January 18, 2015

My Voice

me by thedog

Glockenspiel, timpani, trumpet, saxophone,

clavichord, harpsichord, guitar, big trombone.

Harmonium, euphonium, oboe, vi-o-la,

tambourine, violin, cello, pi-a-na.

Xylophone, paper & comb, tuba, oompah-boom,

castanet, clarinet, tuba or bassoon.

Now, if you don’t have even one of these,

how will you make your tune?

Try the cheapest, smallest instrument and amplify your soul

with a ‘tin sandwich’, a ‘gob iron’, a ‘Mississippi saxophone’.

You can blow your heart into an old blues harp,

find and free your spirit

and when you’re bending those sevenths and sharps

and no-one in the world can see it,

you kiss your secret lover,

your closest friend and saviour.

I was seven years old

when it crept in my soul,

never since have I felt I had choice,

when I wake up in the morning

harmonica’s my only true voice.

January 10, 2015

Cost of her Soul. The

cost her soul

A beautiful child
at the schoolyard gate,
pretty smile
lights up her face.
Last day,
turns her back on school
growing up feels cool into
a cold-blooded world.

Doesn’t matter
what’s in her thoughts.
Her face and body
is what the people want.
She’s an innocent doll,
head in a whirl.
beguiled and seduced
by the glamour world.

“Put on your make-up take off your clothes,
the camera will take you to the centrefold.
Just keep smiling, put your brain on ice,
you can make a million overnight…
though it will cost you your soul.”

Nipples in the ‘Sun’
‘Sport’ men love her tits,
but part of her dies
with every camera click.
Noise, flash, crowds,
but she feels so alone;
the camera is her mother,
the magazine is home.

They only ever told her
how good she looked
and she was hooked.
Innocence had sealed the fate
of the pretty little thing
at the schoolyard gate
who never ever thought
about getting old;
it cost her her soul.

January 4, 2015

Filling the Void

dad

PART I
I stumbled through a childhood drunk on woe.
Like a bagatelle ball flipped there and here.
And into a void of thirty years or so
I’d poured gravel, sand, water and tears.

­The emptiness stayed hollow,
though it resounded just enough
to convince those who would follow
inside was interesting stuff.

Nothing that entered that space of space
ever stayed and never filled it.
As if my inside was especially made;
only a particular shape would fit .

PART II
When I met my father, life was fast and replete
a career, a lover, mortgage arrears
kids moithering under my feet –
and that void, mostly ignored, and feared.

Son with dad for the very first time,
that night I had cause to reflect
on the meeting of a dream with elation and rhyme
and the magic I could expect.

Africa, siblings, the hope of real joy!
Welcome imaginings that night
but none meant as much to this big, little boy
as Dad’s form which clicked in just right.

PART III
Years later it was that he showed me,
a large tupperware box;
into which he placed golf balls, repeatedly
until they’d reached the top.

“Is the box now empty Pete?” he asked.
“Of course not,” said I, “It’s full.”
I was ever so slightly taken aback
when he poured in a handful of gravel.

“So it’s full now, is it?” said he;
“Ha!” I laughed and held up my hand.
“Just a moment,” he added and stopped me
to fill the box further with sand.

“Dad,” I said, “You’re a genius”
“Now it is filled to the brim”
He smiled, “Son you’re getting too previous,”
then poured a glass of water in!

He went to the fridge while I sat to think,
why the box of my life had felt cursed.
If golf balls represent important things
I should have made sure they were all in there first.

Instead I’d filled my box with gravel and sand
and the golf balls just wouldn’t fit.
Dad emptied the box, but filled me, understand
with the exact right shape of his spirit.

I called to the kitchen, “That’s a lesson learned, Pops”
he returned with a four-pack, “That depends.”
Then he opened three bottles poured one in the box
saying, “Always room for a beer with friends!”

