I stare from behind the mirror
I still can't feel a thing
this house has been dead for years
it doesn't mean anything

the walls are soaked with indifference
the rooms occuppied with despair
the bed rocks in its own ignorance
the windows just open and stare

a climate of unhappy families
all covered with dirt and with flies
breeding a hole for our secrets
so we can watch them all grow into lies

at the same time the room seems to mock you
parading your shadow of doubt
they pray for our silent audience

and beg for forgiveness without
I dreamed for years before now
I'd end up in a place like this
too scared in a room I refuse to call home

I knew it would end like this
I walk with a weight on my shoulders
of the promises that I broke
to get rid of my guilty secrets

throw them down that same hole
this house is a house of failure
of bitterness and remorse
of illness betrayal and torture

it means nothing of course
in the corner I swear I can hear
the ghost of you screaming at me
questioning misplaced virtues

and my infidelity
and even though I did not doubt you
no one said that you had to be right
the lights in the air that surround me

could turn my day into night
the company of the corpse here beside me
will haunt me forever like your screams
like everything else never leaves me alone
from my waking house into my dreams


Heartburn - Chris Connelly.-

This is a sand, just like centuries,
When all is forgiven,
Still reigning from the hour-glass,
Round like a lens in the sun,
As the competition marches point blank to your zero,
The circling hunger just howls like an audience,
Try to determine each way, each cry,?
Each muscle of the language
Too tired to communicate,
No longer exiled,
But your will, it remains so,
Prone like an X in the sand,
Defying any water? to fall on this land,
The dulled overview presents only spectres of a life,
Red, Adriatic, Caspian, Dead,
Move like the ghosts of the dead air,
Measured steps, and fatal betrayal,
This is sand from the centre,
Curved fracture of the world,
The steam that lies beneath the sea,
The broken window passage,
Glass reflection of the landscape,
These are more than injured times,
The tidal inches towards total,
The tide inclined where it cant find,
The time slipped in the fractured world,
Hidden by curls? of steam,
They trace out a map of affliction,
And it matches the citys disguise,
Now owned by the frightened in the margins,
Bathing their fear in the space between storms,
The choral that you breathe to,
The choral that you breathe against,
Walks out of? the air and undresses in front of you,
Triumph and funeral, ghost of the air,
Wretched, crippled clothes decorate iron-dark water,
Ophelias opposite with a blue-black grin,
The stars and the last of the electric light
Pick out and reverse the features,
Gluttony of theatre,
Blue-black and grinning again,
Hand-claw attack pose,
Like the monger just froze flat against the frame,
The background paintings,
Skill of the pardons you will not hear again
The sutures unreason,
But they punctuate skin,
Illustrating the fracture of world,
No more severe skies, no more air,
As the insects multiply and ignite,
No more air, no more air, no more air.

Chris Connelly.-
Shirley Manson (Forgiveness & Exile)