Pretty Shoes Start Again

Tripped out angels tried to warn you

Flippin’ out brothers try to call you

You’re alone in the dark

It’s a positive start

Yeah alone in the dark

Is a positive start

Breathing in easy on the conscience

Internal mirrors get along since

You’re alone in the dark

It’s a positive start

Yeah alone in the dark

Is a positive start

 

But there’s no collar to the clothes you wear

You can’t make it on your own, you said

What could Asia do for clover now?

You’re just scattering your bones about

 

All that we’ve been through’s a war boon

Telling the source, yeah I’ll be home soon

Can you miscarry me to a home by the sea?

Could you Miss carry me to our home by the sea?

 

And there’s no ring or kid and two’s a row

If I caught fire would you hose me down?

Only so much that the soul can dare

Hey pretty shoes you’re walking barefoot there.

 

Independence Day

It’s the long wrong way

To the farm bar grill and Tokyo

Think I’ll take a little walk across the line

God, you are an evil man

Seems you wanna make humanity a crime

Gulping from the green latrine

There’s a simple antidote our energies

Purring, like you’ll never feel

 

You’ve got something a do

You’ve got something a do

You’ve got something a do

You’ve got something a do

 

Tootsie’s got a weigh-up on the mind

Bo Bo’s not a clown today

She’s just looking 50 -25

Debbie’s got this life to bear

 

You’ve got something a do

You’ve got something a do

You’ve got something a do

You’ve got something a do

 

Started innocuous a carton of wine

It was the hoopla era had a hell of a time

Now we’re staring at glass at broken glass as our shoes

Falling through pavements

Just an earthquake to boot

Could it get any worse?

You know I’m not gonna lie

So tell me one more untruth

But fuck it, fourth of July.

 

You’ve got something a do

You’ve got something a do

You’ve got something a do

You’ve got something a do

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bucket Lisp

This grey coat

Tell on me

I’m home again

Is it flesh or bone

Looking back

So unforgiven?

Man, I dunno

Certain things

Bout this condition

Building these walls

Took so long

For demolition

 

Racing through the cars in Copenhagen

Ripping up my heart in the petrol station

Wow did I know it was over

 

Finding you whole

Arms and eyes, and recognition

Make it worthwhile

How to say?

The future’s a gibbon

Turn, into the warmth of the sun

When I stray

Go that other way

Bucket, with the list and the scum

Tip ’em into the ground.

 

Racing through the stars in Copenhagen

Tearing out my eyes in the ultimatum

Wow did I know it was over.

 

 

 

 

(There’s probably not a spider in your banana, btw)

Woe, woe, woe, woe, subterfuge

World come crashin’ down today

Why can’t you see that the echo’s explosion

Cuts through the i of your leiderhosen?

You’ll be dead and I’ll be frozen

Turn, back, now.

 

Birds in the trees in the astral knots

Circling me and the gecko’s thoughts

The Polish Armada on an airborne mission

Fits like the spades of the shit you’re pissin’

You’ll be gone and I’ll be missin’

Stun, gun, time.

 

LOL Mr. Freeze from A Winter’s Tale

Thinks cos he’s feared he’s an ultra male

And the amnesty is flailin’ on the old dark mountain

Fire in the hole as the wolves surround him

You’ll be dumb and I’ll be accounting

Five, four, three.

 

To one I know from the hotel days

Games that we played in the crystal maze

Never got around to drinking caipirinhas

Blood lust dressed as a ballerina

You pass sane and I’ll be the dreamer

Mai?, Oh, Mai.

 

Woe, woe, woe, woe, subterfuge

World come crashing down today

Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa subterfuge

World come crashing down today.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Borderline: For flourishing multiculturalism in Britannia

Borderline

It’s been 7 years alone here, wasted

Half the time

Fighting wars inside I’m led

Whatshername?

Sink hole signature in my confusion

Oooh, the blame

Solo tiger watch ’em go.