January 2, 2015

Opposite Man

opposites

He leaves not a footprint; makes hardly a sound,
he lives in a cloud, deep underground.
His shadow is white and shines in the dark –
he’s gentle is ‘Opposite Man’ – like a shark.

He’s as blind as an owl, as wise as a brush
he smiles as he whines and growls like a thrush,
darkness excites him, the sun leaves him cold,
he recalls tomorrow and what he’s not told.

The ‘Opposite Man’ says, “refined can be rude”
the loyal are blind, discord can be good.”
Nasty policemen and ministers too,
asks ‘Opposite Man’  – “Do they look after you?”

His cacophonous voice is too loud to hear,
his mumbled promotion, opaquely clear.
It goes upside in and out of my ear…
“What’s glaring is rarely all it appears.”

He showed me the government out of its depth,
rainbows of innocents led to their deaths.
A world where the pleb is fooled to accept
after greed lies with power;  he has what’s left.

The “Opposite Man” is a quirky old bloke,
sermons and speeches are tragic, like jokes.
He might be like me, might even be you
but obviously it’s the obverse that’s true.

December 31, 2014

Public Image, Private Pain. (Song Lyric)

public image
So you made it, you're dreams have realised
don't you break it 'fore the glory dies.
You're gonna hate it, if they see behind your eyes
stick with the shades while the spotlight shines.
Your reputation, must be maintained,
falsification; that can be arranged
public relations, will wipe away the stains
take the adoration, but don't take the blame 

public image hide your private pain
in the mirror; you'll never change.
all you'll see is remains
all you'll be is remains
will you ever see yourself again?
will you ever be yourself again?

Are you that deep yes? what's to hide?
Just keep your weakness, way outta sight,
bury your secrets out of the light
have no regrets, your image, must be right.

public image hide your private pain
in the mirror; you'll never change.
all you'll see is remains
all you'll be is remains
will you ever see yourself again?
will you ever be yourself again?

Standing at the feet of the next 1 thousand years.
A teardrop of image worth a heart full of sweat & tears.
Spin the spin, get on a roll
if you can't ditch the image, at least try t'save your soul.

Lookin tall, on a mountain of sand,
crowds enthralled by the way you stand.
Too big to fall, too cool to change hands,
there'll be no recall for yesterday's man.

Public image hides your private pain
will you ever see yourself again?
Public image hides your private pain            
will you ever be yourself again?
December 31, 2014

Everybody’s a bit of a Twat!

taff colour3ofus

Everybody’s a bit of a twat sometimes,

occasionally we’re all a bit of a shit.

We be wankers we be gits

we be tossers we be tits…

sometimes, ‘twat’ is the only word that absolutely fits!

Everybody’s a bit of a twat sometimes

an egotist like me will not deny…

I once shagged my best friend’s sister,

my gran died – never missed her

(what a twat!)

Everybody’s a bit of a twat sometimes.

Everybody’s a bit of a twat sometimes,

periodical prats is what we are.

See a beggar – pass him by,

make your momma cry;

you’re in in your grandad’s will but

when’s he gonna fuckin die!?

Everybody’s a bit of a twat sometimes

Don’t say you’re not (you twat)

coz that’s a lie…

if, in a group of more than two

you see no twats in view,

it’s more than likely then,

the twat that’s missing is you!

Everybody’s a bit of a twat sometimes.

Everybody’s a bit of a twat sometimes,

Everyone’s a bit of a twat sometimes.

All done things we know we shouldn’t

said something we swore we wouldn’t.

So when you point your index finger

at the twats you thought you knew,

have a look at the other three fingers

all pointing back at you!

Everybody’s a bit of a twat sometimes.

(There’s a comedian who first did this and posted it on YouTube using the word ‘cunt’ rather than twat. It’s no longer available so I’ve written my version which in large parts, is similar to that of the comedian whose name I can’t recall right now. As far as I can recall, there are enough of my own words and ideas to justify it’s posting.)

December 31, 2014

Music in Me. The.

me by thedog

At my conception

music was embroidered into my soul.

