The walls are red
The memories flawed
The tears mingle
With blood drawn
The walls are red
Fabric undone
Limbs go astray
Arguements done
The walls are red
With anguish unfettered
Your name on the door
In crimson letters
The walls are red
And so is the knife
That tore you asunder
That ended your life
The walls are red
I feel no remorse
I can now move on
You are out of my thoughts
The walls are dead
Sunday, 12 July 2009
King to Rook Four
Cajun moon in Antarctic sky
Lovers leaping, heartbreaks die.
Dust and Feathers from whirling wilds
Metal rusts and disposable child.
Sense is useless, instinct flawed
Evil everywhere, goodness stored.
Concrete tree and organic harp
Gigabyte brain idiot sharp.
Tachyon messages, eyes of an Owl
Exit to extinction, barely a scowl
Lovers leaping, heartbreaks die.
Dust and Feathers from whirling wilds
Metal rusts and disposable child.
Sense is useless, instinct flawed
Evil everywhere, goodness stored.
Concrete tree and organic harp
Gigabyte brain idiot sharp.
Tachyon messages, eyes of an Owl
Exit to extinction, barely a scowl
Friday, 10 July 2009
The Vampire's Zombie
I don’t expect vocals so flawless they’re devoid of inflection
I don’t want three minute perfection, nor orchestral interjection.
I don’t desire techno samplings, nor cross-genre trampling.
I don’t demand dance routines I can emulate in the disco, nor millions spent on the obligatory video.
I don’t insist upon matching suit and dress, nor timed exposé in tabloid press.
I don’t care that you were larging it this weekend, that you are down with the fans, that you went to Glastonbury before you were famous, that your drum player makes your ears rupture with his thunderous pounding, that you’re releasing your CD with a commemorative DVD documenting for the world the creation of your new musical dawn, and that the I-tunes download also comes as an acoustic version to prove to me that you are not simply an empty face painted in by focus group artists with corporate brushes.
I really don’t care that you grew up on Smash Hits and Top of the Pops, that your first love was Brother Beyond or Yazz, or that her Plastic Population was your musical nirvana, forgive me if I yawn, your every word is like swimming with Piranhas: Hard to get through.
I regret that your phizog is gracing the hordes of T-shirts I see marching through the empty high streets your image, lifestyle and poetic ugliness the gospel to the allegedly disaffected youth, whose aimless, gormless, worthless travels from bus stop to off license is backed by your worthless, gormless, aimless creation. Congratulations, enjoy your three tracks worth of fame we’ll see you in about twenty years when despite the ravages of time and the aches and strain associated with shelf stacking you will reappear to darken our stereos once more brought out from moth balls to satisfy that generations demand for retro-laughs.
Now I know you don’t care but just for the sake of balance, here is what I want, and don’t worry, you don’t have to provide it, I understand it is beyond your limitations as a soulless product of a faceless conglomerate designed to steal money from retarded teens looking to someone else to satisfy their need for an identity.
I want lyrics that tear through my apathetic days like maddened Alsatians,
I demand a voice so tortured that it sounds like it has been tossed around a concentration camp like a bloody stump, or maybe even a voice of honey dripped sweetness whose every sound is like a perfect Summer's day.
I want effortless musical symbiosis that crawls into my ears and nestles in my brain for a day or two, a sound that makes my bones quiver and my heart turn itself inside out as it tries to play along with the beat on my rib cage.
I ask for nothing but honesty and everything including the truth, I hurt, you hurt, we live, we die, don't deny the beauty of darkness, embrace it knowing that the sun may not rise tomorrow and there is beauty in that unknown future.
I want words that speak of the now you are in but which still transcend time and fashion to mean to me what they meant to you without fading.
I want what you do to mean more than what you earn, but don't worry I know you wont read this... Hell nobody will, for I am just the Vampire's Zombie.
I don’t want three minute perfection, nor orchestral interjection.
I don’t desire techno samplings, nor cross-genre trampling.
I don’t demand dance routines I can emulate in the disco, nor millions spent on the obligatory video.
I don’t insist upon matching suit and dress, nor timed exposé in tabloid press.
I don’t care that you were larging it this weekend, that you are down with the fans, that you went to Glastonbury before you were famous, that your drum player makes your ears rupture with his thunderous pounding, that you’re releasing your CD with a commemorative DVD documenting for the world the creation of your new musical dawn, and that the I-tunes download also comes as an acoustic version to prove to me that you are not simply an empty face painted in by focus group artists with corporate brushes.
I really don’t care that you grew up on Smash Hits and Top of the Pops, that your first love was Brother Beyond or Yazz, or that her Plastic Population was your musical nirvana, forgive me if I yawn, your every word is like swimming with Piranhas: Hard to get through.
