From the recording The Furious Bliss - 2010

Wow..... that's a hell of a lot of lyrics to type out.  By far the most words I've ever written for a song.  But FUN words; it was enjoyable just exploring the freedom of this kind of word play.  I dug channeling Bob Dylan's stream-of-consciouness imagery into my own song. In fact, this song used to be called 'Dylan 65', in honor of that pivotal year when he turned folk music on its ear by bringing an electric band on stage.

Read whatever you want into the lyrics.  Buy me a micro brew and I might tell you what I was thinking about when I wrote each individual verse.

The title comes from a poem by the fascinating reclusive eccentric Henry Darger.

Lyrics

Well I saw the prophet walking
National guitar in his hand
And around his waist, a belt of secrets
With his pockets all full of sand
I watched his footprints fall silently back onto the land
And like an apparition, he melted into midnight as he planned
 
The pocket soaked his reeds
And chose his words better than you or I
Grabbed the neck of his six-string
Tipped his hat to Whitman and sighed
Turned to Ophelia, said 'this one's for you', and forced a smile
And when they lit the sea shells, the priest and the architect just cried
 
The revolution started slowly
With a busker and a libertine
Whispering electric words
Flashing like the neon of a dream
And the people say the Emperor's just not at all what he seems
He spends his time embalming, and polishing the jar which holds his spleen
 
The politicians play games of chance
Union mobs and tarot cards at the wheel
While the mansions they inhabit
Contain broken homes they try to conceal
Twisted ambassadors, thrust forth the zealot they believe is real
While the medics poke and prod the broken body, and wonder what it feels
 
Cast down these silicon gods
Who push their brutal technology
The purser and the pugilist
Don't need your black lights to see
That the walls are getting higher, and deaf as nails - but how can it be?
That the things which draw us nearer are the very things which keep us from being free?
 
And the Duchess reeks of cognac
Her head swells in the ether of the clouds
People say 'don't take him so seriously'
But her brother always draws a crowd
When he conducts his business, holding snakes and wearing nothing but a shroud
In zero gravity, nothing falls but the mantle of the proud
 
The say the prisoner lost his courage
When the bars were taken from his cell
And the world he persecuted
Reflected the pain he knew so well
The press dogged him for his story, but his demons would just not let him tell
And the night he kicked the air, locals watched a shooting star as it fell
 
Rumor has it that the Judge
Wears a necklace of crushed bone and human hair
And the wine of his deliverance
Flows from the sword he swings through the air
And the jesters in his court write his praise in semaphore, but he don't care
For his thoughts plumb the gulf between what is right, and what is fair
 
The shining pacifier
Soothing the Debutantes in the night
Becomes a silver spoon
Feeding the icons of the left and right
Austere little convicts, holding their shining chokers to the light
While the manicured bankers drive the vehicles of finance to the fight