Hello there! It’s been a while. Some years in fact. And today, I’m just here to say that I’ve written, recorded, produced, mixed and mastered by first album in 4 years, Stop Time. It is out on my bandcamp page on 1st March and everywhere else on March 4th. You can pre-order it now at Bandcamp.
The album launch is on Saturday March 2nd at Spielman Theatre, part of the Tobacco Factory theatre complex on North Street in Bristol. Tickets for it are available here.
But I’m really here to deliver to you, in the only place they’ll be put online, the lyrics to the album. This is where you get to read my heart and soul that I poured into this effort. Here, and only here. Enjoy!
Stop Time
Practising the laugh you love best
I’ve come apart in this love nest
Everything stops, we’re undressed
We’ve never done less
Time pressures. Precious time. Stopped.
Brought to a halt with a line, dot,
Electric shock. Touch: the blind plot.
Free of all thought, turning my mind off.
Your approval is addictive.
Too stricken to move as if I’m bricked in.
Love sick. Too sick with
Longing, belonging, all mixed in.
That anxious mess you see is me. Kind of Dad, you’ll guess what he could be.
But imagine, frozen, free, at ease
Turning up with a posey of peonies.
Out in the wild. Effortless.
With a smile, in your pretty dress.
Locked the sun dial as you effervesce.
No limit to your pleasantness.
So much ‘osis. So many ‘oses.
Hopeless, like Don Quixote.
You put a nail in the coffin of the ghosties.
Since gone one oh three.
I can’t handle it but i can’t get enough of it.
Love, when it’s bad, is painful.
Love, when it’s good, is painful. Employment gainful.
‘Cause it reminds the existence of time.
Passing slowly, a visceral grind.
I dread everything. I dread things that are enjoyable. Have i become dread?
‘Cause it feels like the best i can do to avoid a full panic is be numb as the undead.
Give me anti drugs, drip feed me. The book’s so open, please don’t misread me.
I want everything that’ll appease me.
How do you make it look so easy?
And you just do you, with no hands
On the clock. No sinister plot and no plans.
Ambling through your daily programme
And this shambles is apparently a grown man?
Can’t handle it. Where are this bull’s horns?
Where’s the till? No control, I’m full bore.
Reduced to grabbing at metaphor straws.
Feel like a nerve in its full form.
Chronomentrophobia.
Because time, when it stops, paralysis.
You’re gone, I’m meant to cope here.
With burgeoning psychoanalysis.
Clever Girl
I see you working at your art ’cause you don’t want babies
and your boyfriend’s lazy, and calls you crazy
He seems terrified of your wild side.
Wants a Marge and Homer, not a Bonnie and Clyde
but see the moves you’re making, the truth you’re facing
has got his lip quaking and I’m not piss taking.
You like his dog, but it’s a slog
when he mopes, no hopes, you’re a clever clogs, Clever Guuurl!
I think I know. I’m not certain though
why you do all the things in one go
because you want to plan but on your Instagram,
your brain reads fame feeds from these Peter Pans
that say you need this tuck, you’re down on your luck
Diet, pay and pluck, or, you’ll get stuck
with just that head, full of your dreams and dreads
but you put down your phone and wrote an album instead! You’re a Clever Girl!
Now, you’re the biggest brain, so, like, articulate
But they don’t give you power, they just give you certificates
’cause they feel intimidated. They have not made it.
You like to study with your buddies and they can’t denigrate it
and I can tell you’re composed when you walk in the nook.
Walking round with your nose cold stuck in a book.
Always sinning, in the beginning, know there was a big bang.
You know why and raise an eye at a religious cliff-hanger, a clever girl!
Now, your healthy sex drive you’d like to keep
but you could never be called shallow ’cause you are too deep.
None of the guys call you clever but the girls can see
Your acumen, more than friends, they say: let’s be.
So you’re giving that a try with a drink on the side.
That’s something in your way your willpower denies.
