Whisky warriors and the seven voices inside their heads.

The stove-top lost its pasta pot
Chiming against the tangram stones
Three years before my grandmother lost it,
Tied-down, light-shocked and wearing someone else’s clothes.

She rose above the pillow,
Secrets painted on her feet.
Sang of Roman soldiers,
Swept into the sea.

The walls are full of fire
With the curtain’s by their side.
The Lord, he keeps his distance
Tips his hat, bids them goodnight.

And the hole inside his head
It fills with water when it rains
The hole inside his head
He eats his bread, forgets her name.

He built a wall of whisky bottles,
Stayed inside for fifteen years.
His very own glass castle,
No one sees and no one hears.

The hole inside his head,
It fills with water when it rains
The voice inside his head
It tells him what,
Tells him when.