Closer to You

And maybe you're the Circle Line girl
 trying so hard not to let on you know
 I'm looking at the way your toes poke out through your sandals
 at funny angles to your feet
 and how you know it turns me on
 Or maybe you're the Spanish girl
 playing with your hair as you wait for your friend
 in that wild octagon of mirrors the Tate calls a coffee shop
 And I can smell that hair from here
 and I can see from eight different angles
 the way your nipples look through that thin black cotton top
 reflected to infinity
 And oh God, it's places like that and purple-tipped prose like this
 that's going to hemorrhage me, girl
 Ooo, it's true:
 Girl, I'm only doing it to be closer to you
 Or maybe you're the bay window girl
 in Wandsworth Town, in ripped jeans and open Venetians
 painting the difficult corner of an empty room
 white under a naked bulb
 leaning across the bar at the top of your stepladder
 at the precise moment I'm passing on the steep street
 at the bottom of your garden in the gathering night
 voyeur's delight
 Ooo, it's true:
 Girl, I'm only doing it to be closer to you
 Or maybe you're the foundation painter
 at the Central School, looking so fine-boned
 I could carry you home in your portfolio case
 laced up gently so you won't cry out on the bus
 and give the game away
 tied up lightly, because girl
 how could I knowingly injure someone
 with your perfect lips and wrists, your exquisite structure
 Oh, little acrylic painter, I can kiss eggshells, I can be ginger
 all the critics say I'm such a sensitive singer
 Ooo, it's true:
 Girl, I'm only doing it to be closer to you
 And maybe you're listening to my voice now
 on your Walkman or your bedsit Dansette
 letting my songs slip into you on this quiet night
 in with your pads of doodles and your fingers full of pencils
 and low tar cigarettes
 And the music's light and pleasant so you hardly notice
 what I'm singing about in "Paper Wraps Rock"
 And "Murderers, the Hope of Women,"
 my voice is just a sound that pleases you
 that enters you and leaves you just the same
 and that's how I want it to stay, because, you know
 Ooo, it's true:
 Girl, I'm only doing it to be closer to you
 But some of those were bitter records
 records which accuse women, girls like you
 of using your attractiveness wantonly and willfully
 to trap and to paralyze men
 who wanted you and could never have you
 men who sometimes felt the perverse urge
 to trash the women they desired the most
 men who imagined they despised all those immaculate visions
 what adolescent crap, what kind of idiot would sing that?
 Oh, not me because, you know
 Ooo, it's true:
 Girl, I'm only doing it to be closer to you
 But sometimes I think that every man who writes
 every man who paints or composes, deep soul or symphonies
 it makes no difference, all those men are only making do with substitutes:
 Solomon, Confucius, Franz Kafka
 they'd never have done it if they'd been as beautiful as you
 sitting cross-legged there with gentle music
 lapping around a promise, there where your thighs meet
 of fertility a million artists couldn't compete with
 Ooo, it's true:
 Girl, I'm only doing it to be closer to you
 And all the time I see you there
 in the eye of my mind, and all that cheap macho stuff
 about de Sade and misogyny vanishes into thin air
 and I'm moved to tears just like any other sucker
 who's been bruised by all the things that weren't to be
 and yet who's ready to fall down on his knees
 in front of a woman, and say:
 "Whatever you may do, whatever you may be to me
 despite the times we disagree, your ridiculous ambitions
 your conventional inhibitions
 I want you to know that I respect you
 I accept you and I want you to accept me
 I want to kiss you, kiss your stockinged knee
 accept the uniquely soft flesh
 on the undersides of your hips,"
 Ooo, it's true:
 Girl, I'm only doing it to be closer to you
 And when I've won you
 when I've fallen down in front of you, and said:
 "Damn Franz Kafka, damn the Thin White Duke
 (damn the Thin White Duke)
 it's you and you alone I'm doing this for,"
 When I'm through with heroes and pastiche
 (throwing darts in lovers' eyes)
 when you've let me make love to you
 the slowest, deepest way that I know how
 (when you do that for me, baby)
 and it feels so good (bear with me)
 that's when I'll think of Paul Klee's epitaph:
 "Here lies the painter Paul Klee
 somewhat closer than usual to the heart of creation
 but far from close enough,"
 And girl, here I lie
 far from close enough to you...