When it comes to love, emotionally mature.
You’re really, really clever and you know it for sure, you’re a clever girl!
I hope you listen to yourself, when you doubt.
You’ve got resources in forces when your demons come out.
You don’t need none of that. You’re a stone cold fox
and when it comes to thinking outside? You built the box, yo..
What would I know? My loaf’s a crumb,
I’m just dumb, diddy dumb, diddy diddy, dumb dumb!
Letter from the Sand
Dear Chew, it’s peaceful here.
All the sounds are muffled, nobody’s speech is clear.
You know I’ve always liked bass, well that’s all I’ve got
and wouldn’t trade it for the world, it’s like I’ve fallen right off.
Of course I don’t think it’s flat, but I haven’t traversed
the whole map and never seen it from the universe.
All I know right now is that debate is muted
and I’m feeling pretty free from the age of stupid.
How’s Greta doing? You know, I felt like her at her age.
I think about her purging her courageous tirade
I don’t hear it. Think I heard a JCB the other day
erasing trees or something, mate, if they’d seen me recovered…
Well, I wouldn’t have this peace. I’d be back to dipping my toes in well-established creeks
Was that a tweet? I wouldn’t know. No matter though.
Down here, no paddle for the creek is meaningless, I couldn’t row
if I wanted to. This letter’s an invite.
Join me Chew, my oily shoes reflect your now-dim light.
Your bills are rising – Isn’t it time to jettison your plans?
Bring a shovel. This is a letter from the sand.
It’s like I’m doped up. Out there, it’s hopeless.
I tried to help but they won’t budge.
No time for hope cous’
It’s the most you can do not to go nuts!
(Chew) To be honest Mike, I think that Greta’s doing great.
Seeing people her age fighting everything you hate.
It gives us hope inside this life we thought we never would escape.
Like you, you’ve got a job to do, these heavens they can wait.
That’s why I’m fighting for the right thing, finding it exciting.
I hate it when they lie. That’s why I’m striking ’em with lightning.
Like hate’s too strong of a word…! The only tweet I’ve ever listened to’s the song of a bird.
I said I’m fed up of the fibs. I’ll tell ’em how it is.
Life’ll take a lot more than it’s ever gonna give.
We’re grafting every day. We’re scraping pennies up to live
while we got people out in Ukraine and they’re burying their kids.
I’ll never understand. I lost everything I planned.
The bills are going up but not by pennies but by grands.
I’m sick of our past and all the pressure and demands
You best flip your hourglass and check your letter from the sand
It’s like I’m doped up. Out there, it’s hopeless.
I tried to help but they won’t budge.
No time for hope cous’
It’s the most you can do not to go nuts!
(Mike) Woah, hey, he said take two of these?
If my head wasn’t here, I’d still be on my knees.
Down here, anaesthetised, the future’s hard to see
It’s mindfulness, complete with peace of mind.
I’ve got no piece of pie and no seek for reasons why.
It’s ground zero. I could be white, black, brown, peach, albino.
I could be Attenborough, Cox, Anand, Lupe, Fox.
Up there, you only see me pronate and my grey tube socks
While I’m plotting something big – trust me.
Never seen before in this country, trust me
Ay! Oh, of course, the floor’s my only listener
Fearing the apocalypse, I took myself prisoner
And, Chew, I’ll take a visitor. Glad Greta’s still at it.
I can be what I want here but it’s getting old fast.
Head in the sand, there’s no weapons of mass
But no compassion means I’m nothing – and anything is better than that.
(Chew) Hey Mike
It’s been a while since we spoke and had a long chat
They had me on the meds again and I still.aint got my job back
We lost alot of people who were hoping for some contact
While matt hancock was out there joking on his whatsapp
They been saying that he’s fed up of the slander
It’s all up on the front page you can smell the propaganda
They been saying we will never get an answer
If they seek asylum then they’ll send em to Rwanda
But I believe in the best of mankind
And yeah were living in then extra mad times
How were living is crazy It’s got me thinking it’s Shady we got them kids on a daily losing their legs to landmines
This thing It’s been killing me
Thinking it subliminally
Live within the misery
Inked in with the wizardry
And their saying that I’ve lost a screw
You got a problem with the homeless then the problem’s you.
