1. |
Limits
03:12
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Light in my head, I touch the ground.
I curl up tight, give forth full force.
I face the facts. I see the light.
You are but another, just the same.
I was never meant to know your name.
Hung by my heels, suspended, have not fallen yet.
Voice from above, the clock reminds. I can’t forget
wild desires I felt sure I could tame.
I was never meant to know your name.
When I am lost with words that fail
I hear your name in every sound.
My path is clear. I am resolved.
I offer myself to be bound.
Distracted and distressed,
it goes against all I was ever taught.
It's maddening to be impaired.
I can’t complete a single....
The card and course are calling me.
I must respond to circumstands
I once believed I’d moved beyond.
You are not another, not the same.
I was never meant to know your name.
© 1996 Eric Hesson
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2. |
Juliette
02:47
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“The students can stop traffic, but you can’t wait for me!”
he said to you, oh my Juliette.
Tae Kwon Do isn’t what we practiced on dressing room
floors beyond their wars, oh my Juliette.
I wake up alone, burning with the memory of you.
What can I do, oh my Juliette?
Your kisses warm and wet could tempt me to a thousand
sins and back again, oh my Juliette.
Your lips speak invitations to betray the souls of foes and
hearts of friends, oh my Juliette.
I wake up alone, burning with the memory of you.
What can I do, oh my Juliette?
Where did you come from? Where have you gone?
My dreams and desires will drive me on to find you.
I know it wasn’t real, but still I feel somehow this dream
will never end, oh my Juliette.
Night-long anticipation waiting for you to invade my sleep
again, oh my Juliette,
and wake up alone, burning with the memory of you.
What can I do, oh my Juliette?
© 1987 Eric Hesson
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3. |
Stories of Power
02:47
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I have seen the love and the labors,
all of the longings, all of the tears,
savoring the fruit of the sabers
passing on through all of our years.
I have seen the sacred and the profane causes
that consume our long hours,
musicians describing positions.
Poets paint the stories of power.
I get stuck in opening doorways,
hit my head in passing the frame,
drawn into the futile in more ways
than a moth to a dying flame.
If I had to say it again I could,
but then it wouldn’t be me.
Sufficiency sometimes suffices.
Sometimes it’s not easy to see.
Necessities sometimes devise devices,
but in a minute or two
calm comforts will cry out in crisis.
Does not matter if it’s not true.
I’ve been dreaming often of babies,
get caught up with them on the floor,
wondrous futures made up of maybes
with no fear for what lies in store.
They will see the sacred and the profane causes that
consumed our long hours,
musicians describing positions.
Poets paint the stories of power.
© 1993 Eric Hesson
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4. |
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Why must it always be this way each night and day,
when all I want is to love you,
not to put myself above you?
I suppose we were meant to be.
You are the one I was meant to find.
But tell me how can we speak of love,
when we know love’s not what’s on our minds?
When will you believe what I’m saying?
I’m not just playing.
Can’t you see that I’m only
trying to get through to you?
The things we do often seem quite cruel.
The things we say often seem unkind.
So tell me how can we speak of love,
when we know love’s not what’s on our minds?
And I can’t wait for you forever.
© 1984 Eric Hesson
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5. |
Carcass of a Jeweled Fly
05:18
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Carcass of a jeweled fly,
bathed in sunlight and a sound
of a shadow of the first
unbreathing leaf to kiss the ground.
Dust is dancing in the light.
The lazy shadows shorten still.
The beige belongings plead their plight
to those who’d free a fearless will.
The haze that crept in with the dawn
is in the grip of clarity.
A listless longing lingers on,
unmindful of disparity.
Beneath the morning’s waning chill,
forgotten now but for a time,
the moving lumens mind the mill
and animate the morbid mime.
And so I wonder why I’d never noticed you before.
How do you lift me from that amber trance I so deplore?
Carcass of a jeweled fly,
unmatched moment traps tempest’s tide.
A snapshot of perfect silence
and solitude personified.
But don’t make mention of this scene,
or you will have to answer why
you struggled so long to reveal
the carcass of a jeweled fly.