A tapestry rich in rhythm is woven

through me winding in and around guts

and attaching blood to spirit.

There-from, a wellspring of inspiration

fizzes continuously like a fuse wire

buzzing toward its dynamite.

Excitingly jagged rock is

stitched into membranes;

tones of the blues as smooth

as melted chocolate ooze

like silk through veins and brain.

Melodies and airs murmur

their dulcet expectations.

Musical exhilaration

is as normal as my darned pulse.

As lullabies hold more dreams

than the shrillest shriek; thus

I feel singing is easier than talking

to sew my meaning into all of you.

To unpick the thread,

weaved as it is through

my African heartbeats,

would kill me dead.

December 29, 2014

Don’t you try… (Song lyric)

I was torn from my mamma, I was ripped to shreds,
I’ve been a whole lotta things worse than dead.
If I’d collected every tear I’ve shed
I’d be drownin’ in a lake way over my head.

Don’t you try to make it with a broken man.
No sense in tryin’ to shake a frozen hand,
nor perchin’ your castle on a mountain of sand,
so don’t you try to take the bottle from this broken man.

I was beaten by a system, I tried to break free.
every brother I loved was stolen from me.
If I had a grain of sand for every brother I need,
the desert would be stretchin’ for infinity.

I was taken by the Klan, they were all full of juice,
they dragged me to a killing tree, they showed me the noose.
If I had a reefer every time I got abuse
I’d be high in the ether, smilin’ right back at you
but don’t you try to make it with a broken man.
No sense in tryin’ to shake a frozen hand,
nor perchin’ your castle on a mountain of sand,
so don’t you try to take the bottle from this broken man.

If I’s to write a book about what I think
I’d need the whole mighty ocean to be made of ink.
I could write for a lifetime but my heart would sink
I can lead a horse to water, but I can’t make him drink.

I met a pretty girl but she was also pretty rough,
she musta wrote the book about how to make love.
If there’s ladies in the house thinks they’s got the stuff
form an orderly queue girls, let’s see what comes up…
but don’t you try to make it with a broken man,
no sense in tryin’ to shake a frozen hand,
nor perchin’ your castle on a mountain of sand,
so don’t you try to take the bottle from this broken man.

December 27, 2014

I Will Crawl into the Soul of all Humankind

ghandi

Release these shackles and my arms will spring out wide enough to embrace the world.

Make me cry then stand aside as my essence strengthens with the evaporation of every tear.

Scare me and I’ll run away, discovering with every pace the speed I need to outflank my enemies.

Evict me from my home and hear tales of my travels, my adventures and triumphs from wherever I roam.

Strip me of my faith and I will find a way to crawl into the soul of all humankind to bestow my spirit.

(Inspired by Mahatma Ghandi.)

December 20, 2014

Just Another Evening

date

We had a great conversation,

she leaning toward me

paying attention.

Me venturing lines

I think are funny

and she smiling

reassuringly,

relieving my anxiety

and quite knowingly I suspect,

bolstering my dispirited ego.

My self image, exhausted and

still collapsing

after experiences of

so many lows

with all the princesses

I’ve ever known.

I saw her through a prism

of adoration and fervour.

But I’d been imprisoned

in my own ideas and saw

husbands and lives

steered through mercurial romances

into bullying and guilt,

love for the sycophant

right to the hilt.

Could I be wrong?

We’re both checking out non-verbals.

Playing analytic psychologists

delving for those proverbial

signs that suggest,

should we combine,

it may indeed be favourable.

I could take her home, arrange to wine

and dine some other time.

Have fun, be close to someone.

Maybe lay next to her

and see what transpires.

Or trudge home alone.

Her number on my phone

which tomorrow

will be forgotten,

and in time, deleted.

I glance from lofty heights,

utterly defeated.

Again.

Just another evening

of light entertainment

characterised by my

virtue of self containment.

It no longer hurts

but neither one night stand

nor fun right hand

really works.

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