Not Doing It
He’s over there not hoeing your weeds, ho!
His mate’s barely even touched your grass
He’s in the kitchen, throwing carbs in your keto
and the bus driver just went flying right past
Running to catch up, ’cause she’s not stopping
and he’s sat there, not helping bag up your shopping.
You’re not entering data – and she didn’t twig
and I’m over here not teaching your kids!
She’s over there, not questioning suspects.
He’s in the stock room, having a smoke.
Your attitude’s a doozy but your effort is much less.
Look at all these happy underachieving folk.
Working smart, but somehow the world keeps spinning
though gravity’s on its way to a surf on a beach, winning
and she’s not making your latte
Oh, excuse me? Did you have something to say? I’m not…
Des in the sound booth, twiddling thumbs.
If the guitarist doesn’t turn down, he’s down to his fingers.
Jess is in the green room, pickled with rum.
An empty stage – the crowd outside lingers.
Laur is in the ticket office, scrolling on Tik Tok.
Unanswered emails ask if the gig is hip hop.
Everyone that’s ticked off doesn’t reply.
If she needed an excuse, it’s ’cause she’s stuck with the guys
and watch the customer services op put you on hold
to get a cuppa. Watch the mechanic stare at your car.
Am I saying this to make us all club together?
No! Celebrate the councillor’s empty chair at the bar.
I could say the mechanic’s forlorn from his missed therapy
or the customer service op was short one coffee.
Maybe Des is pissed ’cause with those thumbs, he’ll never be a player
or your mouse broke, so you couldn’t copy your data
but the truth is better: I could claim
I’m not teaching your kids ’cause of phantom foot pain
But you’re over there, like, hitting your bong..
and I’m over here, not finishing songs, I’m not…
She’s sat there, not recording your band
Your wedding planner spaced and didn’t see the flaws in your plan
Oh good, the traffic warden didn’t audit your van
He didn’t even maraud, he was caught in a sort of a jam.
The court didn’t mand a drunken disorderly ban,
see back in Autumn, he apportioned blame to Gordon Fitz Stanley
She’s not thought of a plan B. He’s not sorting through laundry
and all the family’s not on hand in the gantry.
Immanuel Kant, he said: to be is to do.
Well, he’s not doing it now! Not pricking ears anew.
I’m not joking though – this album took me years to do
and these are my last words to strike the fear in you.
If we’re not doing it, then the machines are a shoe-in
and those might be the only shoes that you grew in.
So you’d better think of something you can do ad nauseam
and get to doing it before you end in the mausoleum
What Did You Do?
Tell me your secret. Is it a cream?
Is it a business acquisition that has you living this dream?
Is there a message in a bottle you sent back in a hot tub?
“Mum and Dad, you should really honeymoon in Bognor”
And when they got it, no doubt spooked and shaken,
did they put off arrangements made by their travel agent?
Turkey can wait, they thought, maybe? Help make this more clear:
What did you do to be born here?
Are you a medium? The time-space continuum
quivers in your promethean presence. If I bring you a map,
can you make me born where I put a pin?
If not, why not? Are your gifts just for him?
Teach me man. I always thought I was 6 foot. I’m not.
If you make me Norwegian, well I just might have a shot.
Hmm, I don’t think it was your attitude. No fear.
What did you do to be born here?
Did you promise a God? What was in it for them?
How did you find this deity with five minutes to spend
helping you out? Is he local? Got the website?
Says here: UK only… hold on, have I read right?
Wouldn’t you have had to be born to be applying to…no.
That can’t be what you did. Look, you’re lying I know.
