what if yesterday
was a day spent lying in bed
forgetting and remembering
not as previously described
who would know
except me
who would care
other than me
what if
with a pen and paper
i called into being
a whole world
spent much of the morning
locked indoors
or in my big bed
writing & watching
the monkees tv series
and the beatles cartoon series
it was gently snowing outside
and whenever i had to get up
to change a dvd or a video
or grab a coffee
or a bite to eat
i felt that bitter cold
when the t.f.t.+ arrived
minus p.a.u.l.
who was lost in the snow somewhere
and molloy
who was in a sulk
or lost in his thoughts
somewhere else
i turned off the heating
opened all of the windows
and the curtains etc
had to let a little bit of the outside world in
to keep the t.f.t. on track
and in a state of w.t.f flux
p.a. u.l. informed us via telephone
that the cold was
blowing in from the urals
(some sort of in-joke)
and that only his voice would be present
at todays session
before we started recording etc
i read aloud sam beckett
('...did he not seem rather
to have issued from the ramparts
after a good dinner
to take his dog and himself for a walk
like so many citizens
dreaming and farting
when the weather is fine?..')
an attempt to empty the songs
of any plot
or descriptions
or scenes
or characters
then p.a.u.l. (his mind cracked like custard)
read a page or two from
a beefheart biography
via the telephone on loudspeaker
donnie van vliet
locking the magicband in their shared house
for months on end
feeds 'em once daily on naught but soya beans
until they learn how to play his songs
the way he wants 'em played...
~ B.M.E.
***
meatball fulton:
do you ever think of leaving the country?
don van vliet:
do you mean the earth? You mean the country, the united states? I don’t think they even know i’m here now.
meatball fulton:
(laughs)
don van vliet:
better not laugh too much if we want to get this on the radio. they’re likely to get us for breathing with all our holes open!
meatball fulton:
(burts out laughing)
don van vliet:
you know they’re about to poke their genitals in our cream cheese moon right now. what do you think about that? that’s my eye.
meatball fulton:
what do you mean ‘your eye’?
don van vliet:
the moon. it’s part of me.
meatball fulton:
mmmm...i don’t understand.
don van vliet:
why don’t they poke it in the sun, man? are they afraid to do that? they might get burnt up, right? they’re not very daring are they?
meatball fulton:
what do you think about that?
don van vliet:
err, if they’d cut the nose off the rocket, you know, i think it would be a little more natural, do you know what i mean? if they could get up there without having the hole in the front closed up, i think they would enjoy it more or i’d like them more. you know what i mean?
meatball fulton:
yeah...no, i don’t.
Friday, 8 January 2010
Thursday, 7 January 2010
Daye 92 / Tempest Drive, Muireadhaigh, The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock, Ellie G.
would've happily spent much of the day
locked indoors
avoiding the bitter cold
which is blowing into ae
from across the urals
[in-joke for harin]
we'd wrapped ourselves up for the journey
which took two hours longer than normal
due to the amount of snow on the roads
when we arrived at tempest drive
brion had turned up the heating a notch
closed all of the windows
and drew the curtains and blinds
aurora had flushed away all of her drink and druhgs
announcing she would be 'clean' forevermore
and hitch
in an attempt to get us to empty the songs
of all plot
descriptions
scenes
and characters
read us some samuel beckett
('...did he not seem rather
to have issued from the ramparts
after a good dinner
to take his dog and himself for a walk
like so many citizens
dreaming and farting
when the weather is fine?..')
then i read a few pages from
a beefheart biog
y'know the bit where the captain
locks his band in the house on ensenada drive
for weeks on end
while feeding 'em naught but a cup of soya beans once a day
while they learn how to play
his songs
the way he wants 'em played
recorded remixed edited
some words & music & songs & noises & speech
for the next one
which was begun 16th december
several titles recorded so far:
shock o'kontacte
another galaxy
couvade II
can't doo right
unheimlich / north is strange
can't be certain can i?
mello
a mouse is not a votel
astronaute 16680 / spiral galaxy
phosphorus light night III
muireadhaigh
the psykick sea
wonder which of 'em will make it through...
