Monday 29 October 2012

Wheeze

Without a sigh, or mournful speech, you left
me drowning, pickled with sweetest drink,
fallen, wheezing evaporating breath.
I'm familiar with that terminal rest;
you don't need to hope, or to heal, or think.
Without a sigh, or mournful speech, you left.
I lodge on a friend's couch, totally wrecked,
survivor of this damned horrific stink
fallen, wheezing evaporating breath.
Those who ripped me from their brains in wrath
send me no hate-mail penned with anthrax ink;
without a sigh, or mournful speech, you left.
And those gone, dependent on lines of meth,
I sympathise with the way that you think;
fallen, wheezing evaporating breath.
But you who left me for the whims of death,
who knew that booze could be such a foul jinx?
Without a sigh, or mournful speech, you left,
fallen, wheezing evaporated breath.

Thursday 25 October 2012

Time To Split


Here's a pop song about Borderline Personality Disorder. I'll get a recording up soon.  


Her mood is a swinger's club and it's closing time
closing time, closing time, closing time
Drunks extend their feeding tubes to suck my mind,
suck my mind, suck my mind, suck my mind
She's bipolar and I'm borderline
borderline borderline borderline
She's bipolar and I'm borderline
borderline borderline

Time to split
Time to split
Split you down the middle
Time to split
Time to split
Take a swing at me
Take a swing at me

Tour pain is clearly no pretence, my troubled quine
troubled quine, troubled quine, troubled quine
Anger is your coping habit; drink is mine
drink is mine, drink is mine, drink is mine
You're so pretty I'd cross your borderline
borderline borderline borderline
You're so pretty I'd cross your borderline
borderline borderline

Time to split
Time to split
Split you down the middle
Time to split
Time to split
Take a swing at me
Take a swing at me


Drunken Poem

Drunken Poem

gleaming shards form
polished lines upon sheets sewn
with hazy mist
dark raingathers
awaiting purpose:
the tumult
slashes, flows
slips the realisation.
the storm
blasts apart humanity
denying their grip on meaning
like a confused kid
with a razor blade
praying to the deity
for creation's end

Friday 12 October 2012

Speyicide

I first sang this song at fourteen years old
Skipping class, to free my head, and walking home alone
Stood upon the bridge of Spey, imagined how I'd drown
I wanted free of life and pain, so I wrote this down:

I want to get fucked and jump in the Spey
I want to get fucked and be dragged away
I want to get fucked and float to the moon
I want to get fucked and drown in the monsoon
But dying would solve nothing
So I might as well just live
The world is my afterlife
Life is my abyss

Felt my life was worth nothing, and wanted it stopped
Was a cog turning in an - unintelligible clock
Wished I could escape to a realm beyond my breath
Though I hadn't realised what it meant to accept death

I want to get fucked and jump in the Spey
I want to get fucked and be dragged away
I want to get fucked and float to the moon
I want to get fucked and drown in the monsoon
But dying would solve nothing
So I might as well just live
The world is my afterlife
Life is my abyss
But dying would solve nothing
So I might as well just live
The world is my afterlife
Life is my abyss

Now I'm old, cantankerous, broken, shredded, torn
When I've truly wished for death, I don't regret being born
And all that remains of my nihilistic teenage gloom
Is a fourteen year old little me, trapped in that catchy tune

I want to get fucked and jump in the Spey
I want to get fucked and be dragged away
I want to get fucked and float to the moon
I want to get fucked and drown in the monsoon
But dying would solve nothing
So I might as well just live
The world is my afterlife
Life is my abyss
But dying would solve nothing
So I might as well just live
The world is my afterlife
Life is my abyss

Thursday 11 October 2012

1000 Moravian Nights: Crazy Tim And The Teenagers

Crazy Tim strummed his banjo beneath the monkey-puzzle trees that crowded around his crumbling home. As the romantic bards saw nature through rose-glass, Tim saw the world under the influence of whisky. Drunken and clothed in a state of crust, he sat on the old porch, casting arpeggios from his finger tips into the soundscape of the night; the rolling of corn under the spell of the breeze; a breeze that drew a groan from the stiff branches of those ancient trees that were his only audience.


