The City That Always Sleeps.
(Ingenuity Is An Ingenuousness)
Sunday, crack of dawn,
the sky is dirty white;
Montmartre's unsung cemetery
is void of human life.
The doors are still all closed,
early tears are not allowed;
Some silent men go near
but only wind should reign inside.
Wait, a little girl's in sight;
Discreet in her movements,
you could almost pass her by;
She's come to enjoy the subdued
variations in the morning light.
Amongst the trees she walks,
there's no posture to be posed;
True feelings can't be cloned,
this fascination is inborn;
Bleeding hearts and dizzy whores
all have visions of their own;
Be authentic over novel
if your heart demands it so.
A certain piece draws her attention;
Tears of verdigris run down the face
of Zola's weathered bust;
She moves closer with clear signs of apprehension;
The man's empty grave still sees
with empty eyes of blackened rust.
As rain begins to fall
her subconscious leaks a quote;
In a wet piece of school paper
she'll leave some mark of her own
Leaning over the tomb,
she quickly scribbles a note:
She writes: "Art in every action
is forever carved in stone."
from The Germ.
released April 21, 2013
Written, performed and recorded by Pablo Bellinghausen.
all rights reserved