***
i'm muireadhaigh
i can't deny
mind centres itself
in this large round head
allows me to look out
onto the soft january universe
which folds itself in against the eye
shall we go
you and i?
the light falls across you
and in your eyes i see myself
(i can't deny)
reflecting back at me
a dreamer dreaming in a half-sleep
for one phantom minute
in the cold january
of a long ghostly winter
(i can't deny)
i am haunted by some things
memories
mysteries
the light and the darkness
my past and
the future which blinds me with it's bright magnesium flash
***
'let us go then, you and i,
when the evening is spread out against the sky
like a patient etherized upon a table;
let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
the muttering retreats
of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
and sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
streets that follow like a tedious argument
of insidious intent
to lead you to an overwhelming question . . .
oh, do not ask, ‘what is it?’
let us go and make our visit.
in the room the women come and go
talking of michelangelo.
the yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
the yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
and seeing that it was a soft october night,
curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
and indeed there will be time
for the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
there will be time, there will be time
to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
there will be time to murder and create,
and time for all the works and days of hands
that lift and drop a question on your plate;
time for you and time for me,
and time yet for a hundred indecisions,
and for a hundred visions and revisions,
before the taking of a toast and tea.
in the room the women come and go
talking of michelangelo.
and indeed there will be time
to wonder, ‘do i dare?’ and, ‘do i dare?’
time to turn back and descend the stair,
with a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[they will say: ‘how his hair is growing thin!’]
my morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
my necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[they will say: ‘but how his arms and legs are thin!’]
do i dare
disturb the universe?
in a minute there is time
for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
for i have known them all already, known them all—
have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
i have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
i know the voices dying with a dying fall
beneath the music from a farther room.
so how should i presume?
and i have known the eyes already, known them all—
the eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
and when i am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
when i am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
then how should i begin
to spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
and how should i presume?
and i have known the arms already, known them all—
arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[but in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
is it perfume from a dress
that makes me so digress?
arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
and should i then presume?
and how should i begin?
. . . . .
shall i say, i have gone at dusk through narrow streets
and watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .
i should have been a pair of ragged claws
scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
and the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
smoothed by long fingers,
asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers
stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
should i, after tea and cakes and ices,
have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
but though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
though i have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter
i am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
i have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
and i have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
and in short, i was afraid.
and would it have been worth it, after all,
after the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
would it have been worth while
to have bitten off the matter with a smile,
to have squeezed the universe into a ball
to roll it toward some overwhelming question,
to say: ‘i am lazarus, come from the dead,
come back to tell you all, i shall tell you all’—
if one, settling a pillow by her head,
should say: ‘that is not what i meant at all.
that is not it, at all.’
and would it have been worth it, after all,
would it have been worth while,
after the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
after the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
and this, and so much more?—
it is impossible to say just what i mean!
but as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
would it have been worth while
if one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
and turning toward the window, should say:
‘that is not it at all,
that is not what i meant at all.’
no! i am not prince hamlet, nor was meant to be;
am an attendant lord, one that will do
to swell a progress, start a scene or two
advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
deferential, glad to be of use,
politic, cautious, and meticulous;
full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
at times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
almost, at times, the fool.
i grow old . . . i grow old . . .
i shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
shall i part my hair behind? do i dare to eat a peach?
i shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
i have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
i do not think that they will sing to me.
i have seen them riding seaward on the waves
combing the white hair of the waves blown back
when the wind blows the water white and black.
we have lingered in the chambers of the sea
by sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
till human voices wake us, and we drown.'
~ T.S. Eliot
****
(sings)
happy birthday to you
happy birthday to you
happy birthday dear ellie g.
happy birthday to you
xxx
locked indoors
avoiding the bitter cold
which is blowing into ae
from across the urals
[in-joke for harin]
we'd wrapped ourselves up for the journey
which took two hours longer than normal
due to the amount of snow on the roads
when we arrived at tempest drive
brion had turned up the heating a notch
closed all of the windows
and drew the curtains and blinds
aurora had flushed away all of her drink and druhgs
announcing she would be 'clean' forevermore
and hitch
in an attempt to get us to empty the songs
of all plot
descriptions
scenes
and characters
read us some samuel beckett
('...did he not seem rather
to have issued from the ramparts
after a good dinner
to take his dog and himself for a walk
like so many citizens
dreaming and farting
when the weather is fine?..')
then i read a few pages from
a beefheart biog
y'know the bit where the captain
locks his band in the house on ensenada drive
for weeks on end
while feeding 'em naught but a cup of soya beans once a day
while they learn how to play
his songs
the way he wants 'em played
recorded remixed edited
some words & music & songs & noises & speech
for the next one
which was begun 16th december
several titles recorded so far:
shock o'kontacte
another galaxy
couvade II
can't doo right
unheimlich / north is strange
can't be certain can i?
mello
a mouse is not a votel
astronaute 16680 / spiral galaxy
phosphorus light night III
muireadhaigh
the psykick sea
wonder which of 'em will make it through...
