Fed to the gills, up to my back teeth, even my songs donít hold me in thrall. I want to dive like a sub to the bottom where no-one can get my bearings at all. A friend used to pour me out whiskey and venture everything sore would someday just go; that friend hooked me up with a girl heíd heard mentioned: said the girl might help, and drink save my soul. But the girl didnít help, and salvation is dry: a hung-over head and maybe a dose. Go down like a submarine, clear to the bottom, and keep my whereabouts quiet and close. Fed up to the gills, fed to the tonsils, too sick and tired to sing or to play: I want to lie like a sub on the bottom, and send out no call-sign to give me away. Down and down, hide me away: peace and quiet, maybe days and days.
© Thom Moore. Translation, 2010
© Thom Moore. Performance, 2010