You weren’t entitled to this gift. Someone must’ve been bought beer.
What did you do to be born here?
Won’t you let me in? I know at least a couple
People struggling to see the subtleties, you make it so reasonable!
Was it a raffle? A lottery ticket? I’m baffled.
How could you affect your nationality before your nappies?
If you can spell it out, I’ve decided you must
Tell me all about it on the side of a bus.
If that was a fat porky, your back story is portlier.
What did you do to be born here?
Wait a minute. What did I do?
Racking my brains. It must’ve been someone I knew
who put me on to this gravy train, told me: relax!
The buffet car has a very wide selection of snacks
sourced from all around the globe.
Well, it could’ve been Pete?
He’s always seemed capable of supernatural feats.
I’ve got to thank him when I see him. Think he’s over in Kor-ea.
He helped me out getting me born here.
You didn’t play a part.
You’re up on glaring luck.
You had no say preparing where and what your parents fucked.
Your putrid, privileged take is basically raw fear.
You didn’t do shit to be born here.
What did they do to be born there?
(Kieron) Move along, move along, there’s nothing to see here.
Just people born somewhere else that you don’t want to be here.
You’re like “It’s nowt to do with me. It’s not my job to care.
I just focus on what’s is happening to me here, yeah?”
You’re impassive to the people who are perishing afar,
or burdening the pain and the deepest of scars.
From bullets, bombs, guns, shells and ammunitions,
That were patented, produced and peddled in Britain.
Is it right, think or listen, is it humane or fair?
That, thanks to our bombs, that it’s war torn there?
You see, the suffering of innocents, is not cool, yeah?
So what did THEY do to be born THERE?
Did they reach out from the abyss, before they existed,
insisting it give to them a troubled existence?
Did they want to be tested, and no-one objected,
So the universe gave them the harshest of lessons?
Did they ask to bombed, ‘cause it might make them strong,
in the limbs that were left when the others were gone?
Or to sift for their siblings, through fragments of buildings,
‘cause grief was a thing they thought character building?
Did they ask for displacement, from their homes and their life,
‘cause a trip on a treacherous boat might be nice?
And get labelled and coded, as rats and cockroaches,
when their boats overturned in the roughest of oceans?
Did they think it romantic to be lost at sea?
and finish-up face-down washed-up on a beach?
And captured on cameras by fat paperazzers?
And pasted on papers by sick fascist bastards.
Did they want for encampments, ‘cause they’re partial to camping?
And starving and freezing and being treated like vermin?
No, they didn’t, and that’s simply it.
What did they do: Jack diddly shit.
Purply Blue
I’m so in love it’s fucking sickening. I don’t eat.
Our PDAs are making people puke in the street
and my beats are starting to sound like an M People medley.
I’m ’bout to sick up in your ear but don’t worry, I’ll do it gently
if you want me to, and when she talks, I just melt.
I’ve done so many situps, put a new hole in my belt.
Full pelt. Swear I used to care about other things.
Now I’m scouring family trees, trying to recover rings.
Easy now! But I’m so love it’s disgusting. It’s bleeding right out of me.
Friends don’t recognise this guy who’s so proud to be
a simpering, gushing, bashful, numbskull simpleton
with a smile like a taxidermied winner of Wimbledon.
I’m buying clothes, I’m buying chocolates, buying flowers.
We’re sharing clothes. We’re sharing chocolates, sharing showers.
Most affectionate of gifts admist the hullaballoo
and, when I stepped to the florist,
I said: what colour? She said purply blue
That was the colour she wanted so that’s what she’s gonna get.
Grandiose romantic gestures, you have seen nothing yet.
The home sec spots a dive in the South West commerce
’cause the whole of Bristol just took out a restraining order from us
Now, as we move into red, I yell “oh! Orange you glad to see me?”
and the whole room groans, mauve, and that’s just peachy
’cause at last, we’ve got some space and I’m not green around the gills.