I regret that your phizog is gracing the hordes of T-shirts I see marching through the empty high streets your image, lifestyle and poetic ugliness the gospel to the allegedly disaffected youth, whose aimless, gormless, worthless travels from bus stop to off license is backed by your worthless, gormless, aimless creation. Congratulations, enjoy your three tracks worth of fame we’ll see you in about twenty years when despite the ravages of time and the aches and strain associated with shelf stacking you will reappear to darken our stereos once more brought out from moth balls to satisfy that generations demand for retro-laughs.
Now I know you don’t care but just for the sake of balance, here is what I want, and don’t worry, you don’t have to provide it, I understand it is beyond your limitations as a soulless product of a faceless conglomerate designed to steal money from retarded teens looking to someone else to satisfy their need for an identity.
I want lyrics that tear through my apathetic days like maddened Alsatians,
I demand a voice so tortured that it sounds like it has been tossed around a concentration camp like a bloody stump, or maybe even a voice of honey dripped sweetness whose every sound is like a perfect Summer's day.
I want effortless musical symbiosis that crawls into my ears and nestles in my brain for a day or two, a sound that makes my bones quiver and my heart turn itself inside out as it tries to play along with the beat on my rib cage.
I ask for nothing but honesty and everything including the truth, I hurt, you hurt, we live, we die, don't deny the beauty of darkness, embrace it knowing that the sun may not rise tomorrow and there is beauty in that unknown future.
I want words that speak of the now you are in but which still transcend time and fashion to mean to me what they meant to you without fading.
I want what you do to mean more than what you earn, but don't worry I know you wont read this... Hell nobody will, for I am just the Vampire's Zombie.
Friday, 3 July 2009
Wanderers
I live in a world of wanderers,
Clones of myself, side by side,
And following each other
through the desert, into the sea.
I live in a world of wanderers,
Clones of myself, all greyed out
With bullets for heads,
And guns to their chests, following me.
Clones of myself, side by side,
And following each other
through the desert, into the sea.
I live in a world of wanderers,
Clones of myself, all greyed out
With bullets for heads,
And guns to their chests, following me.
Needles
When you're awake, you see me
Through cottonwool clouds and
Sympathetic eyes,
And maybe I'm looking at someone else.
When I'm asleep, I see you
Through blood and veins and
Vomiting skies,
And maybe you're looking at someone else.
Through cottonwool clouds and
Sympathetic eyes,
And maybe I'm looking at someone else.
When I'm asleep, I see you
Through blood and veins and
Vomiting skies,
And maybe you're looking at someone else.
When Your Eyes Go Out
When my eyes go out,
My love,
No-one will be available
To follow me.
When my eyes go out.
When my eyes go out,
My love,
No-one will be capable
Of walking me.
When my eyes go out.
When your eyes go out -
My love
Won't be capable,
Of stalking me.
When your eyes go out.
My love,
No-one will be available
To follow me.
When my eyes go out.
When my eyes go out,
My love,
No-one will be capable
Of walking me.
When my eyes go out.
When your eyes go out -
My love
Won't be capable,
Of stalking me.
When your eyes go out.
Thursday, 2 July 2009
Something About Your Emoticon
Something about your emoticon
Makes me smile
On those long drives to nowhere
I take when you're not there.
Something about that special place
Makes me think
If you were just the other face
I wouldn't even care.
But something about your emoticon
Turns me on
On those long drives to nowhere
I take when you're not there.
Makes me smile
On those long drives to nowhere
I take when you're not there.
Something about that special place
Makes me think
If you were just the other face
I wouldn't even care.
But something about your emoticon
Turns me on
On those long drives to nowhere
I take when you're not there.
Sunday, 28 June 2009
Rusty Cereal And Milk Bottle Tops
Rusty cereal and milk bottle tops,
And Disney-designated alarm clocks
Ticking through inferior day jobs
And shoving on shoes in a shoebox.
Rusty cereal and milk bottle tops,
And Croydon-contained crop-tops,
Snipping through the council-house fops
And spiralling down in the day jobs.
Rusty cereal and milk bottom tops,
And comedic-comedy gob-stops,
Blowing sugar bubbles on our desktops.
And mastering stairs in a shoebox.
And Disney-designated alarm clocks
Ticking through inferior day jobs
And shoving on shoes in a shoebox.
Rusty cereal and milk bottle tops,
And Croydon-contained crop-tops,
Snipping through the council-house fops
And spiralling down in the day jobs.
Rusty cereal and milk bottom tops,
And comedic-comedy gob-stops,
Blowing sugar bubbles on our desktops.
And mastering stairs in a shoebox.
Lies, Damn Lies and Daniel Stairmaster
I am sure our most loyal readers will have been shocked to read a message from the departed Daniel Stairmaster co-founder of this blog, more shocking were the accusations that I was keeping him prisoner. I assure you that this is not the case, Daniel Stairmaster is as far as we know dead, although his virus riddled body has yet to be found. I do not know how his account was hacked and I will be carrying out an in depth investigation, the perpetrators will be discovered. I guarantee it.
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