***
i'm muireadhaigh
i can't deny
mind centres itself
in this large round head
allows me to look out
onto the soft january universe
which folds itself in against the eye
shall we go
you and i?
the light falls across you
and in your eyes i see myself
(i can't deny)
reflecting back at me
a dreamer dreaming in a half-sleep
for one phantom minute
in the cold january
of a long ghostly winter
(i can't deny)
i am haunted by some things
memories
mysteries
the light and the darkness
my past and
the future which blinds me with it's bright magnesium flash
***
'let us go then, you and i,
when the evening is spread out against the sky
like a patient etherized upon a table;
let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
the muttering retreats
of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
and sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
streets that follow like a tedious argument
of insidious intent
to lead you to an overwhelming question . . .
oh, do not ask, ‘what is it?’
let us go and make our visit.
in the room the women come and go
talking of michelangelo.
the yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
the yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,
licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
and seeing that it was a soft october night,
curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
and indeed there will be time
for the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
there will be time, there will be time
to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
there will be time to murder and create,
and time for all the works and days of hands
that lift and drop a question on your plate;
time for you and time for me,
and time yet for a hundred indecisions,
and for a hundred visions and revisions,
before the taking of a toast and tea.
in the room the women come and go
talking of michelangelo.
and indeed there will be time
to wonder, ‘do i dare?’ and, ‘do i dare?’
time to turn back and descend the stair,
with a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[they will say: ‘how his hair is growing thin!’]
my morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
my necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[they will say: ‘but how his arms and legs are thin!’]
do i dare
disturb the universe?
in a minute there is time
for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
for i have known them all already, known them all—
have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
i have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
i know the voices dying with a dying fall
beneath the music from a farther room.
so how should i presume?
and i have known the eyes already, known them all—
the eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
and when i am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
when i am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
then how should i begin
to spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
and how should i presume?
and i have known the arms already, known them all—
arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[but in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
is it perfume from a dress
that makes me so digress?
arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
and should i then presume?
and how should i begin?
. . . . .
shall i say, i have gone at dusk through narrow streets
and watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .
i should have been a pair of ragged claws
scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
and the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
smoothed by long fingers,
asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers
stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
should i, after tea and cakes and ices,
have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
but though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
though i have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter
i am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
i have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
and i have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
and in short, i was afraid.
and would it have been worth it, after all,
after the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
would it have been worth while
to have bitten off the matter with a smile,
to have squeezed the universe into a ball
to roll it toward some overwhelming question,
to say: ‘i am lazarus, come from the dead,
come back to tell you all, i shall tell you all’—
if one, settling a pillow by her head,
should say: ‘that is not what i meant at all.
that is not it, at all.’
and would it have been worth it, after all,
would it have been worth while,
after the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
after the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
and this, and so much more?—
it is impossible to say just what i mean!
but as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
would it have been worth while
if one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
and turning toward the window, should say:
‘that is not it at all,
that is not what i meant at all.’
no! i am not prince hamlet, nor was meant to be;
am an attendant lord, one that will do
to swell a progress, start a scene or two
advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
deferential, glad to be of use,
politic, cautious, and meticulous;
full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
at times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
almost, at times, the fool.
i grow old . . . i grow old . . .
i shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
shall i part my hair behind? do i dare to eat a peach?
i shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
i have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
i do not think that they will sing to me.
i have seen them riding seaward on the waves
combing the white hair of the waves blown back
when the wind blows the water white and black.
we have lingered in the chambers of the sea
by sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
till human voices wake us, and we drown.'
~ T.S. Eliot
****
(sings)
happy birthday to you
happy birthday to you
happy birthday dear ellie g.
happy birthday to you
xxx
Wednesday, 6 January 2010
Tuesday, 5 January 2010
Daye 90 / January 5
massive snowfall in C.o.M. overnight
not seen as much snow hereabouts
since i was a little kid
...blah blah blah...
global warming...blah
we've fucked up our planet..
blah...
snow continues during the day
satellite tv off the air
terrestrial tv been off the air
since the big switch
blah blah blah....
first day back at school after xmas hols
but the schools are closed
...blah...
no trams no travel
..blah...
more snow forecast for tomorrow and thursday
...blah blah blah...
