Zasady pirydynowe - Pyridine Bases

*

Spring 1984 was beautiful. Cauliflower and I welcomed every sunny day sitting on the lawn in front of the student house and drinking beer. My guitar was always with me. He enjoyed my music...

In the middle of May, Cauliflower scented the beginning of the new poppy flowering season and left, having promised to be back in October. Soon after his departure, I had my first blotto experience, which followed those unforgettable all-night-long open-air piano-playing and singing sessions.

*

Cauliflower kept his word and was back in Yelonkey when the summer holidays. Actually, only half of him returned. I didn’t ask what had happened to the other half. I knew it…

We started drinking together again. But for the first month he would get pissed too easily. And gazing at me sadly, with absent eyes, would ask for his favourite song of mine: ‘Pyridine Bases’, written back in 1978. He liked to hear about the lyrical subject’s feeling so down and detached, and longing for his ‘high resurrection’.

*


From my Symphonic Bridges:

http://www.amazon.com/Symphonic-Bridges-Marek-Stefanowicz/dp/1461184169/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1327697233&sr=8-1

*

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9FQLKmY-zDk

*

In a shell with a sail of hope I travel

Across the tarry sea

Over the black and thick and viscous abyss

Worse and worse

Foggier and foggier

I can't hear

I can't feel anything

My thoughts are pitch-black

When I look

All lost

At those ships so abuzz and bustling

Around

And only sometimes

When your eyes grow dull

You can see

The green sunlit hill

With the blue sky rise

And the aurora

Laughing at you from the opera stage

And singing for you from the opera stage

What is this song

With lyrics but no words

A silent grimace horrifies the audience

What is this singing

Nothing to hear

Voice stuck in the throat

And a gesture of despair

Someone runs about the stage

Thumping

This is no opera

This is a frantic ballet

The performers spin round

Waving their limbs

With air

Plaiting their hair

In this dance so bad

As a very ill thought

And he found himself drowning

In the black and thick and viscous abyss

Of the psychodelic tangle

And he won't regain his freedom

Until the broken thread of consciousness

Gets tied in a knot of awaking

*