 

Jonathan

It’s been so long not a whole lot of fun

You’re the one

Who could turn this on its heel

Damage won

Just uneducated hope that madness

Will become

King of all these crooked minds

Beers is fine

We’re all tourists here

There’s no need to fight

Shine a life

On illusions spinning real

Scaled the heights

It’s a miracle we touched down upright

Hail the night

When these borders disappear.

 

Borderline

It’s been too long hanging on here

Wasted.

 

 

Leaf

Bellicose silence, stranger and known, recharging slowly, slowness in nowhere, perched on a seat facing backward on a bus. Lately taken to crossing off ticks, no more crosswords, real sunglasses, soft blue cotton on unlitigant knees. Steps and stares, an empty anguish, vulnerable it seems to nonsense remarked, susceptible, to non-ideology: Blue suit jacket and blank new attachment, accounts from the boom, woven and spun, each the other the other its own, intrinsic webs, patterning inward. It’s about to rain. And as one remembers another asunder, we were just two leaves, fallen on one another, stuck by that rain and frozen by the season. And now you see it was perfect weather, to hold and to stay, to evade decomposition, if only for a while.

The CEO of your own company, for what it’s worth, akin to being on this bus, in a foreign country in peacetime. The old modern bus, full of comrades, men conscripted to the task of maintaining peace – like cats like fish – and everyone on the bus has a love letter romance, a guy, waiting, like it’s Dallas, ’63. But you don’t know anyone, and you’re no soldier, and nobody is waiting, and home is a broken mirror. You’ve become the CEO of your own company, that jokey wine conversation about our sexual organs, the picture from your movie in Paris on a mattress, the feeling, as the power cuts out, like it often does in the Himalaya. Your guide, the sub conscious, waves and palms. And you forget to pretend the interactions are transactions.

Afterlife

She had been gone eight years, almost to the day. We didn’t fear the worst anymore, we knew it and we felt it, even in our constant numbness, in the faint and hollow beating in our chests. She wasn’t coming back.

It was a weekday, and early winter had already turned a novelty into an ordeal. Gloves and scarves were now an unwelcome hindrance. The car’s engine spluttered to a start at the expense of the antifreeze, the chamois pads, and of course the fuel, which now burned in direct contrast with the apparent value its weekday destination. But it kept us going, it paid the bills and we could watch movies together and walk the mall at weekends, buy the odd t-shirt he seemed content with while his peers paraded their new gadgets. He was good like that. We’d been told back in therapy such a kind reticence may be part and parcel of the loss. Or it could go the other way. We were told to be careful and caring, for although we weren’t everything to each other, we were the most important things, things we should be able to trust and find strength in.

I noticed him watch a young couple walking hand-in-hand through his passenger seat window. My front teeth bit into the light stubble below my bottom lip as we waited for the light to change to green. The avenue trees, naked and skeletal, looked out at the world with frozen disinterest, while the cloud cluttered sky at the end of a tunnel of roads and buildings seemed withdrawn into its own kind of seasonal apathy. He sensed me watching him watch them and turned his eyes to meet my own. He knew. A horn blast from behind jolted us both back to quick life: the light, the rear mirror, gas, movement, gear, gas, automatic movements, passing people, passing cars, people, cars and destinations.

In the dream she walked towards us in a brilliant-white, knee-length cotton dress, her long brown hair glistening like a commercial. A shining smile matched her serene blue eyes as she took unhurried and graceful steps forward. I glanced down at him transfixed with her, his red snowman hat, his gloved hand connected to my own. The airport was busy with business people, holidaymakers; people drinking coffee in front of small digital screens, groups drinking beer and talking with the excited anticipation of elsewhere. The morning sunshine began to creep its way in through the constant window looking out over parked airplanes.

