"Autumn Sea" as written by and Robyn Hitchcock....
Somewhere in the autumn sea
The kind of love you are to me
I stole you
From a very special friend
So the friendship had to end
And how
You can't kill relationships
Watch them drown like sinking ships
Around you
But to live is to betray
Every second every day
Oh wow
Here comes the now

Somewhere in the autumn air
I can smell you everywhere
Beside me
Though your face has disappeared
Finally, I know I cared
For you
As the leaf falls in the sea
Slips the sand of memory
Inside me
Rows of lights flash off and on
Finally I see you've gone
It's true
What can I do?

"Hunting? No, I think it's a perfectly beastly sport!" quipped Frobisher as they leaned on the mantlepiece over the crisp autumn fire.

Featherstonehaugh felt his calves warming pleasantly as the brandy seeped below his waist: knotting slightly over the abdomen, suddenly passing back up through the spine, causing a small trickle of the otherwise pleasing brown fluid to shoot from the fontanel on top of his head which landed on top of the other guy's head (I've forgotten his name now... aw, anyway, he got covered in it).

"Aw, what's this?"

"Some kind of fluid," said Featherstonehaugh.

"Fluid? Oh, that's the tops!"

Somewhere in the autumn sky
Cross my heart and swear to die
I chose you
Trails burning everywhere
Sulfur fingers in the air
I scream
Brambles swarm around the fence
Everything in deep suspense
I froze you
Out, but it's your point of view
I am just somebody who has been
Into your dream

"No, they use them for clothes pegs, you know!" continued Featherstonehaugh, somewhat more droll.

"Really?" said Butterworth, who was feeling rather left out of the conversation.

"Oh yes, that's right, you know, they pick them up in Siberia and bring them over."

"Siberia!" Interjected the fellow whose name I still can't remember. "Topping place! Went there once. Found a little moustache. One of the Russkies had it. Wah ha ha! Took it home, don't you know. Showed the little lady. Hrrmph. She put it on. Left me for another woman. Hmmm. Rum things, lefts. And women."

He was left alone: there was no one there, not even a woman, just the fireplace and his ever swelling chins. As the brandy began taking lethal effect, Featherstonehaugh (or was it Butterworth? Or was it the other guy whose name I can't remember?) found himself slowly turning into some kind of helpless, diseased houseplant. As he watched his future and his past gradually become interchangeable like a highway surrounding a drunken man that begins to spin, he looked up above him. Even the angels were asleep. It was one of those nights.


Lyrics submitted by delial

Autumn Sea song meanings
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    General CommentOctober
    Thaumatology8on October 18, 2015   Link
  • 0
    General CommentBewildering and delightful, how English names—biographical or geographical—might be pronounced: Featherstonhaugh and Cholmondeley for example. As for their spelling: a sort of exercise, for those with time to kill?

    Whoever said Britain and America are two nations divided by a common language? “Common!” Poppycock and piffle. Anyone who’s lived an extended period in both lands will know: half-a-lifetime attempting to grasp and recall their differences? Not sufficient.

    Imagine Londoners weary of Americans asking how to get to Lie-chester Square. Often I do, when hearing “I Something You”: though I wonder about
    the lines: “In Leicester Square/it’s the place to be.” Mildly facetious, I suspect: but who knows what’s on Robyn’s mind.

    Or in it. Those fortunate to have seen Robyn live—or familiar with Storefront Hitchcock—know: he possesses talents beyond guitar, lyrics, voice and harmonica. Not sure whether I wish more of his monologues were recorded. Hearing them only occasionally, they’re akin to a delicacy. You wouldn’t eat caviar every day. Nor century eggs, scrapple or lutefisk. (That’s a digression, not a critique.)

    Extended CD versions of Fegmania! include a live version of “Heaven.” Which begins with a tale of lonely prospectors huddled around campfires, waiting for the floating prairie cathedral to arrive. An improvisational gift? Can’t imagine anyone laboriously scribbling out meta-Lewis-Carrol-via-Syd reveries, then memorizing and performing them.
    foreverdroneon March 13, 2018   Link

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