Tim was born with the random forces in the world infused into his fate. He was never a drifter; he was a water-skater. He trod upon the system with step so light that the serious people of the county never once felt him. He was a ghost, a poet, a tramp, and a petrol thief.
Just as the sophisticates flock to theatre, and as the punks stand in lines before wailing overdriven noise, there was to be live audience for Tim’s nocturnal show. Indeed, it would be the only possible audience that could empathise with the irreverent Tim: three lost teenagers, darkest fear within them, galloped like panicked beasts through the pine wood surrounding Tim’s cabin. When they came to beat their steps over the gravel of Tim’s drive, they splashed those stones around, like salmon frantically dashing upstream on their pre-ordained flight.
As he heard the pummelling of boots, a suspicion formed in Tim’s mind. He laid down his banjo, poured a shot of whisky, and stood to address the interlopers.
“Damn crazy drunk bastards! I’ve a machine-gun that’ll shoot fists at your balls!”
At the very moment he finished with speech, those three troubled kids each skidded out from the darkness, and landed heaped in the orange light that streamed through the open door. Tim appeared to them in silhouetted form; his bedraggled dressing gown looked a robe of authority, signifying command in this peculiar realm. He downed the whisky shot and eyed the newcomers with a wary eye.
“Are you the feds?” asked Tim.
“Oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god”, mumbled one of those teenagers, a girl in a hoodie that was decorated with blasphemous and bloody design. She lay trapped by the others at the bottom of the heap, limbs awkwardly spread over the dirt.
“Shit, are you alright, lady? Say, do you like whisky?”
“Help us!” the teenagers implored in unison.
“Why, whatever could be the matter, on such a beautiful evening as this?” enquired Tim, gesturing around at the darkness, and his ramshackle home.
The girl swore and then pushed the other two off her. They each wobbled to their feet; one was another girl who picked a battered trilby from the ground. The other was a boy, who dusted muck from his tracksuit. “We’ve been chased!” explained the girl.
“Chased? By what?”
The three spoke at once.
“Badgers!” shouted the mosher in the hoodie.
“Aliens!” shouted the boy in the white trackies.
“The police!” shouted the other girl with the hat and the tweed coat.
Tim dropped to his chair heavily, in clear shock. His expression was grave, and still he held the empty glass, forgotten in his hand.
“Are you alright?” asked the mosher, stuttering a little.
Tim placed down his glass with an air of one leaving the bar. When he spoke it was in a sombre tone. He faced the girl and said, “Tell me about the badger.”
And so the mosher girl began her tale.

The Tale of Two Badgers

“We were walking together when we saw these two bright lights ahead of us. Then I realised they were eyes. They looked really big and scary so I thought it must have been a badger. I heard badgers were really dangerous.”
“They assuredly are”, confided Tim with a conspiratorial quietness to his voice. “A badger can take a grown woman’s leg right off. What's your name?”
“I'm Sez. Yeah, so we ran”, she continued, “We just ran until we came here.”
“I think that was a very wise choice,” Tim observed. “I had a nasty encounter with a badger myself, and I can tell you that everything you’ve heard about them is true.”
“Really, what happened?” inquired Sez. She looked around, a little afraid that another beast would appear from the gloom; yet her attention was transfixed as Tim began his story:
“Back in the day, at school, I played with this cover band. We used to practise over at Ballsy’s house on the way to Garmouth. Well, we played in his garage, with the door right wide open. That was our first mistake. You see, badgers are attracted to noise, because where there’s noise there are always people, and people are a badger’s natural prey.
So after a while of playing the same song over and over, we had a break. I smoked a joint and then other guys just talked, when suddenly we heard this rustling down the embankment. This is where we made our really big mistake. We didn’t appreciate just how evil badgers are. We took our lives for granted and I paid for it. We snuck over to where we hear could better, and waited in grim silence for a glimpse of the creature.
After a while of listening and waiting, we heard a twig snap. Our senses came flashing back, and we ran the hell away. However, there just so happened to be a tree right behind me. So when I turned to run, I found myself tangled in branches. I snagged my wrist on one before I could free myself. I escaped in good time, and ran back into the house. But blood was pouring from me, so I had to get a bandage fast. Luckily, Ballsy’s older sister Cat was at home. She got out some medical gauze and antiseptic and cleaned the wound.
By this time, the other guys figured the badger had passed, so they went outside to practise some more. Meanwhile Cat was tying up my arm. I had a crush on her, and well, when she was done tying up my arm, I just asked her for a kiss. It was my first, and I swear I was completely lost within the sensation. Indeed I never heard the band had stopped playing. The first I knew was Ballsy standing in the door. He just said ‘What the fuck!’
Cat ran out embarrassed and Ballsy just walked off. I found the guys outside. They managed to get the song really tight without me. They said it was my fault that we couldn’t nail it when we tried before. They actually looked pretty sad, but still, they asked me to leave the band.
I never saw Cat again. And on that day, Sez, I lost a friend, my band, and a lot of blood; all because of that evil fucking badger. Yet I only heard the badger; you’ve seen one, Sez, and I think you’re lucky to be alive.”
With his tale at an end, he refilled his glass, and sipped, reflecting on the desperate episode. The three teenagers each swore they would always be wary for badgers, and would never risk their lives to seek one out.
“But we didn’t run from a fucking badger!” protested the boy in the white track-suit. He began speaking faster. “Swear, dude, it was aliens. They were just sitting there in a spaceship cloaked in smoke, making weird fucking bleeping noises. But the real reason I knew it was aliens is because I just felt this massive fear, like when aliens mess with your brain.”
“You are a reject, Chiz,” spat the girl in tweed. “There is no such thing as aliens. That was a police car. I can’t believe we had to run just because you like taking drugs.”
Chiz, coughed a greener before retorting, “No Megan, it’s fucking aliens. End of.”
“Simmer doon, everybody,” said Tim with the prim expression of a school-teacher upon his face. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there were aliens and police in the woods together.”