He walked past the kids playing soccer and straight in through the glass double doors. Where he went and what he did from there I’d never really known. He didn’t like to talk too much about school and my only information were the words studious, conscientious, and thoughtful which often came up at parents’ meetings before or after a ‘but’ about his less than scholarly grades. They knew he hadn’t moved on and at times I could feel them thinking this was because I too hadn’t moved on. Perhaps if I was able to date someone, remarry, this would fill the void somehow. But the truth was I felt nothing towards other women, I had nothing to give and nothing to receive. It would only be strangers, empty handed under a Christmas tree with no lights, and no mistletoe.

Gloria blinked and smiled as she handed over the Lubrix file and I thanked her in return. I knew what they were thinking: Isn’t it such a shame? He’s so nice but so damaged. And it’s been so long but he just can’t seem to get over it. People didn’t look at me, eyes crept cautiously upon me. Talk was never natural, talk was contrived and overenthusiastic. Work itself was in one way pacifying, in its distraction and its distaste for the procrastination I employed in all other parts of life. It kept me busy. But sometimes, often, as I sat there, at my desk, in my cube, I saw only the lies. I heard only secret lies which believed in themselves. I watched only deceit flow through every word and every action and reaction. At those times I knew full well that if he wasn’t around then neither would I be.

He passed me the salt and I noticed tears welling up in his eyes. It had been a while now but we both knew it was coming. I’d thought of taking the calendar down, planning activities, something to avoid the inevitable. I’d thought. His face began to tremble and he pushed back his chair to get up and leave the table. I grasped hold of his arm as he sunk and shook his head in shame, tiny tear droplets now falling from his nose to the floor. I pulled him towards me and he stood upright with his other arm loose and ragged by his side, his nose rested on my chest. I had no words for him at that point, only my chest and my hand. He sniffled in short bursts and exhaled sadness and worry and incomprehension through quiet, intermittent whistling. After a minute or so his breathing began to steady and silence. With one last deep breath he released his hand from mine and turned to take his seat back at the table. I looked down at my plate and him at his.

The impossible world was my most prevalent thought and the one I fell asleep to that night. I could believe in death only as much as I believed in life. I could believe in light years of darkness only as much as I believed in our own gravitational isolation. And I could believe in God only as much as I believed in nothing. But it was nothing I believed in, nothing beyond him and his journey and the fear that I felt for his path. As I closed my eyes the dead past in my mind selected a memory of a tractor ride on a summer trip a year before it happened; and then of the first night whispers, those perfect whispers which now howled through my black inner universe. And then an abstract picture of two people: speeding excitement and lights lulled abruptly to a slow dance and the end of an old song and then doors locking shut and then the photograph again. The photograph, the one I couldn’t face, presented itself to me in a grand frame in the empty ballroom of a huge palace. The precious burning photograph again and again.

In the dream she raised his hat and pressed her lips to his forehead. He didn’t know who she was but he knew something was right. She pulled him tight to her chest and whispered the words into his ear. She stood and turned her gaze to me. She was young again. It was the first time we had met. She looked at me with that same knowing coyness, that fated moment of unavoidable truth and future. Our paths had crossed and the path ahead was only one. We knew it, right there and then. He looked up at her first and then across to me, and we broke our moment, her and I, we already knew, and we both looked down at him. His was a smile at first, then a grin and then laughter, tickling laughter the kind you have no option but to laugh along with. And so we laughed, the three of us, as people hurried by checking their watches and glancing at numbers on giant screens. The sun had crawled across the floor and found us, lighting up the space and the morning with the promise of something intangible, something so specific that words or actions have no power to describe it. She motioned to us that it was time to go. The three of us, without words, as a camera on the roof caught our image, the three of us, walking hand-in-hand-in-hand, destined for the morning sky.

She had been gone eight years, almost to the day. She had no regrets; she had known all along that the decision was final. Even in her fractured delusions of loss, in the distant and shallow cravings which sometimes seemed as blistering and audacious as emotion, she knew that she would never be going back. He called her from the balcony and she turned to see him standing with a bottle of red wine held aloft. The waves rolled  gently in, one after another. The water began to kiss her toes as she sat on the sand with her knees pulled up to her chest, staring intently out at the darkness, fascinated by the void.