Upward Bound…

I was sitting at the buh us stop,
One stop, but couldn’t be arsed to walk to top ooo ooo
On a tour? No, Spar Shop, got carrier bag in pocket and a fiver in my hand ooo ooo
Driver behind protective screen is darkly tanned wants one-fifty in his hand ooo

Upward bound
I was, I was
Upward bound

Shop, she wants spuds for baking
Shop, maybe get some cake in
Shop, where the cashier’s taking
My last three fifty from me

On journey had a short daydream
For the cake should I get some cream?
Single? Double? S’the same to me, Carnation’ll be satisfactory
Cholesterol danger I can’t see, sack those furred up arteries

Upward bound
I was, I was
Upward bound

Shop, she said get spuds for baking
Shop, and get some cake in
Shop, where the cashier’s raking
My last three fifty from me

Tonight I’ll have baked spuds at ten
Four hours in the ov, ov en
With beans ’n cheese ’n butter see, the basest gastronom’eee
Yes ten is where I want to be, comfort eating, not writing this parody—ooo ooo yum yum

Shop…

 

For my son Sam this; I ad-libbed it earlier, have tried to firm it up

All of this and Nothing…

Great lyrics, fab song, Dave Gahan sings, not sure if he penned it?? I take the storm outside the window line to mean a reflection…here goes:

Sing your song, sing out for me

Give it everything you’ve got, just one more time for me
Move in from the dark

I’m all of this and nothing
I’m the dirt beneath your feet
I’m the sun that rises while you’re sleeping
I’m all you need

River’s wide, too wide to see
There’s a storm outside my window
Moving close to me
Move in from the dark

I’m all of this and nothing
I’m the dirt beneath your feet
I’m the sun that rises while you’re sleeping
I’m all you need

Black water high, too high to breathe
There’s a ghost outside my window haunting me

Move in from the dark
Move in from the dark

I’m all of this and nothing
I’m the dirt beneath your feet
I’m the sun that rises while you’re sleeping
I’m all you need

Move in from the dark

I’m all of this and nothing
I’m the dirt beneath your feet
I’m the sun that rises while you’re sleeping
I’m all you need

Move in from the dark
Move in from the dark
Move in from the dark

The Wall of Wonder…

And to the wall of wonder where each brick’s a gnome or nearly a gnome. Not all a known gnome but some the rarer more unknown gnomes. I’d do better here than to be a presumptive pedant. And so shall assume you know your gnomes. But (unable to help myself from helping yourself) if you don’t, here’s the definition: gnome: a short sentence or statement that expresses or summarises a general truth. For what it’s worth, gnomes please stand aside and to attention for a…I’m tempted to say gnomement but I’ll say moment and refrain from any endeavour at being funny. Donald Rumsfeld’s* known knowns answer given at a defence briefing contained “...because as we know, there are known knowns; there are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns — the ones we don’t know we don’t know…” was, to me, a watertight example of both logic and language torture. I loved picking the bones from it and admired too the way it invoked, depending on your persuasion, a wish to understand it or to reject it. For me, it drew focus and achieved its aim yet sadly, for our dear Donald, landed him with a ‘Foot in Mouth’ accolade.

Okay gnomes, at ease, back to the wall. I imagine soon myself clothed head to toe in the colour of night. Not so much as I was in the night rider episode of lasteryear, moreover much as our perceived image/notion of a Ninja. Soft shooed and shrouded I’ll be, quieter by foot than the owl on the wing that catches the quiet as a mouse mouse. This will too be at the time of night, right in the heart of night, I’d say an equal distance twixt dawn and dusk. So you can clearly see, I see myself not being able to see well and not wanting to be seen at such an hour as I envisage I’ll be engaged in some tame yet suspect activity. Petty crime, I guess it’s petty – but that which I create will be pretty, quite choice in both font and the way it’s set. That being graffiti. Graffiti of a very different kind mind; Twi’ll have one one or more of the following by way of feeling: dismissive, impassive, curious, interested enthused and/or inspired…or downright miffed (being the owner) that your wall’s been disc..dessercra….disrespected. So to each wall a bunch of bricks and to each brick I’ll trick out with a pre-prepared stencil, prepped in the security of safetyville (my co’s art department (sorry boss if you’re snooping)). And to that stencil I’ll bespray with a tone that’ll suit its all too short subject matter – little wordbites. A masked man, his masks, his aerosol. The silence therewith broken in small bursts by the hiss of gas expelling paint. At times broken more sharply by the rattle of marble in tin.

