Telegrams

Two Hands

Lanterns

Light of the Moon

When the Lights Go Up

Flash of the morning 
on the back of my eye.
It’s hard saying I love you
but I’m gonna try
to put away the ghosts now
Halloween is over
try to find the words that are 
sometimes too hard to say. 

Don’t stare into the filament
‘cause you might burn your eyes.
Those pretty coloured lights I heard
were dangerous 

Let’s throw a party, baby
and invite all our friends.
We’ll have it at the Projection Room
I hear it’s easy to rent.
We could stay there late, 
until your feet get tired of dancing.
And I’ll be good and ready to go home with you
when the lights go up.

A thousand watts of power
shooting down the wires.
Those pretty coloured lights I heard
were dangerous.

instrumental

Don’t stare into the filament
‘cause you might burn your eyes.
Those pretty coloured lights I heard
were dangerous 

Christmas is over, it’s the New Year
and it’s colder.
The radio in the car plays
“Put Your Head on My Shoulder.”
There’s no words left to say now,
no fathers, no gods to betray now.
But I still miss you at the end of the day now
when the lights go up.

So let’s melt into the shadows
and disappear like fireflies
Those pretty coloured lights I’ve heard 
are dangerous

When The Lights Go Up

This was the first song I wrote when I started writing songs for the Telegrams album. Completing it gave me the idea to try and write more songs based on short stories–this one was based on a short story called "Clara" by Roberto Bolaño. In the end, I didn't include "Clara" on Telegrams and I've kept it on my hard drive until now. It's about time Clara came home.

Lyrics:

Clara 

I walked five miles to the nearest pay phone 
just to hear, just to hear your voice. 

Oh, Clara, Clara, how she makes a room glow. 
Your husband thinks that you’re with me now 
but you’re out there on your own. 

I got your telegram and I pulled out all the stops. 
Now it reads in one sentence 
saying everything that you forgot. 

From Winterpeg, man it’s cold yeah. 
From Barcelona to bars so lonely to 
Semiahmoo Bay. 

Oh, Clara, Clara, they’re leaving the lights on 
over chairs chained to tables chained to the doors 
after they call last call. 

But if there’s no such thing, no such thing as heaven. 
What if saints don’t rise and all souls are unleavened? 

I got your telegram and I pulled out all the stops. 
Now it reads in one sentence 
saying everything that you forgot.
credits

tariqmusiq

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