I’ll paint the town a deep claret so they can’t see the boundless thrills
that we’re rubbing in their faces, graceless, nothing replaces you.
For us, it’s elation. For witnesses, love is irritation
and their patience is running thin. That’s so far from a care.
My fingers part your hair as this guy barfs on a chair.
They’re praying for the bubble to burst. Half the voyeurs are British.
I can say it another way: schadenfreuder permitted.
Well, fuck you guys! Her and I are the lovers.
I went to the front bit of Tesco and I said “what colour?” She said…
A Day in the Life of a Railing
Today, I rusted a little more.
My cast iron frame just did a little yawn.
As a sycamore seed span and settled on my bald head
and the sunset warmed my leg, see, when all’s said
I don’t do much. You could say I’m trapped.
But there are worse places to be just that.
See, I overlook a shallow stream in a city park.
I’m not alone. We’re a team. Not a bit apart.
Fused. In some cases, welded, silvery.
I’m a little worse for wear but I’m still complete.
And my brothers and sisters hold me up straight.
Few on the down and some on what we call the up-gate.
Where the elements seem much harsher
and the children get to slamming as they lash through with laughter
and it shakes us all, to our very metal core.
That drone is our groan – for you, a merry metaphor.
Slender, I stay in shape, I’m well built.
Some of my family smelted down for sword hilt.
There’s not many of me left – this constitution.
I’ve seen the atmosphere change. I knew pre-pollution.
You wouldn’t know the world before, but as I stood.
My convex crest, stationary, forming my hood.
It all changed. Like it had taken advice
but today, all you’re getting is a day in my life.
4.50am, all is still. Then a man who staggers’ hands and his blue bag of cans are clutching me.
I pay it no mind. Just as soon as he lands, his new happenstance is abruptly sleep.
He lets go as the day breaks.
I’m cold. The sunshine makes lakes
of golden light in the stream. It’s now 6ish.
Early dog-walkers tut at Blue Bags’ midriff.
Sniff, sniff, from a spaniel though, he’s up and away
and we’re alone again, standing up straight for the day.
Now the joggers. They look so angry.
Music blaring. Zooming past me and my family.
I don’t get it. They should slow down. Look around.
This is one of the nicest spots in town – so I’ve heard.
But I’m a permanent feature here.
Put in the earth before the burgers and pizzeria
on Main Street. But what would I know?
In the afternoon, quick cricket players will show up
and the pitch thickens with kids’ kickabouts, it’s rich pickings
for a people watcher, sits stiff and lifeless,
seemingly. Uniform – I’m the definition.
They put me and my folks in the ground without a second thought or vision
and you’d think a more disturbing fate could not be conceived
But at half past 3, I feel the gentlest breeze
and the caress of fallen leaves, a fluffy woollen sleeve.
I barely react to your perceived extremes.
Sometimes I get muddy and, like you, I’m finite.
At my most wistful in my sodium limelight
but my plight is really just: decay in delight.
And today, all you’re getting is a day in my life.
I don’t do much, I don’t move, but I see it all…
Kid in the Garden (original and remix)
Are you alright mate? You look a bit lonely…?
Waiting ’round for a click with a clip to show me.
And your cronies don’t seem to have the heart to chat.
All rabid at the scent of all my hard-earned cash.
Every last penny.
Tell you what you need. Why not?
You’ve been telling me since I was a knee-high tot.
Are you ready? I know it might not be easy to hear
but try this box. Relax. I’ll make the reasoning clear.
If I’ve learnt anything over the last little stretch,
it’s that getting in with you is how I get into heads.
You’re prolific. So here’s a taste for your sins.
I’m good at this. We’re well past you breaking me in so…
This box is not traditional, guy.
It’s the box that’s got you thinking inside, terms and conditions apply.
You wanna click skip, right? Lame.
Feel like a statistic, right? Shame.
You wanted to think? Shit. Well I’m listening. Quite. Same.
