It's a beautiful night babe.
The moon's drunk and the stars are slurring.
There was a pile-up on the highway
For once I wasn't in it.
Almost brought you flowers
then imagined how you'd laugh at that.
So I brought you some homeless guy instead.
Babe, all I've got left is my sick sense of humour
and that postcard you sent me.
The picture's kind of faded
but if you wanted you could still read the words.
Lucky for me I forgot how to read.
Chaining words to paper like that
it just ain't right.
When I find my way out of this blind alley
I'll look you up.
Just as soon as I find my sense of direction
I'll be turning my toes towards you.
Ah babe, tonight's more beautiful than most.
The trains are almost on time
and on the platform this really beautiful girl pretended
not to see me haggling with my dealer.
Somehow this love song's lost its thread.
Just as well since I don't believe in singing
unless it's for my supper.
Some wino asked me where you were last night
I just drained his brown paper bag
told him to mind his own damn business.
Heard you laughing on the telephone wires.
Nearly made me want to call.
Then remembered the operator don't like my voice
so painted you a letter instead
But the sound of my wise-cracks got lost in translation.
Whoever said a picture's worth a thousand words
never heard the thousand words I've got for you.
If I smoked I'd be dying for a cigarette.
As it is I'm just dying for you.
Ah babe it's a beautiful night tonight.
The wind's howling like it's winter
when you're young and lonely.
The moon slept with some stranger
she picked up in a bar.
All I can say is it wasn't me.
But then it wasn't your bed I found myself in either.
That's the real problem with never sleeping.
Babe all I wanted to tell you is it's a beautiful night.
But I lost my inspiration
somewhere half way down this serenade.
Just as well you never listen to anything I say.
It's the only reason I tell you the things I do.
Let me scrawl broken words across your screen
Hearing your daydream between the whitenoise
of sermon and servitude.
My body of sinew at a loss in your serpentine
thinking and thrumming,
in over my head and out of my depth
in your idiom traps and your tight braille maps of tomorrow.
Familiarity breeds amalgamation.
The voices I know well enough to recognise
I never hear.
Only strangers are perfect.
Only Perfect Strangers have a voice.
I'm only deaf when someone tries to tell me something.
Adopt a stance or surrender.
Wonder how many words I use up
saying little or nothing at all.
Talk is not cheap.
I can't make the payments anymore
Shhh...
Kerryn Potgieter lives in Pretoria, South Africa.