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letra de heroes (in search of a defeat) - marsy mars

verse 1
he was my hero, though i took my sweet
time to realise that; and he likewise that
my appearance on the scene was not what caused
our parents fail to buy him a happy meal
or love him back; aged three
i remember looking at big bro with a look flavoured with
my first taste of the sherbet of condescension
as he was absurded and upbraided by dad n mum
i thought he looked like our postman, chained to his timetable
unable to escape it by rejecting its convenor
no matter how blazingly evident his discontent
dripping tears, hopping on the spot, too humiliated
to do what he was told, too humiliated to not
seemed they despised him, would’ve coruscated him
as much had he revolted as given his obedience
his wit, his love, his patience would make him my hero then
but the extent of his transformation made him my hero since

chorus
he was my hero
(there’s something about the way a hero breathes the air
i guess we’re gonna have to make one out of your somehow)
with love he stood defiant
my hero
how i wish that i could do
what he could do
post-chorus 1
some selections from my brother’s little book of maxims
“a real insight’s as cold and smooth as gelato”
“no healthier culture than the pardo”
“there’s nothing scarier than the good guy, a good guy, a real good guy”

verse 2
my bro – and everyone should know someone who
does the same – loved to express himself
through metaphors most oblique; a day ago
i found the last one he screeted in an old filo-folio
“where i’m from, the rarest, greatest and only
crimes are to be a heretic or a traitor
of course i accrued the family’s stupor
having done enough to be called both.”
he counselled me “you should always be yourself
but only at certain times,” an insight probably
derived from his extraordinary transformation; from
urchin abused to urbane, merciful being of sane, retrieved grace
when i’d vent red-faced about the fam he’d calmly say
“we are but posh monkeys, uncultured but with the stick
but don’t settle for anger, which makes the weak the sick, you see
if we will face only the misery and tragedy
not that much bigger beastie of onward hope
then we are but heroes in search of a defeat
write all these things down, bro
you will understand them when you’re older
including those whose meaning evades me.”
now as the insights mobilise and metastasise before
my eyes now realised, new mysteries i find have since risen
to take their place
verse 3
“that’s what music and lyrics truly are
two heroes p-ssing side by side
like all great lovers, one day they will talk
and it will be for the last time
look at me, barely out my teens,” he said
“and already i’m becoming afraid
of how much i can identify
with this music; afraid i will fall
asleep to it and wake up seven years
on, and the stars and the grass will be gone”
we stopped going up the mount after a while
i remember the last time, after we spoke of
embossing flinging affluent malice and
palestrina making a shack a palace, he told me
of a song, “you know the one,” he said
“that gossamer bark, steady as bread and
bold as their secrets being offered up by the dead
it’s the spectacle of a man walking live
across the threshold of the afterlife
remaining alive to p-rs- the entry to paradise
with his human faculties until his short term
of permission expires, and he must die
to become of the paradise he has glimpsed.”

- marsy mars

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