My voice might be a liquid migraine,
instigating dissonance between your left and your right brain.
But look, we both want your quick fix. Sign name
and I aim to deliver in a blistering timeframe.
I see you’ve got your box and somebody’s tucked you in.
That’s one point oh though, have you tried the deluxe two?
While you’re in there advertently, I’m gonna discuss you.
If all my data’s being harvested, all my data’s gonna be “fuck you”.
Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, I am not a statistic, fuck you, fuck you.
Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, you insipid sadistic, fuck you, fuck you.
I see you trying to catch my eye, don’t be coy.
I see the tactics you employ. I see the illusion of choice.
I see your practises, your hacks and see your voice.
I don’t see your soul and you won’t see me captive in your void.
But you’ll always win and hey, you provide jobs.
I don’t hate you because you’re everything I’m not.
I hate you, because I’m trying to concentrate
and now I have to flirt with you to serve this music on a plate.
Here’s that grumpy old man pontificating,
I know was lying in wait, does he need his dying delayed?
Why not buy him an entire case of fitness trackers?
Watch your old man wheeze up the hill with the Cader Idris backpackers.
You know you could’ve left him be? Give him a book?
One more reason to read is these seedy ads are nowhere that you look.
I’ve got solutions. But I’m streaming, bed-ridden, jacked in, not reading, seeing red as I smash skip and now:
“Find your new crush and cut loose!”
But who’s…must’ve given this algorithm stuff to adjust to.
“Mad? Get even with a plush new..” Ah, I forgot –
It’s ’cause I made all my data “fuck you”
Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, I am not a statistic, fuck you, fuck you.
Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, you insipid sadistic, fuck you, fuck you.
I see you trying to catch my eye, don’t be coy.
I see the tactics you employ. I see the illusion of choice.
I see your practises, your hacks and see your voice.
I don’t see your soul and you won’t see me captive in your void.
So what do you give to the kid in the garden who’s lifted a rock,
sees the industry stop for a millisecond as
millipedes, earwigs and their partners
go back to slither, regardless, he’s got a grin on his chops
and a magnifying glass to deliver his well-configured and thought stuff.
Rigorously targeted to rip apart your comf-
-ortbale contented, focused, introspective corner?
I’ll tell you what you give him: more instruments of torture!
And money! He loves that, and big pointy sticks.
How else do you sate a sadistic lunatic,
driven to prise you from pure bliss of being alive,
on your day off, taking five after this Kidderminster drive?
I know there’s bigger fish to fry. I should imbibe and stop
but I just got an ad from an adblocker
to stop ads from adblockers.
Privacy? Gone. That’s not too bad. Back to nature.
I don’t think these people need a reminder of all my data.
I see you trying to catch my eye, don’t be coy.
I see the tactics you employ. I see the illusion of choice.
I see your practises, your hacks and see your voice.
I don’t see your soul and you won’t see me captive in your void.
The Mist
Dug in like a tick, dug in like a tick…the mist…
I miss you. I miss you. I miss you but not your issues.
Bet you’ve not missed mine either?
But I bet on my life that you’re time alone
has shown how little like islands us guys were.
Much as we thought it could be, when it made a change,
an unexpected bit of peace in your day-to-day.
Two months of that, it’s: someone pull the plug.
“He’s saying everything I’ve thought.” Well, I’ve had plenty long enough to plan it!
But no connection to find it out, I’ve missed
the minute contractions on the rim of your iris.
The uncanny valley’s never seemed so cold.
Months of mindless gaming with zero soul
and I’ve missed you – yes, you – you idiot, bless you.
Every word you say’s a test but I’ve missed your rescue
at the hands of better people than me, with more compassion.
See that your combative attitude’s a call for help and acted
for the common good.
Fuck, this has been hard – and I’ve had it so easy.
Got some perspective, thought it’d upped and left, believe me.
I’ll never take one of you for granted again, until I do.
We laugh, like it isn’t true.
