Thursday, 30 October 2008
Happy Halloween
No one ever visited Lovett’s Cove, the most anyone ever saw of it was the road sign and the unkempt thoroughfare leading between two skeletal oak trees that formed a natural archway, a gateway to the tiny hamlet that was hidden from the real world in every sense. The only habitation for miles on this stretch of lonely country, a road passers by usually overlook, too intent on getting to their final destination to notice the sign now faded with time and encroaching wilderness that indicated the presence of a settlement.
It’s past residents had always referred to the Bay as their “Little Corner”, a part of the world hidden from the events of modern life, and shielded from change by the landscape around them, a place seemingly trapped in a permanent sea haze forced overland by the cruel waves and swirling winds. The colony was built in a fracture of the jagged cliffs, a zigzag of irregularly descending land meeting the churning ocean shadowed by towering white cliffs topped with wispy vegetation that twisted in the wind like a bad toupee.
The road leading down from civilization split into three about a mile from the main road, the left turn cut into the cliff, four dull grey dwellings overlooking the bay scattered along the track that was laced with potholes that held water like small pools and ended with a rusty railing, beyond that chiselled rock and a declivity that led to crashing waves, the buildings seemingly permanently cast in the darkness of the precipice nearby. The road to the right slowly dipped down towards the sea, five architecturally similar domiciles weaved around a bend in the road that eventually conjoined with the end of the middle road on the cusp of the harbour, set back from this third road was a once green building of corrugated iron, now battered by nature for so long that it’s colours bled down it’s walls like dried tears, at the apex of it’s roof a wooden cross manufactured from aging timber the only indication of the structures intended use.
Then there was the harbour itself, two breakwaters jutting out of the ever changing sea sweeping around from the edge of either cliff face until they met, separated by the mouth of the harbour, much like the rest of the place, the rockwork of the wharf had long since passed it’s better days, eroded brickwork and faded markings overtaken by seaweed and ubiquitous barnacles making the manmade promontory their homes. Small fishing vessels jostle about on the agitated waters occasionally colliding with buoys and scattered debris caught in the eddying waters of the harbour, the boats themselves aged but seaworthy full of nets and rusted cans and boxes tethered to land by heavy coarse rope that creaked as it was pulled between vessel and cleat. At the brink of one of the breakwaters a weather-beaten bell hung from a wooden gibbet crying out across the ocean and echoing meekly around the village as the oncoming mist whipped in from dark waters.
The fading autumn light fell slowly across the sky desperate to avoid encroaching night, above the houses Fulmars and Rock Doves argued over their place on the cliff tops and as the shadow of night swallowed the community and the sound of the bell intensified with the cold wind the once quiet hamlet of Lovett’s Cove basked in a stygian emptiness as it’s now barren dwellings did not twinkle with the spark of light indicative of a home, it’s streets did not become illuminated by fake light, it was as if the settlement had disappeared from sight bar from the oft ignored road sign back in the world. The harbour bell rang out into the blackness, it’s clunking chime answered far out at sea by an ungodly shriek that whilst natural in voice seems to stir the birds on the cliff from their roosting places unsettled by it’s intrusion, now more eager to seek refuge elsewhere as the screeching sound reverberates around the gap in the cliffs like a maddened terrier chasing it’s own tail.
It’s past residents had always referred to the Bay as their “Little Corner”, a part of the world hidden from the events of modern life, and shielded from change by the landscape around them, a place seemingly trapped in a permanent sea haze forced overland by the cruel waves and swirling winds. The colony was built in a fracture of the jagged cliffs, a zigzag of irregularly descending land meeting the churning ocean shadowed by towering white cliffs topped with wispy vegetation that twisted in the wind like a bad toupee.
The road leading down from civilization split into three about a mile from the main road, the left turn cut into the cliff, four dull grey dwellings overlooking the bay scattered along the track that was laced with potholes that held water like small pools and ended with a rusty railing, beyond that chiselled rock and a declivity that led to crashing waves, the buildings seemingly permanently cast in the darkness of the precipice nearby. The road to the right slowly dipped down towards the sea, five architecturally similar domiciles weaved around a bend in the road that eventually conjoined with the end of the middle road on the cusp of the harbour, set back from this third road was a once green building of corrugated iron, now battered by nature for so long that it’s colours bled down it’s walls like dried tears, at the apex of it’s roof a wooden cross manufactured from aging timber the only indication of the structures intended use.