Dougie, the Police, and the Extraterrestrials

“Last time my pal Dougie was over, we had a bit of a situation. I was basically holding on to several kees of hash for him. Anyway, he sped into the driveway hoorna fast, jumped out and said “The fucking cops are coming.”
We knew they have dogs, so we couldn’t just hide it outside. We didn’t want to burn it either. So we were standing out here, smoking a joint and thinking what we could do. All of a sudden Dougie says “the fuck is that”, and points towards a star. It glowed all bright, and then came straight overhead.
It was definitely aliens, because that’s when we both got the idea. The aliens sent us the light as a message, telling us to hide the shit in the light fittings. So I just took out the lights, bunged all the fucking hash up there, while Dougie cooked up a bunch of bacon and sausages to cover the smell.
Anyway, after a while, the cops turned up. They were real pricks. The dogs went mental because they could smell the hash, but the cops couldn’t find it anywhere. They turned the whole place around, but never checked the lights. In the end they apologised and left, so we ate a bunch of bacon and smoked a massive joint. It was awesome.
Basically, cops are stupid, and aliens want us to smoke pot. So dinnae worry about it.”
The three teenagers each agreed that wouldn’t worry about the police, or aliens, any longer. However, the initial dispute had still not been resolved. Each still held their original opinion of what they had seen. The argument could have continued until the whisky dried. But their debate was cut off as the soundscape of the evening was ripped apart again, as an engine roared from afar. In the forest it echoed, booming like thunder, as if the spirit of life was rushing toward them. The darkness was shot apart by headlights, before the car halted with an ostentatious power slide. The engine shut down, its tumult succeeded by pumping techno.
“Oh aye, that’s Dougie now,” said Tim, who stood to greet his friend.
As Dougie stepped from his vehicle, he was followed by a vast outpouring cloud of smoke. As he trod toward the cabin, the others saw that blood had drained from his face. His steps were a little uneven; he faltered as in shock.
“Holy fuck,” he began eloquently, “Holy fuck. I just saw three aliens in the woods.”
“Fucking bat-balls, kids!” Tim shouted, “It was a spaceship!” He collapsed into the chair, and poured another dram.

Thursday 4 October 2012

A Ballad For Clunge


Oh ladies, why won't you show me,
Show me, oh why why why why!
Perhaps a ballad could persuade your kind,
And my voice; warm, Scottish, and niiiiice.

Lady, I'm highly desirable;
I'm clean-shaven and tall,
I sing for you with all I'm able
It is for you that I bawl.

Lady, I write what is true:
I am no fan of grunge.
I sing about something close to you, yes,
All my songs are about clunge.

So why won't you show me,
Show me, oh me,
Show me your clunge later on.
Show me your clunge, show me your clunge,
So I may eat it like a blancmange.

Lady, I'm a poet; deeply serious,
Unlike those of dubious merit,
You can tell by my carefully chosen rhymes, plus,
the style of my beret.

Lady, I'm a singer/songwriter,
And so I must spray you with cum,
Doing so oils my faculties,
Just like lube in your bum.

So why won't you show me,
Show me, why me,
Why me, show me, why why why why?
Clunge, show me clunge,
Clunge clunge clunge clunge.
Why won't you show me your clunge
Lady, why?