Vancouver Divorce

What the hell is this?

You said, "It's art, just fuckin' mirror it."

Where did we go wrong?

If not here, where do we belong?

In a shot of sun off an airplane far above her?

In the glint of the foot-burnished manhole cover?

In a light, a sign of one kind or another?

In the gleaming eye of a fighter or a lover?

Sitting here at the Horton's,

so you know this is important.

If not here, then where?

If not now then when?

When a feather's an immovable force?

When the stampede's an obstacle course?

When Ancient Train has hit Ol' Transient Horse?

When we're a Vancouver divorce?

Now that we've hammered the last spike

and we've punched the railroad through,

thought there'd be more to say

thought there'd be more to do.

I love your paintings-don't take your colors away.

I've grown more fearful of them every day.

Swimming up their dark rivers to discover your source,

a source of strange and unrequited remorse.

And I found the end of the world, of course,

but it's not the end of the world, of course.

It's just a Vancouver divorce.

It's just a Vancouver divorce.