We had no breakfast –we made no attempt at chivalry
We hadn't yet explored all of the avenues of ecstasy
We strode into the brambles with a predatory calm
Those days seem awkward, when we think about them now
The fork, the gristle and the pulse, the parts of me I like the most
My shivers when the fire goes out
The principles of hungry mouths
The balance here is delicate and is easily disturbed
All that keeps the dark back is a following of words
At the moment of the taking our excitement is the same
We understand the danger of the fanning of the flame
Desire the heart before it cools, affect the shame to look away:
Our confusion is a cousin of the panic of the prey
We hold the life in one hand as the one who bakes the bread
The erection at the hanging and the tearing off of heads
Stand elated at the burning –all our murders look the same
We are the thought and the display, the explanation and the side effect
Breath clouds the cold glass now; chalk on the shinbone now
Stuck to the driver now; arms through the arm-holes now
Glue on the hand-holds now; flakes off the old iron now
Brew up a thick one now; shining a light in now
Shape like a heart's shape now; shapes like the branches now
We dream the next dream now; take up the slack wire now
Breath clouds the cold glass now; chalk on the shinbone now
Stuck to the driver now; arms through the arm-holes now
Glue on the hand-holds now; flakes off the old iron now
Brew up a thick one now; shining a light in now
Shape like a heart's shape now; shapes like the branches now
We dream the next dream now; take up the slack wire now

I so love this era of post-punk. Cymbals were verboten.

thanks fer this