Rock Bottom

Robert Wyatt


Robert Wyatt

You look different every time
you come from the foam crested brine,
your skin shining softly in the
Partly fish, partly porpoise, partly
baby sperm whale.
Am I yours, are you mine
to play with?

Joking apart,
when you're drunk you're terrific,
when you're drunk I like you mostly
late at night, you're quite alright.
But I can't understand
the different you in the morning
when it's time to play at being
human for a while.
Please smile.

You'll be different in the spring, I know
you're a seasonal beast,
like the starfish that drift in with the tide.
So until your blood runs to meet
the next full moon,
your madness fits in nicely
with my own.
Your lunacy fits neatly with my own,
my very own.
We're not alone.

Illustration : Jean-Michel Marchetti

Robert Wyatt

Seaweed tangled in our
home from home,
reminds me of your
rocky bottom.

Please don't wait for
tne paperweight,
err on the good side.
Touch us when we collapse.

Into the water we'll go
head over heel.
We'll not grow fat inside
the mammary gland.

Into the water we'll go
head over heel.
A head behind me
buried deep in the sand.

Robert Wyatt

Orlandon't tell me, oh no.
Don't say, oh God don't tell me.
Oh dear me, heavens above.
Oh no, no I can't stand it.

Stop please, oh deary me.
What in heaven's name?
Oh blimey. Mercy me. Woe are we.
Oh dear. Oh stop it, stop it.
You've been so kind,
I know, I know.
So why did I hurt you?
I didn't mean to hurt you.

But I'll keep trying,
and I'm sure you will too.

Illustration : Jean-Michel Marchetti

Robert Wyatt

No nit not.
Nit no not.
Nit nit folly bololey.
Alife my larder.

I can't forsake you,
or forsqueak you,
Alife my larder.
or make you late you, you
Alife my larder.
Not nit not,

Nit no not.
Nit nit folly bololey.
Burlybunch, the water mole

Hellyplop and fingerhole
Not a wossit, bundy, see.
For jangle and bojangle
trip trip pip pippy pippy pip pip
Alife my larder, Alife my larder.

(I'm not your larder,
jammy jars and mustard.
I'm not your dinner,
you soppy old custard.
And what's a bololey
when it's a folly?
I'm not your larder,
I'm your dear little dolly.
But when plops get too helly
I'll fill up your belly.
I'm not your larder.
I'm Alife your guarder.)

Illustration : Jean-Michel Marchetti


Robert Wyatt

In the garden of England,
dead moles lie inside their holes.
The dead-end tunnels crumble
in the rain, underfoot.
Innit a shame?

Can't you see them?
Can't you see them?
Roots can't hold them.
Bugs console them.

I fight with the handle of my little brown broom
I pull out the wires of the telephone.
I hurt in the head, and I hurt in the aching bone.
Now I smash up the telly with remains of the broken phone.
I fighting for the crust of the little brown loaf.
I want it. I want it. I want it. Give it to me.
I give it you back when I finish the lunchtea.
I lie in the road, try to trip up the passing cars.
Yes, me and the hedgehog, we bursting the tyres, all day.
As we roll down the highway towards the setting sun,
I reflect on the life of the highwayman, yum, yum.
Now I smash up the telly and what's left on the broken phone.
Ha ha ha ha ha.