Favourite lyrics

love I get so lost, sometimes
days pass and this emptiness fills my heart
when I want to run away
I drive off in my car
but whichever way I go
I come back to the place you are

all my instincts, they return
and the grand facade, so soon will burn
without a noise, without my pride
I reach out from the inside

in your eyes
the light the heat
in your eyes
I am complete
in your eyes
I see the doorway to a thousand churches
in your eyes
the resolution of all the fruitless searches
in your eyes
I see the light and the heat
in your eyes
oh, I want to be that complete
I want to touch the light
the heat I see in your eyes

love, I don't like to see so much pain
so much wasted and this moment keeps slipping away
I get so tired of working so hard for our survival
I look to the time with you to keep me awake and alive

and all my instincts, they return
and the grand facade, so soon will burn
without a noise, without my pride
I reach out from the inside

in your eyes
the light the heat
in your eyes
I am complete
in your eyes
I see the doorway to a thousand churches
in your eyes
the resolution of all the fruitless searches
in your eyes
I see the light and the heat
in your eyes
oh, I want to be that complete
I want to touch the light,
the heat I see in your eyes
in your eyes in your eyes
in your eyes in your eyes
in your eyes in your eyes

 

well, er, maybe I got the "hell of" thing wrong. I think Roine Stolt is a great songwriter, muscially. He has created some of the best progressive music ever. But, I don't like his lyrics, to me it seems like he's been listening too much to Pete Sinfield and Jon Anderson, and trying to make lyrics similar to theirs. His lyrics sounds unnatural to me, like they were written under pressure. To Stolt's defence, I might add that he didn't write all the lyrics for Flower Kings, his bandmates wrote many as well, which aren't really any better than Stolt's.
Now, moving over to Pete Sinfield, he has my greatest respect for doing some very very good lyrics for King Crimson, "Talk To The Wind" being one of my personal favourites. But, the feeling I get while listening to/reading his lyrics is that they are quite too prophetic and consciously odd, to fit my tastes. Crimson kings, the end of the world, computers taking over the world, things like that, you know? I like Palmer-James better, because he was more down-to-earth in his lyrics, it was always easier for me to associate with his lyrics than with Sinfield's. Peter Gabriel was the grandest master at that, though.
I hope I made myself clear. I have this eternal problem with expressing myself in good English, so you'll have to guess what I mean from time to time!

bityear said "I have this eternal problem with expressing myself in good English..."

You're either joking or incredibly modest.

I rate Betty Thatcher as my all time favorite lyricist with Ocean Gypsy and Trip to the Fair being among her best work.

 

Hi, this is César Inca.

Nowadays I feel tha tmy all-time prog lyrics are contained in IQ's track 'Guiding Light' (the closing track to 'The Seventh House'), courtesy of lead vocalist Peter Nicholls.

Regards.

Frank Zappa  -  'My Guitar Want to Kill Your Mama'

You know your mama and your daddy
Sayin I’m no good for you
They call me dirty from the alley
Til I don’t know what to do

I get so tired of sneakin around
Just to get to your back door
I crawled past the garbage
And your mama jumps out screamin’
Dont come back no more!

I cant take it
My guitar wants to kill your mama
My guitar wants to kill your mama
My guitar wants to burn your dad
I get real mean when it makes me mad

Later I tried to call you
Your mama told me you werent there
(you just weren’t there)
She told me don’t bother to call again
Unless I cut off all my hair

I get so tired of sneakin’ around
Just to get to your back door
I crawled past the garbage
And your mama jumped out screamin’
Dont come back no more!

I cant take it
My guitar wants to kill your mama
My guitar wants to kill your mama
My guitar wants to burn your dad
I get real mean when it makes me mad

 

What a great song. 

From Guru Guru Dance Of The Flames: Dagolbert Duck's 100th birthday.

OOOh! look at Uncle Dagolbert he's advancing in his life

He's celebrating his 100th birthday and he's feeling sunny

He silver streaks his body and he blooooooows his mind

But he doesn't eve Know that there's an enemy behind

Whoa HA! HA! 

More Marillion:

Chelsea Monday:

Catalogue princess, apprentice seductress
Hiding in her cellophane world in glitter town
Awaiting the prince in his white Capri
Dynamic young Tarzan courts the bedsit queen
She's playing the actress in this bedroom scene
She's learning her lines from glossy magazines
Stringing all her pearls from her childhood dreams
Auditioning for the leading role on the silver screen.

He Knows You Know:

slash wrist, scarlet fever, crawled under your bathroom door
Pumping arteries ooze their problems through the gap that the razor tore
You've got venom in your stomach, you've got poison in your head
You should have listened to your analyst's questions
When you lay on his leather bed

The Web:

The rain auditions at my window, its symphony echoes in my womb
My gaze scans the walls of this apartment
To rectify the confines of my tomb
I'm the cyclops in the tenement, I'm the soul without the cause
Crying 'midst my rubber plants, ignoring beckoning doors
Clippings from ancient newspapers lie scattered cross the floor
Stained by the wine from a shattered glass
Meaningless words, yellowed by time, faded photos exposing pain
Celluloid leeches bleeding my mind
You've finished playing hangman, you've cast the fateful dice
Advise, advise, advise me
This shroud will not suffice

And thus begins the web

Punch and Judy:

Washing machine, pinstripe dream
Stripped the gloss from a beauty queen
Found our nest, in the Daily Express
Met the vicar in a holy vest
Brought up the children Church of E
Now I vegetate with a colour TV
Worst ever thing that ever happened to me
Oh, for D.I.V.O.R.C.E., oh Judy

Fugazi:

Son watches father scan obituary columns in search of absent school friends
While his generation digests high fibre ignorance
Cowering behind curtains and the taped up painted windows
Decriminalised genocide, provided door to door Belsens
Pandora's box of holocausts gracefully cruising satellite infested heavens
Waiting, the season of the button, the penultimate migration
Radioactive perfumes, for the fashionably, for the terminally insane.

GENIUS!!!