© 1997 Eric Hesson
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6. |
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All alone in my dark despair,
and you were there. Yes, you were there.
Tormented by demons that hung in the air,
and you were there. Yes, you were there.
You play love like a parlour game
and none of the players are ever the same.
Retching and restless in the heat of the night,
and you were there. Yes, you were there.
No joy at daybreak, no relief in the light,
and you were there. Yes, you were there.
You play love like a parlour game
and none of the players are ever the same.
Moving with madness, no meaning at all,
and you were there. Yes, you were there.
Fumbling, frightened and taking the fall,
and you were there. Yes, you were there.
You play love like a parlour game
and none of the players are ever the same.
Cursing this fate into which I’ve been hurled,
and you were there. Yes, you were there.
Aimlessly pacing the face of the world,
and you were there. Yes, you were there.
You play love like a parlour game
and none of the players are ever the same.
© 1988 Eric Hesson
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7. |
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So you say you must be leaving.
So you say you’ve got to go.
I’ve heard seeing is believing.
Now I’m finding that it’s so.
And I don’t think that you know what you’re doing.
Why then must you put up this defense?
I’ve witnessed all the trouble you’ve been brewing.
I beg you please don’t leave me in suspense.
So you sit and read your paper.
I don’t even get a glance.
And you keep me at a distance.
You’re not giving me a chance.
And I don’t think that you know what you’re doing.
Why then must you put up this defense?
I’ve witnessed all the trouble you’ve been brewing.
I beg you please don’t leave me in suspense.
So we wait another hour, and I write another song.
You pull up another flower.
Guess you knew it all along,
that you have no idea what you’re doing,
and that’s why you must keep up your defense.
I pity the poor people you’ve been screwing.
I beg you please don’t leave us in suspense.
© 1988 Eric Hesson
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8. |
(an interlude)
01:04
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9. |
Love Semantics
03:20
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Girl in my head at breakfast laughs
and says “Yes, well, yes and no,”
Girl in my memory tells me that she’s not
what she should be.
Girl over dinner tells me I’m fun,
much more fun than a gentleman.
Still, they’re telling me the same old things
again and again.
Where’s your Love Semantics, Love?
(Some antics, Love!) Semantics love.
Girl in the morning doesn’t try,
but surprises me again all the same.
Girl in the sunlight asks me directions,
but I don’t lead her on.
Girl on the phone knows what to say
to make me feel o.k. today.
Still, they’re asking me the same old things
again and again.
Where’s your Love Semantics, Love?
(Some antics, Love!) Semantics love.
© 1984 Eric Hesson
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10. |
The Heat of Hatred
04:51
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Visions of faceless passing worry
Sweat from a tear-stained goodbye
Vicious is his insecurity
Sweet is the lamb, soon to die
And the heat of hatred is nothing sacred
Cold as the poison fills his senses
Hot as the blood fills his head
Armed with faint-hearted defenses,
he fights to fight, but cries instead
And the heat of hatred is nothing sacred
How long must love bear passion’s weakness
before a peaceful end’s in sight?
A soul must surely find forgiveness
or spend another sleepless night
in the heat of hatred, where nothing’s sacred
And the heat of hatred is nothing sacred
© 1986 Eric Hesson
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11. |
Nothing to Say
03:06
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I’ve got a homeware load in unwind.
I’ve got a scared, heart, hard scarred lump in two.
I’ve got an open door in my mind,
but it doesn’t mean I’ve anything to say to you.
I’ve got a backlog in the backroom.
I’ve got a headstart on a running joke.
I’ve got a pig, poked in a vacuum,
but it doesn’t mean I’ve anything to say to you.
What could I say you haven’t heard?
What could I say that would not sound absurd?
For you and I are worlds apart.
What could I say? Where should I start?
I’ve got a mask that hides from my past.
I’ve got a broken token timepeesepipe.
I’ve got a feeling that this won’t last,
but it doesn’t mean I’ve anything to say to you.