Then there was the harbour itself, two breakwaters jutting out of the ever changing sea sweeping around from the edge of either cliff face until they met, separated by the mouth of the harbour, much like the rest of the place, the rockwork of the wharf had long since passed it’s better days, eroded brickwork and faded markings overtaken by seaweed and ubiquitous barnacles making the manmade promontory their homes. Small fishing vessels jostle about on the agitated waters occasionally colliding with buoys and scattered debris caught in the eddying waters of the harbour, the boats themselves aged but seaworthy full of nets and rusted cans and boxes tethered to land by heavy coarse rope that creaked as it was pulled between vessel and cleat. At the brink of one of the breakwaters a weather-beaten bell hung from a wooden gibbet crying out across the ocean and echoing meekly around the village as the oncoming mist whipped in from dark waters.
The fading autumn light fell slowly across the sky desperate to avoid encroaching night, above the houses Fulmars and Rock Doves argued over their place on the cliff tops and as the shadow of night swallowed the community and the sound of the bell intensified with the cold wind the once quiet hamlet of Lovett’s Cove basked in a stygian emptiness as it’s now barren dwellings did not twinkle with the spark of light indicative of a home, it’s streets did not become illuminated by fake light, it was as if the settlement had disappeared from sight bar from the oft ignored road sign back in the world. The harbour bell rang out into the blackness, it’s clunking chime answered far out at sea by an ungodly shriek that whilst natural in voice seems to stir the birds on the cliff from their roosting places unsettled by it’s intrusion, now more eager to seek refuge elsewhere as the screeching sound reverberates around the gap in the cliffs like a maddened terrier chasing it’s own tail.
Monday, 27 October 2008
Black Warrior
I was driving through Alabama,
In a bid to lose my bearings,
When I stumbled across a town, in Alabama.
And it was called Tuscaloosa.
Black warrior.
I was driving through Alabama,
In a bid to kill my senses,
When I tried to lose my bearings, in Tuscaloosa,
And I was called Alabama,
Black warrior.
I was driving to Alabama,
In a bid to lose my senses,
And I ended up in Tuscaloosa, killing my bearings,
And you were called Alabama,
Black warrior.
I was driving through Alabama,
In a bid to sense my mindset,
And I ended up in Tuscaloosa, Alabama,
And you were my bearings,
Black warrior.
In a bid to lose my bearings,
When I stumbled across a town, in Alabama.
And it was called Tuscaloosa.
Black warrior.
I was driving through Alabama,
In a bid to kill my senses,
When I tried to lose my bearings, in Tuscaloosa,
And I was called Alabama,
Black warrior.
I was driving to Alabama,
In a bid to lose my senses,
And I ended up in Tuscaloosa, killing my bearings,
And you were called Alabama,
Black warrior.
I was driving through Alabama,
In a bid to sense my mindset,
And I ended up in Tuscaloosa, Alabama,
And you were my bearings,
Black warrior.
Saturday, 25 October 2008
There's Nothing To See
There's nothing to see,
Not in the grand scheme of things
In any case.
Look beyond my eyes,
And find my mind,
That informs my choices,
And makes me listless,
That makes me want you,
And makes me hate you,
And makes me love you.
Like a flip of a coin,
When the world means nothing,
And now these eyes are dead,
There's nothing to see.
Not in the grand scheme of things
In any case.
Look beyond my eyes,
And find my mind,
That informs my choices,
And makes me listless,
That makes me want you,
And makes me hate you,
And makes me love you.
Like a flip of a coin,
When the world means nothing,
And now these eyes are dead,
There's nothing to see.
Don't Look Here
I'm only trying to be the man who keeps your attention for the rest of your life.
It's no big deal.
Maybe you'd be better off putting on your pretty smile and foregetting we ever talked about this
and meeting your friends
And meeting a man more compatible with your makeup.
And don't look here,
And don't worry about me,
I have a hundred lies I can use in reserve,
While I'm talking to my friends.
And putting on a compatible face,
And I'll cry tomorrow.
It's no big deal.
Maybe you'd be better off putting on your pretty smile and foregetting we ever talked about this
and meeting your friends
And meeting a man more compatible with your makeup.
And don't look here,
And don't worry about me,
I have a hundred lies I can use in reserve,
While I'm talking to my friends.
And putting on a compatible face,
And I'll cry tomorrow.
Comment
The sun heralds the morning.
And rainbows ripple in the currents,
Of the Thames
Against the grey of the buildings and the cranes,
While traffic moans on the roads
and passengers on planes chase the paper
The economy tells them to,
And failure's not an option,
And everyone develops hives,
But no-one survives.