every thing is white
'cept the sky
which is dark grey
i am beginning to feel uncomfortably claustrophobic
tried to dig the car out with a snow shovel
but it will not budge
went out for a walk with the kids instead
i kept seeing things
out of the corner of my eye
sometimes i'd see dark spheres
or something which gives off sparks
moving about near the trees
at the bottom of the hill
or else i see shapeless
glowing lights in the dark bushes
and there was nobody else around for miles
as we walked about
just us four
yet when i looked behind me
i noticed we had left five sets of footprints
wow i feel like a character in
peter straub's ghost story
nothing else for it
must spend the rest of the day
writing and recording
not seen as much snow hereabouts
since i was a little kid
...blah blah blah...
global warming...blah
we've fucked up our planet..
blah...
snow continues during the day
satellite tv off the air
terrestrial tv been off the air
since the big switch
blah blah blah....
first day back at school after xmas hols
but the schools are closed
...blah...
no trams no travel
..blah...
more snow forecast for tomorrow and thursday
...blah blah blah...
every thing is white
'cept the sky
which is dark grey
i am beginning to feel uncomfortably claustrophobic
tried to dig the car out with a snow shovel
but it will not budge
went out for a walk with the kids instead
i kept seeing things
out of the corner of my eye
sometimes i'd see dark spheres
or something which gives off sparks
moving about near the trees
at the bottom of the hill
or else i see shapeless
glowing lights in the dark bushes
and there was nobody else around for miles
as we walked about
just us four
yet when i looked behind me
i noticed we had left five sets of footprints
wow i feel like a character in
peter straub's ghost story
nothing else for it
must spend the rest of the day
writing and recording
Sunday, 3 January 2010
Daye 89 / A Little Song
as yesterday ended
a little song
came into my head
like a new galaxy forming itself
in the universe
i knew i had to get it down quickly
before its stars had burned out
wrote a few words
sang it to myself softly
in the dark
examined it
recorded the bits that could be recorded
and left out the others
deleted the parts that i didn't like
i imagined how eno might have recorded it
in 1974
or bowie in berlin
in 1976
pulled it to pieces
and put it all back together again
differently
popped it into my big box of songstuff
this morning such a wonder
came over me
that i had to be outdoors
and for the first time in an age
a stranger smiled and
came over to speak with me
in the park
life and its cycles
god and his religions
the planets and the cosmos
what we are doing on earth
with all our pasts
and presents
and futures
and music
and words
and songs
that are floating around down here
just waiting to be
dreamed into being
i was only half dressed
and had dark lines under my eyes
dirt under my fingernails
holes in the sleeves of my coat
he said that
always something shines from within us
which i already knew
'cos i had felt it all this morning
we certainly must have been shining brightly
because soon the birds
in the park
mistook us for other birds
and flocked around us
nor were they scared off
by any sudden movement or exclaimation
and the animals in the park
must have mistaken us for other animals
because they came and played nearby
or slept at our feet
which is most mysterious
a little song
came into my head
like a new galaxy forming itself
in the universe
i knew i had to get it down quickly
before its stars had burned out
wrote a few words
sang it to myself softly
in the dark
examined it
recorded the bits that could be recorded
and left out the others
deleted the parts that i didn't like
i imagined how eno might have recorded it
in 1974
or bowie in berlin
in 1976
pulled it to pieces
and put it all back together again
differently
popped it into my big box of songstuff
this morning such a wonder
came over me
that i had to be outdoors
and for the first time in an age
a stranger smiled and
came over to speak with me
in the park
life and its cycles
god and his religions
the planets and the cosmos
what we are doing on earth
with all our pasts
and presents
and futures
and music
and words
and songs
that are floating around down here
just waiting to be
dreamed into being
i was only half dressed
and had dark lines under my eyes
dirt under my fingernails
holes in the sleeves of my coat
he said that
always something shines from within us
which i already knew
'cos i had felt it all this morning
we certainly must have been shining brightly
because soon the birds
in the park
mistook us for other birds
and flocked around us
nor were they scared off
by any sudden movement or exclaimation
and the animals in the park
must have mistaken us for other animals
because they came and played nearby
or slept at our feet
which is most mysterious
Saturday, 2 January 2010
Daye 88 / Sealine Via Star
snow falling again when we get up this morning
and every
thing is white
so we make our way to angelsey
via star
almost as soon as we arrive on the beach
somebody finds a small iron sphere
embedded in the sand
little d. pokes at it with a finger
picks it up
we pass it around
it's heavy
it's dimpled and pitted
like an iron-age golf ball
no, it's a meteorite
it's come from out there
b. tells little d.