At floor level there’ll be such aphorismic delights as:

Look up, there may be stars. Lost something? Well lose everything, then you’re free to do anything. Be mindful that dogs piss here. Concentrate too much on your vision, you’ll lose your sight.

Plenty of time, this’ll not be one night’s endeavour, too afraid to get caught in the act. Repeat journeys with repeat cans but differing stencils. The bricks above by the way hold thought provoking words that in their majority aren’t mine; those that are, well if they’re not obvious, I’ll be proud of managing to blend with those to who I defer.

Many small time crimes later and a few courses above there’ll be:

––––Don’t let your sorrow cross this line–––. Die on your feet, don’t live on your knees. Keep determination and desperation apart. When the issues build up – cancel your subscription.

And to top it,one can, with one’s can, squirt out these puppies up along the top shelf:

Over this wall be apples. Here is the height of perfection. Tonight this, but come morning I spray on aftershave like the rest. All in all this is just another brick.

 

* Former US Secretary of Defence (Defense)

 

93 Million and One…

It gets cold and frost comes down like glitter over grey
and nights get colder by degrees as our axis tilts away
from the sun
93 Million and one
and just a little nudge could send us into
deep and everlasting winter
but that’s okay

be a little like Christmas everyday…

^ Fab lyrics to a fab tune – let the beat and lyrics of this enchanting song beguile you so.

Ich heiße Superfantastisch…

Saul, soul, sow, sew…so. I was listening to iTunes; the instruction being ‘play all songs shuffled’.
Listening, working, listening more thoughtfully and using the lyrics of the random songs to nudge me into adventurous digression.
Franz Ferdinand were upon my ears beating out ‘their love of words of love, of leisure – those poison darts of pleasure’. The nudge came, I thought about another song; one replete with well thought through words. Not of love nor leisure but certainly a pleasure to absorb – admiration drawn from their construct and quite simply the way they were sung too. Those words were:

In pillbox red I paint my door
A symbol and a signal of the coming war
Invisibly it sweeps the streets, naked in the night
A banshee’s kiss I stitch the wrists and head back to the fight

The bailout bursts my IV drip
Yeah anyone can see we are a sinking ship
The film reel rolls, I can’t go back
I bought my ticket I know it’s a one way track

Time and money, money and time
You love unconditional, that is your crime
Time and money, money and time
You love unconditional, you hold the line

There’s people losing their halos
There’s people forging them too
I keep my head down, I stay low
You tolerate me, I tolerate you too

Time and money, money and time
You love unconditional, that is your crime
Time and money, money and time
You love unconditional, you hold the line

This is a song by the Turin Brakes called Time and Money; one to be listened to and admired I promise.

Now, if you’re still around, get this: As worthy as these, those lyrics above are for one’s  lyric bank—the impetus for pasting them in this blog stemmed from a goose-bump inducing coincidence. Picture me like I mentioned, in headphones listening to Franz Ferdinand and during that episode pondering the Turin Brakes song. I scribbled a mental note to unearth the latter offering from my music library of some 1200+ songs sometime soon and give it some due appreciation. Well; I didn’t have to—plucked absolutely randomly by whatever electronics fizz their merry electrons about my music device was: Time and Money by the Turin Brakes. Did some great power listen to me and shake some musical karma about? Does my device know me better than me and anticipate what I’d fancy next? Did I by thought process alone control my device? No, no and no of course. But pure coincidences when the odds are as long as the one just witnessed—well they’re pure enjoyment too.

Speak…No…

Three glass coins; father coin, mother coin and baby coin are pulled from a wishing well and cast onto a glass table. From the bird’s eye we see a troll,that guards the ‘under-table’, pop its head into view like a squinting mole from a hole. It mumbles moreover rumbles with a deep and incoherent clarity  “Spee Noo”. A hand gathers the coins and casts them across the table anew. The troll mumbles and rumbles again, quite liking the part it’s playing but flustered by its speech impediment.