And rainbows ripple in the currents,
Of the Thames
Against the grey of the buildings and the cranes,
While traffic moans on the roads
and passengers on planes chase the paper
The economy tells them to,
And failure's not an option,
And everyone develops hives,
But no-one survives.
Bad Turnarounds
Maybe you'll remember me
And maybe I'll put your photo on Facebook
For you to see.
Or maybe I'll drink myself to the moon.
And maybe you'll care
But more likely you'll delete my profile
And maybe I'll die soon.
Great times, by the way,
Those ones I suffered a lifetime ago.
And great times, great times yesterday -
Not that you know.
And maybe I'll put your photo on Facebook
For you to see.
Or maybe I'll drink myself to the moon.
And maybe you'll care
But more likely you'll delete my profile
And maybe I'll die soon.
Great times, by the way,
Those ones I suffered a lifetime ago.
And great times, great times yesterday -
Not that you know.
Sunday, 19 October 2008
We Walked On
And so we ran into each other at the corner,
Where the lake cuts across the path,
Where I once saw my daughter,
And the grass gave way to the underpass,
Where broken mirrors cracked underfoot,
And pushchairs and syringes
Lay abandoned in the rain,
And on the other side,
The parasols lay faded,
Where the sunshine long-since left,
And the fairground rides
rusted in the rain,
And the fairground owners
longed for the kind of days,
That had long-since gone.
And I remember those days,
And those hook-a-duck games,
Where she once had a father,
When these fields were dreams
filled with fortune tellers
reflected in me,
And the newborns in pushcairs
Being pushed in the sunshine,
the other side of the underpass
Where we ran into each other at the corner,
All these years on since you had gone,
Twenty and counting,
Walking with your daughter,
And where you looked at me,
As she looked away,
And all I could see with clarity,
Was that your hair had changed.
and something seemed familiar,
But nothing seemed the same.
And I'd have cared for nothing
but for you to know
I loved you then, I love you now.
But we walked on.
Where the lake cuts across the path,
Where I once saw my daughter,
And the grass gave way to the underpass,
Where broken mirrors cracked underfoot,
And pushchairs and syringes
Lay abandoned in the rain,
And on the other side,
The parasols lay faded,
Where the sunshine long-since left,
And the fairground rides
rusted in the rain,
And the fairground owners
longed for the kind of days,
That had long-since gone.
And I remember those days,
And those hook-a-duck games,
Where she once had a father,
When these fields were dreams
filled with fortune tellers
reflected in me,
And the newborns in pushcairs
Being pushed in the sunshine,
the other side of the underpass
Where we ran into each other at the corner,
All these years on since you had gone,
Twenty and counting,
Walking with your daughter,
And where you looked at me,
As she looked away,
And all I could see with clarity,
Was that your hair had changed.
and something seemed familiar,
But nothing seemed the same.
And I'd have cared for nothing
but for you to know
I loved you then, I love you now.
But we walked on.
My Mind, The Dark & The Persuasive Arguments Concerning Tomorrow
I came to the Woods to see through the trees, to see through me,to be the way I wanted to be.
I went up a Mountain to see down below, to conquer my lows, to see a way I could not see.
I went travelled into the cave, to try and be brave, to accept what I was could not be.
I dove into the ocean to realise the deep, to take that leap to find a way to get past me.
I looked to the sky, to see up high, to see through the lie that was me.
I spied on the stars to see past the past, to find out at last what I will be.
I returned home to you to find it was true, that despite all I knew,
You didn't want me.
I went up a Mountain to see down below, to conquer my lows, to see a way I could not see.
I went travelled into the cave, to try and be brave, to accept what I was could not be.
I dove into the ocean to realise the deep, to take that leap to find a way to get past me.
I looked to the sky, to see up high, to see through the lie that was me.
I spied on the stars to see past the past, to find out at last what I will be.
I returned home to you to find it was true, that despite all I knew,
You didn't want me.
Friday, 17 October 2008
Just Like A Radio
It's like a radio,
All this noise, like people jostling for pieces of an FM frequency, and just to report we're all the decimal points. And sometimes 99.9 equals the balance of a verse, or thereabouts.
My name is a radio.
