They carry the cake over the garden
\"How you doing, young man?\"
I say, \"Well, nothing good ever happens\"
Steeped in August sunlight
For so long I\'ve wanted to be normal
I saw us there
In the chiaroscuro of something sensual
Next month I turn twenty seven
And I have nothing to show for it
But the days spent drunk and wishing
I could capture you here in this moment
I watch the tobacco drying
By the golden honeycomb in bold red
Writing \'Jugend\' in black, like a bird in a cage
I feel pain in places I never could imagine
Whirlpools dressed in dregs
I\'ll be your mirage
I\'ll be your fusillade
I\'ll be your ambrosia
I\'ll be the chord that David played
I\'ll be your boy in Ullapool
Drinking pink lemonade
I picture them, like wild bloems
Boys sucking boys like heathens
Lilting and ploughed
Crying at parties in high-rise flats
Slipping through city traffic
We were ruffled and frayed
Like suicide in an empty house
Oh, the sorrow of lost youth
Swimming back to me like old times.