I miss romance. I miss people.
Wrote that in May 2020, ha, here’s the sequel.
I’ve missed everything that brings us together.
Much as I’ve said the time to muse has been good, is it forever?
And a massive shout to everyone who’s carried the light
but I never want to watch a play another online gig in my life.
I saw the BBC’s attempt to build some Glastonbury hype –
gave tone deaf a billion meanings, hang myself with my mic cable.
Black lives matter. I didn’t go on the march.
I was scared of the virus but I know that it’s stark
and I watched Colston toppled with goosebumps and awe
in the youth of today. Acquit the Colston Four.
And I’ve missed the dentist, but that’s material.
Fuck watching the news every morning over your sugary cereal
and I’m dug in like a tick ’cause we adapt.
Now I’m thinking: how did I used to interact?
It was such a simple fact that you and I chat and laugh after dark.
Every moment in the mist now is madly charged.
Larger than life. And life itself seems even more precious.
Peppered with the pressures that just seemed to forget us.
And I loved it. And then I hated it. And then it finished.
Song for Gramps
“With you, with you…”
I just wanted to sit with you, sit with you.
Tell you how it’s all going and: no, it’s all finished. It’s OK.
But you? I can see that. Don’t worry – we’ll be back with teabags an’…
Being so close to death makes me want to live.
Waving life in the face of death like a shiv
Edelweiss. Take a breath, light a cig’. All my love you can
Take it away. Yeah, you know that, that’s good. That’s from all of us.
It’s warm and fluffy. You can call the nurse
To tuck it in, can’t you, you lucky thing!
I know you would be vibing, nodding your head to this,
Slapping your leg to this.
If you could. Wrapping your head around all the sounds with a wry smile,
Entertained by my style.
We don’t want you to be afraid. That’s the worst.
Think of who you might see today. Quench your thirst.
Charming…! Need more than me and Amez? We laugh til it hurts and you’re sleeping.
Lately, we think “don’t wake up”, like you’re Cilian.
It’s raw what remains is reptilian.
But your repertoire was so brilliant.
We gorge on it, marvel and still…
You say take it away – we already know.
We’re here for the love, not to put on a show
Of affection – correction: it’s both.
You tread on my toes
With your walker. Course it was my fault! I’m a klutz.
When you sped to the throne, nature calling, I didn’t mind out for your crutch
And you only heard half of that. They say hearing’s the last to bat
And we’re here and we laugh and chat, and we hope that you’d rather that
Than just solemn and desperate grieving and pleading for father back.
It’s not easy but God, would I want you here.
Just your company, feeling the end is near.
Your vibrations allay some of the fears, facing up your years so here..
You just brought out the sun as I’m finishing
Writing this for the wonder of Vivian.
I’ll miss all your thunder and wit, the abundance of innocence.
Friends
I wanna make friends with myself
‘cause I’m a likable guy and I’m like nobody else.
I’ve got this voice inside that tells me I wasn’t enough.
I’m gonna go outside and shut that voice up.
I…well, let’s start here, shall we?
I’m one of a kind and that kind used to be pretty dear to me.
Now, every time I get up in front of you to play,
I’ve got this stroppy prophet mocking me who won’t go away.
With such a lot to offer; gestures you can see, you can touch.
I am a little puzzled how I cannot like myself much,
I mean, sure, there’s: sexism, white guilt, size bias, a bit of climate anxiety, social engagement, addiction, sure, privilege, sometimes some incontinence, bad luck…
But I’m still a nice guy, right?!
Sarcasm. Yeah, it’s helping me make light of it
But I have some issues and there’s no fighting it.
Anything confessional is lauded as brave now.
I wouldn’t call this brave. It’s a maudlin shakedown.
Mental health is popular. It’s been so for time.
It’s good and it’s bad that it is. That’s by-the-by.
Knowing I’m a good man and worthy, that’s the quest.
I’m your Dad’s age now so you should…listen? I guess?
