Sleepwalkers
Martin Brandlmayr, David Sylvian
Your poetry describing me
It doesn't come close
You work the handle
You smear and turn
But you come no closer to meaning
It's your vanity
That's obvious
It embarrasses
Those that adore you
But who's gonna talk
Oh how it'll hurt
You were always unstable
But you've gotten worse
You looked into mirrors
Where death was at work
Of that you were certain
But it was all surface
And surface is numb
Something to wake us
From cultural slumbers
You fucking sleepwalkers
Go on and sleep
Go on and sleep
This is tomorrow