How can you stop the messagelacking in gains, and meting out criticism to any ones and twos who can receive. Transmissions wave a whitenoise. Hi Criticism, do you know what we mean? Are you receiving us - over and over and over and out, and underpaid? Does anyone think we're all lonely at the same time, requesting love songs we can't hear about? Moving things overandout and bringing things in and starting all over again, like a frequency we can't hold onto, moving through the signals, doing it through badstatic appearing? It's not like they mean anything. Turn the control up and mean it, right to the top, and then it crackles intermittently with jokes about the elderly, cracked by the old, and no-one complains, but the radio waves all pitch the notes anyway. And then the tuning changes, and the aerial stands to attention, and the loveliness comes, and isn't it so typical that the song plays that you wanted to hear, but then the radio fails, half way through? Or it never played at all, and the whitenoise knew, after a frequency fall, and it's Just Like A Radio on 99.Nowhere FM. Good night.
All this noise, like people jostling for pieces of an FM frequency, and just to report we're all the decimal points. And sometimes 99.9 equals the balance of a verse, or thereabouts.
My name is a radio.
How can you stop the messagelacking in gains, and meting out criticism to any ones and twos who can receive. Transmissions wave a whitenoise. Hi Criticism, do you know what we mean? Are you receiving us - over and over and over and out, and underpaid? Does anyone think we're all lonely at the same time, requesting love songs we can't hear about? Moving things overandout and bringing things in and starting all over again, like a frequency we can't hold onto, moving through the signals, doing it through badstatic appearing? It's not like they mean anything. Turn the control up and mean it, right to the top, and then it crackles intermittently with jokes about the elderly, cracked by the old, and no-one complains, but the radio waves all pitch the notes anyway. And then the tuning changes, and the aerial stands to attention, and the loveliness comes, and isn't it so typical that the song plays that you wanted to hear, but then the radio fails, half way through? Or it never played at all, and the whitenoise knew, after a frequency fall, and it's Just Like A Radio on 99.Nowhere FM. Good night.
Saturday, 11 October 2008
God, Let Me
Take your delicate face,
And rest it on my shoulder,
This life was never meant to be so sad
For us now we're both older.
Turn away, and let these weary worries try
To take away your sadness alibi.
And let me hold you one last time,
And let me catch your tears when you cry.
God, let me.
And rest it on my shoulder,
This life was never meant to be so sad
For us now we're both older.
Turn away, and let these weary worries try
To take away your sadness alibi.
And let me hold you one last time,
And let me catch your tears when you cry.
God, let me.
Saturday, 4 October 2008
Anti-social Specialist
You are everything that I need, but nothing that I want.
You are everything I could ask for, if I knew what that was.
I have all the time in the world for us but now.
I have faith in doubt.
We have every chance but the this one.
The stars are right but the sky has fallen.
The words are there but they remain unsaid.
We are on the same road but in different lanes.
Our connection is communication, shy of commitment, lacking contentment.
A life missed for a life on hold for a life wanted.
Our eyes cry for what is, what was and what isn't.
We regret the things that we do not do.
So tell me why is it that I don't regret you?
You are everything I could ask for, if I knew what that was.
I have all the time in the world for us but now.
I have faith in doubt.
We have every chance but the this one.
The stars are right but the sky has fallen.
The words are there but they remain unsaid.
We are on the same road but in different lanes.
Our connection is communication, shy of commitment, lacking contentment.
A life missed for a life on hold for a life wanted.
Our eyes cry for what is, what was and what isn't.
We regret the things that we do not do.
So tell me why is it that I don't regret you?
Thursday, 2 October 2008
Sidewalks, Streets, Buses and Blues
Sidewalks, streets, buses and blues,
Regrets and worn-out shoes.
Excuses wearing thin,
Now my heart's not worth anything.
Maybes, mights, questions and clues,
Crossed words and yesterday's news,
Resistance wearing down,
Now you're no longer around.
Airports, flights, bastards and booze,
Answers the lonely refuse.
Memories moving in,
Now the now's not worth anything.
Sidewalks, streets, buses and blues,
Buskers and battered-down tunes,
Lonely and hitting the town,
Now I'm no longer around.
Regrets and worn-out shoes.
Excuses wearing thin,
Now my heart's not worth anything.
Maybes, mights, questions and clues,
Crossed words and yesterday's news,
Resistance wearing down,
Now you're no longer around.
Airports, flights, bastards and booze,
Answers the lonely refuse.
Memories moving in,
Now the now's not worth anything.
Sidewalks, streets, buses and blues,
Buskers and battered-down tunes,
Lonely and hitting the town,
Now I'm no longer around.
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