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Nobody's Friend

by Jon Hughes

Everybody's Friend The moon is clipped, a fingernail Hanging from a twig like a serpent tail, And the sky is painted poison black. The streets are pooled with light, A terrestrial view from a satellite Peering down with pale green eyes. Save for a candle's glow there is nothing human here for miles. The party came as a masquerade Wired through the night-street interface, All dressed in rainbow-colored furs. Shattered glass rings a royal sound— Everybody stop now and turn around. The royal turkey's setting down. He's talking fast and I don't believe he's talking kind, Cause he's everybody's friend but mine. The crimson man who's really white Is stepping on my face and trying to start fight. Now he's telling me what's on my mind. And LadyDeath403 is looking at everyone mysteriously And she's saying she remembers me. So I'll disappear while the moon is down— Nobody will notice when I'm gone Cause they're everybody's friends but mine.
The question now has been lost somehow But he still wants to talk About the work that he does where he stands Watching everyone walk. Enigmatic or lunatic act, Like a psychotic star— Should've said, 'You mind taking me home in your Big yellow car?' Seen it all says it all, Says he's seen, seen it all Where he stands. Mr. Smooth has the same attitude— Always emptying out. When he starts he only stops when he's lost What he's talking about. He tells all of his sorcerer's tricks to the Ignorant crowd. I should've said, 'Could you please disappear?' I should've thought it out loud. Seen it all says it all, Says he's seen, seen it all, When he's lost. All they ever want is to be misunderstood, And all they ever do is more harm than good To everything they touch and all they've spoken for, Cause all they ever see is themselves and nothing more.
Bigger Than History All her objects of affection Are scattered around the bed. A reputable selection Of people she's never read; And some desk drawer photography I shouldn't have ever seen, Like the figure in the mirror Staring back at me. Watch the figure suspended on ground Rise or fall or float Onto the puddled ink; And if he ever sinks Then a wreck's what he was meant to be. She's bigger than history, She's not a loss, she's a tragedy. Rightly displayed or filed away From her. Under a bleak and yellow sunset, A figure of her build By some self-important painter boy Who came here feeling unfulfilled. He made a crumpled brush an artifact A thousand years ahead, Like the figure in the mirror Standing by the bed. Watch the painter prosaic and old Bend or crease or fold Into the broken spine; Of volume number ninety-nine And where he closes it's a century, He's bigger than history, He's not a loss, he's a tragedy. Now I've seen seven days of sunshine From room number 403. Her blinding figure in the curtain cracks Staring in at me. And her faceless little painter boy Whispers at my back From the swollen, bending mirror frame, Indelible and Black as the horses, With conquistadors they came Through geographic landmarks growing Different through the days— Photos we take and file away From her.
Nobody's Friend And now I'm standing again on my own, Cold and contagiously, 'me, all alone,' With the words of what somebody said About the ideal way I could be, High above love as authentic and free, And I find that I'm nobody's friend. And then the lights overhead start to spin, And the rock-steady wall is feeling brittle and thin, And I've fallen in somebody's way. And when he sees me he says with a sneer, 'Hey, what's a loser like him doing here?', And I'm falling in somebody's way. I must seem so solitary, sitting, twiddling thumbs, Just waiting for someone who may never come, With the words of what somebody said. Now the kick drum is knocking me down, And the legs in my vodka contract in the sound, In the noise of what everyone says. And then the floor is slipping under my feet, And I'm blown through the door by the popular beat To the rain beating down overhead. And then it's me standing stark in the glass, A moment too soon for the moment to pass, In the noise of what everyone says When I'm standing again on my own, Cold and contagiously, 'me, all alone,' And I find that I'm nobody's friend.
Wine 06:47
On Tar-Covered Hills Sir, you could be saying you prayers To a cold white wall. You're framed, but I couldn't call it a frame— A flat, robotic bust. Once we drove around the universe On tar-covered tracks. Then you built your flying machine, And I should've said, 'It's not my time to fly.' Once... Now, for every nightmare we share, At tar-covered hills we stare, Our eyes as red as the sun, With arched bar-stool backs. Now we're only digital kids On a cold white wall. Sir, you could be building a ship To fly over the sea; But it's not my place to say.


B-sides to "Voice From a Broken Window"


released November 1, 2009

Dave Deane: drums


all rights reserved



Jon Hughes Ireland

American songwriter and multi-instrumentalist, Jon Hughes, has been based in Ireland since 2005. He has shared a stage with Damien Jurado, She Keeps Bees, and the legendary singer-songwriter, Buddy Mondlock.

Hughes' latest collection of songs, "Sunshine Remorse", was released in January of 2019.
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