the maps all burn

And I dreamt you were robbing a museum

You left all the valuables and stole the papyrus

Keeping it hidden in a parcel

Between a can of sardines and a book about Burns' life

Scottish poetry and fish and ancient texts

You wouldn't share any of your knowledge or food

Well- good luck to you

I hope you choke on a sardine's fin

While I walk out looking for a nice coat to steal

So I can sit beside a river and try to think of the last bridge I saw that I actually wanted to cross

We have too many axe fights

And I am bored with your glue-sniffing neighbours

Your erection no longer reminds me of Princess Grace in the nursing home

And all possibilities are pointing me in the direction of Cork

Is there a chance that you actually do love me?

Or am I now breaking the rules that you have written in the margins of that Hemingway book that your father gave you?

Your father was a sinner, a cynic, and I always knew it was him who would molest me at Christmas

Your mother told me once to lock my bedroom door

I thought she was merely protecting me from herself

Your old ma, she claimed she came from aristocratic stock

Yet she looked as though she came from a swamp

But you built your world around them didn't you?

And now when ever you see a basket full of dirty carrots and freshly slaughtered chickens

I know you think of them

And I think of misery

So I leave the room and curse Hemingway

Curses, I know a few

So tell me that when you see a burning aeroplane you will think of us resting on the side of the road

And tell me when you dream of orchestras playing at funerals you will think of the first time I gave you head

When you drink vodka with aristocratic swamp people will you remember the time we stole your mother's coat?

Found a map in the pocket 

And we ran and we ran

And we fell in love

Breaking all the rules that you had written in the margins of Hemingway

And we found ourselves in a time of illness

In love

Singing Rebel songs that were written in Cork

Yes... I am happy to be your smiling, whistling, idiot.