This is a Thing

The parrot women with their pails

In the middle ages all have ale

To waste away the Friday after next,

The voted in the ex-president

Of somewhere without precedent

Cus he was the only one to read the text.

 

The rebel man with his masonry

Did something out at sea

That no priest in any case would dare to do,

But it was Roman in religion

And English in tradition

Trying to find the drug to get over you

 

Na-na-na’s come from the radio

Like Spain or Mexico

With the water wobbling like the pigs

In the restaurant with the concert

Concertina player happy with his dollar

And change.

 

Night life, fireflies, somewhere in Greece

Ruined by my being overly obese,

The horn player compliments my choice in dress

But like an envious romance

We argue when we dance

And then find ourselves in needless distress.

 

I’m cautiously optimistic, hyper realistic

Happy with the walking stick

To travel over mountain and monument alike,

But I know how it feels

When you’re in heels

And you get out on the third strike.

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The Graduate

All these contemplative melodies

Can soothe obsessive maladies

That tremble and shake me to my bones,

But all the words of vagabonds

Burn so bright and then they’re gone

And I’m back to being fearful and alone.

 

Twisted rhythms, crooked rhymes

Help me through the trying times

When my head is spinning like a moving wheel,

Cold nights fall to dawning days

They throw their jewels then fade away

And I’m left wondering how I really feel.

 

I envy Ahab and his whale

Even one so doomed to fail

A prisoner determined to succeed,

At least he had a goal to chase

I’m sitting in a silent place

Waiting for a call to come to me.

 

I’ve got confusion coming from my eyes

Towards the charming cloudy skies

About which road I should follow all the way,

Like anyone thrown out to the world

Left to voice their own concerns

I’m struggling to find a thing to say.

Ideal Party

The parties I want to attend

Throw champagne in your face in disgust

Then scratch your car; and

They play something smooth like honey

On the speakers. You talk to a narcissist

Until you’re ready to beat them with the bottle.

No matter your turn of phrase you somehow manage

to demean and offend the artistic upstart

who you’ve been listening to for the last hour.

You fall into the pool

And the ripples make the moon light dance

All around You. Then you stand in a dripping

Blue suit, smile, and walk out.

Motel Blues

False cowboys take up motel rooms.

You’re in that weary state where you mumble phrases

Like: “I don’t know man” and “just give me the key”

And you want to wave goodbye

To the ugly landscape. The person at reception

Tells you the pool is closed. There’s no barrier around the pool

But you don’t want to take a chance. There’s one room left.

 

A cowboy stands idle under the sad yellow light

Blackened by flies and acting forlorn.

You know for a fact his mind’s on the steak he had

When he was seven and his father came home early.

 

Motel rooms scream secrets

But you’re too tired for degeneracy – anyway,

The mayor of a nearby town is entertaining in room 207

Dressed as a gigolo Santa in July. Never the less,

The orange heat of the dawn sun

Coming through the blinds in the desert morn

Is as welcoming as any waterfall.

Average Day

Propulsion, speed, Opera

Bowling down the road in sleepless coattails

And the same gloves you slept in –

What a gorilla, devoid of inspiration

Wallowing in howling sin, desperate as a star

Ready to supernova. Arrested for jaywalking

And screaming at the police for offences

Mismanaged. Work in the morning,

Sad wailing musical pipe dream romance –

Stale coffee. Dreams written as tattoos.

Every eye is on you like Apollo: a crumbling obelisk

Cursing to the dirt, asking the earth

“Why aren’t I rich yet?” – Some kind of prayer.

Writing for NME

It’s an aspiration,

Nay! A dream!

To destroy a hotel room

While my body is as weak as a guitar string

Left on a guitar by an 80 year old

Farmer who’s seen everything before.

But, unlike him, I’ll be dancing

Gyrating like sin, singing and drinking

(Attempting to do both at the same time)

Ready to interview a Mancunian upstart

With a fringe

And a paisley shirt

But the guy will have to call me and not give up

Because I guarantee I’ll be passed out

In glory.

Conflicted

I’m waiting for fate to hand me what I want

Because to go out and grab it shakes me to grey

And I retreat. I want to wake early, before the world;

Get the bus, work. I want to write the feeling

Of changing seasons, that which excites

And fills the air with sweet leaves falling.

I want to know the names of streets

And follow them like a natural dance

Not having to look forward in a white shirt and tie.

And I want to rock and roll – but to write is to

Be safe. And that’s easier.