© 1989 Eric Hesson
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12. |
March
03:55
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You look at me and you seem so surprised.
Confusion and questions appear in your eyes.
But I’m no enigma, no mystery at all.
I’m just tired of unbelievers who never stand tall.
Sometimes our pain makes us ashamed and unsure.
We don’t treat the symptoms. We can’t find a cure.
We’re looking for something we may never find,
but dreams are too precious to be left behind.
When will it end? No one can say.
Maybe not far away.
You can pretend, but there’ll come a day.
Maybe not far away.
Sometimes seems things worsen the harder I try.
You can’t tell the truth when you know it’s a lie.
One day we’ll wake up to strange sights, unseen,
and when that day arrives you might see what I mean.
© 1988 Eric Hesson
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13. |
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All alone in my dark despair,
and you were there. Yes, you were there.
Tormented by demons that hung in the air,
and you were there. Yes, you were there.
You play love like a parlour game
and none of the players are ever the same.
Retching and restless in the heat of the night,
and you were there. Yes, you were there.
No joy at daybreak, no relief in the light,
and you were there. Yes, you were there.
You play love like a parlour game
and none of the players are ever the same.
Moving with madness, no meaning at all,
and you were there. Yes, you were there.
Fumbling, frightened and taking the fall,
and you were there. Yes, you were there.
You play love like a parlour game
and none of the players are ever the same.
Cursing this fate into which I’ve been hurled,
and you were there. Yes, you were there.
Aimlessly pacing the face of the world,
and you were there. Yes, you were there.
You play love like a parlour game
and none of the players are ever the same.
© 1988 Eric Hesson
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14. |
Father & Son
04:37
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An empty train pulls from the station,
connections lost or never even made.
The riches reaped in isolation
are never worth the price that’s often paid.
A void between us, we feel it growing
as barbs demean us beyond our knowing,
and where do we go from here, father and son?
A late appreciation blooming
delayed by terror in an uncertain mind.
A day of reckoning is looming
threatening the unsuspecting and the blind.
The fear is gripping. We feel it growing.
The masks are slipping. The tears are showing,
and where do we go from here, father and son?
And what’s become of you and me
and our individuality?
Two pawns who broke free of their game
with more in common than a name.
I’ve been so long in coming to you.
You have been kept so long away from me.
Have we felt distance grow between us
or heard an awkward, desperate inner plea?
So where’s the danger? What are we dreading?
Who is this stranger toward whom I’m heading,
and where do we go from here, father and son?
© 1994 Eric Hesson
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15. |
Symbiosis
04:16
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Caught a measure of my wealth
singing praises to my health,
seen through a fevered haze.
Battery and candle call, sticking to my paper wall
where they will hang for days.
Following to chase a ball
out into the night that’s falling
in time to make the play.
Double-chambered people towel
opening a truthful trowel.
Don’t know what more to say.
I get a lot from you. You get much more from me.
Clocks that tick on windowsills,
latex zoos and merchantilles
relieve themselves on sight.
Noah’s bag of souvenirs,
jettisoned with countless fears
into a troubled night.
Green neon of industry, yellow tresses flying freely
out on the street today.
Sunlight on the sunglass now
more than madness will allow
but still prepared to pay.
I get a lot from you. You get much more from me.
Never seem to give a thought
to the legacy we’ve bought
with our ill-gotten gains.
Pharmaceutic fountain fills progeny with lethal pills
that can’t relieve their pains.
Persisting in making sense in spite of the innocence
lost to a bunkhouse glow.
In the name of our defense, fortify incompetence,
sit back and watch it grow.
I get a lot from you. You get much more from me.
© 1993 Eric Hesson
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16. |
gyc
00:23
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Eric Hesson
Eric Hesson has been an artist, actor, composer, conjuror, designer, film maker, guitarist, journalist, musician, poet,
producer, puppeteer, screenwriter, singer, songwriter, storyteller, and a person with very little spare time.
Eric's eclectic style, strong, memorable hooks and literate, intelligent lyrics make his songs difficult to categorize and impossible to forget.
... more
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