‘Cause I know my voice is whiny and “you sound like a fucking prick”
And maybe one day, I’ll stop writing songs with my dick.
I’ve been abhorrent to women, abysmal, absolutely.
As if I could absolve myself with some alliteration, acutely.
There’s nothing in past that I can ever excuse.
I’m an insecure boy trying to fit in a man’s shoes
And I’m a bastard. I’m sorry. I can’t dress it up.
I’m not asking forgiveness or the chance of a better love.
This isn’t fucking branding, this is a desperate plea:
I need to get a room with MJD!
And talk him down, say “look myself, you made a few mistakes.
Broke a few hearts. Had and ate too many cakes,
Upset your Mum on countless occasions, acted too quick, rejected your Dad, been lazy..” You know? Really lay it on thick.
Fucking hell. If that happened, I don’t think it’d ever end.
Doesn’t leave a lot of scope for me and myself making friends…
I wanna make friends with myself
‘cause I’m a likable guy and I’m like nobody else.
I’ve got this voice inside that tells me I wasn’t enough.
I’m gonna go outside and shut that voice up.
Now, she’s got a kid.
She blames herself for things that she never even did.
If nobody remembers you for the things you didn’t do,
She’s got a posthumous future full of double negatives that have confused me.
Her son’s about to start high school and she’s wracked
With grief, anxiety and wants to send him off with kneepads.
A safety helmet, a bulletproof vest; he’s a gentle soul
And she knows the horrors that this lion’s den can hold.
If he comes home in any kind of a bad state,
She’s only got herself to hate. She jumps off the sofa when he’s a minute late.
A young, single Mum, she feels the weight of the task
And that’s before the prejudice and piousness have amassed.
Nobody could say that she’s not likable.
The people-pleasing does that when you’re hyper and excitable
And she’s a firework, tired from work, hired and fired.
In isolation, look, you must admire her.
That doesn’t get a look-in when her son snuck in with a book in his hand.
His bedroom door, slammed, shaking the whole floorplan.
Assuming the worst, she darts to his room and it hurts
To see him buried in a book to seek a new universe.
But he’s alright. He had the gumption to roll with the herd.
It didn’t matter that papa was a rolling turd.
Tears of joy. This lioness has got her boy’s shit right.
Now if she could only shut off that voice inside..
She wants to make friends with herself
‘cause she’s a likable girl and she’s like nobody else.
She’s got this voice inside that tells her she wasn’t enough.
It’s not friendly. It’s not friendly.
His motivations, they’re so askew.
He knows most of the wrong and most of the right things to do.
A day off work glows with the promise of perfection,
Yet he finds himself at half twelve, scrolling on his old connections.
‘Member berries in his here, saying “man, you were happier then.”
As if all the warmth and joy there since he had had to pretend.
Some people get their bonds for life. It might not be the case for he.
No – I can’t do it. Look, I’m back to talking about me.
Perspective is key. I mean: if you were locked inside a little box
With two little slots to peer through and figure ‘pproximately
What was the Sam Hill was going on and then a third of the time you were blind – would you end up with a clear view?
I sympathise; Einstein had it right.
But I’d hate myself more if I slept for two hours a night.
I feel myself soften – progress – for once not ill-gotten
Then we’re back to daggers when I’m on the bus ‘cause my headphones I forgot ‘em.
It turns out though…I am like other people.
At least in that we’re all trying to triumph over evil.
And sometimes, that evil is resident, so close to home.
Jill Valentine’s summit with her zombie clone.
A 10 on stage. Off it, I’m more a 3.
My pen knows me so much better than I know me.
Fuck and Instagram trend. This is reality. We’ll end with:
Himself is somebody he needs to make friends with.
He wants to make friends with himself
‘cause he’s a likable guy and he’s like nobody else.
He’s got this voice inside that tells him he wasn’t enough.
He’s gonna go outside and shut that voice up.
Mike Dennis 