Stage left no, stage right no, stage sky – YES; Thor in a string vest flexes his biceps and his forearm muscles tighten soon after as the oversized football-ended drumsticks he grasps start to deliberately and measuredly beat themselves onto an equally oversize kettle drum. Slow at first with a pace that steadily intensifies. Animal from the muppets pulls your focus to some other-dimensional corner where he sits on an unseated drum stool and rattles out a cascading riff on an old casio electric drum kit.

An ethereal Martin Fry, voice freshly polished eclipses Animal and slides the instruction ‘Speak’ over his larynx. All eclipsing this sound is too and all graceful it pervades but doesn’t alter the ambience. All matter of fact he sounds to boot. But “No” comes the quick reply–his own reply in a matching tone. The Troll listens itself now and learns these two words “Speak, No“. That’s what it was trying to say it thinks to itself. Martin Fry employs a one-fingered pianist, the pianist plays and pitches high notes, in serial, into the milieu.

So, with the scene now set to agreeable, Martin breaks into stern song, yet there’s that smoothness that stays with his voice. The voice he uses to state his argument in a silky-silvery denial; always denial.

A Jazz club sax player makes a brief appearance from the seventies cigarette vapour that is part his making. Eyes closed, cheeks puffed with air and nicotine he belts out a small solo while the listener Martin; who gave up the listening years ago, listens for a second to himself singing and reminiscing. To decide only to bin the idea for further defiance. Yes defiance.

Defiant, you see – Fry’s in love, he’s so deludedly in love he’s certain it’s forever and as much as he wants to, he can’t sing away the denial.

An interlude perhaps – for him to gather energy me suspects – No good, voices, voices, him, himself, he becomes the TROLL. Animal and Troll then combine with the upskilling pianist who’s quickly growing fingers. It’s an alliance and it’s all for the crescendo, all for the climax, all for ceding to a shared eternity.

Now reader, you can stop here, move quickly on and dismiss this message from a man, a true inhabitant of the pigeon hole you hold that’s dymo taped with the label : Bedlam.

Goodbye.

Or take this key from me and turn it. 

A door opens. There’s a note suspended centrally in a cubed room. It reads: Get the best cans, get yourself free, get 5 minutes, get yourself comfortable. Get the one song: ‘4 Ever 2 Gether by ABC’, get it on.  Close your lids, open your mind and listen.

Get then what I’m on about.

“Every You Every Me”

Sucker love is heaven sent.
You pucker up, our passion’s spent.
My hearts a tart, your body’s rent.
My body’s broken, yours is bent.
Carve your name into my arm.
Instead of stressed, I lie here charmed.

Cause there’s nothing else to do,
Every me and every you.

Sucker love, a box I choose,
No other box I choose to use.
Another love I would abuse,
No circumstances could excuse.
In the shape of things to come.
Too much poison come undone.

Cause there’s nothing else to do,
Every me and every you.
Every me and every you,

Every Me…he

Sucker love is known to swing.
Prone to cling and waste these things.
Pucker up for heavens sake.
There’s never been so much at stake.
I serve my head up on a plate.
It’s only comfort, calling late.

Cause there’s nothing else to do,
Every me and every you.
Every me and every you,

Every Me…he

Every me and every you,

Every Me…he

 Like the naked leads the blind.
I know I’m selfish, I’m unkind.
Sucker love I always find,
Someone to bruise and leave behind.
All alone in space and time.
There’s nothing here but what here’s mine.

Something borrowed, something blue.
Every me and every you.

Every me and every you,

Every Me…he

Every me and every you,

Every Me…he

Welcome to My World – not mine…Gore’s and Gahan’s

Welcome To My World – Martin L. Gore

Welcome to my world
Step right through the door
Leave your tranquilisers at home 
You don’t need them anymore
All the drama queens have gone
And the devil got dismayed
He packed up and fled this town
His master plan delayed

And if you stay a while
I’ll penetrate your soul
I’ll bleed into your dreams
You’ll want to lose control
I’ll weep into your eyes
I’ll make your visions sing
I’ll open endless skies
And ride your broken wings
Welcome to my world
Welcome to my world
Welcome to my world

We’ll watch the sunrise set
And the moon begin to blush
Our naked innocence
Translucently too much
And I’ll hold you in my arms 
And keep you by my side
And we’ll sleep the devil’s sleep
Just to keep him satisfied

 

* cheers for the corrections