pointing up past the clouds
it's asymmetrical and imperfect
and cold as the ice
afterwards we all notice that our hands smell of sulphur
and we are itching
we take a dip
the coast is dark
the ice and the rocks are especially sharp
the sea is cold and green and beautiful
and this song is running through my head
***
the minute the sting penetrates your finger
you're strapped to the pain
like an angry stranger
the moment the rain freezes in the gutter
come the flaming birds
and their hideous matter
the second the claw lifts up your chin
i'm alone in your head
and you can't get in
somebody said
that it's all for you
it's a miracle
let it alter you
but I will not follow you to the sea line
somebody went and turned it on for you
revelation baby
you're beautiful
but I will not follow you to the sea line
the instant the transfer hits your account
and it's deep in the black
and just one way out
the morning the storm rolled to the coast
we were down to the shake
and our silent throats
the evening the trees lash at the window
the roots curl up
strangle the candles
somebody said
that it's all for you
it's a miracle
let it alter you
but I will not follow you to the sea line
somebody went and turned it on for you
revelation baby
you're beautiful
but I will not follow you to the sea line
to the sea line
it's a miracle, let it alter you
revelation baby, you're beautiful
~Steve Kilbey
and every
thing is white
so we make our way to angelsey
via star
almost as soon as we arrive on the beach
somebody finds a small iron sphere
embedded in the sand
little d. pokes at it with a finger
picks it up
we pass it around
it's heavy
it's dimpled and pitted
like an iron-age golf ball
no, it's a meteorite
it's come from out there
b. tells little d.
pointing up past the clouds
it's asymmetrical and imperfect
and cold as the ice
afterwards we all notice that our hands smell of sulphur
and we are itching
we take a dip
the coast is dark
the ice and the rocks are especially sharp
the sea is cold and green and beautiful
and this song is running through my head
***
the minute the sting penetrates your finger
you're strapped to the pain
like an angry stranger
the moment the rain freezes in the gutter
come the flaming birds
and their hideous matter
the second the claw lifts up your chin
i'm alone in your head
and you can't get in
somebody said
that it's all for you
it's a miracle
let it alter you
but I will not follow you to the sea line
somebody went and turned it on for you
revelation baby
you're beautiful
but I will not follow you to the sea line
the instant the transfer hits your account
and it's deep in the black
and just one way out
the morning the storm rolled to the coast
we were down to the shake
and our silent throats
the evening the trees lash at the window
the roots curl up
strangle the candles
somebody said
that it's all for you
it's a miracle
let it alter you
but I will not follow you to the sea line
somebody went and turned it on for you
revelation baby
you're beautiful
but I will not follow you to the sea line
to the sea line
it's a miracle, let it alter you
revelation baby, you're beautiful
~Steve Kilbey
Friday, 1 January 2010
Daye 87 / January Nightsky
it's nine o'clock
almost time for bed
i'm lying on the bench
in my back garden
half-dreaming
half-away
thinking about the
stars up there
a blue moon leans down at me
from the cloudless january nightsky
behind the garden wall
i can hear the neighbours talking
susan
who has always been here before
and emma
whose outlook is as crooked as the fence that separates her from susan
it's time that you were
out on your own lovey
says s to e
and i think to myself
ah susan
your words will waste and decay
emma doesn't hear a word you say
and five doors down
out of my sight
up a dimly lit path
two dark little shadows
meet and converge
while
young mr east calls out from his sleep
now i have another mouth to feed
and i give in
and i give up
and i am unoriginal
and i will not write
and i can't earn a living from writing alone
and his father's ghost
who is himself now a writer
on the otherside
and always has been
and who watches over him at all times
reaches into young mr east's dream
and appears before him
saying
son there's no money to be made
from writing poems or stories or songs
but don't believe it's all been done before and better
write for the love of it
write to be heard
and young mr east heard this
and i heard this
clear as day
as i lay on my bench
half-dreaming
under the cloudless january nightsky
almost time for bed
i'm lying on the bench
in my back garden
half-dreaming
half-away
thinking about the
stars up there
a blue moon leans down at me
from the cloudless january nightsky
behind the garden wall
i can hear the neighbours talking
susan
who has always been here before
and emma
whose outlook is as crooked as the fence that separates her from susan
it's time that you were
out on your own lovey
says s to e
and i think to myself
ah susan
your words will waste and decay
emma doesn't hear a word you say
and five doors down
out of my sight
up a dimly lit path
two dark little shadows
meet and converge
while
young mr east calls out from his sleep
now i have another mouth to feed
and i give in
and i give up
and i am unoriginal
and i will not write
and i can't earn a living from writing alone
and his father's ghost
who is himself now a writer
on the otherside
and always has been
and who watches over him at all times
reaches into young mr east's dream
and appears before him
saying
son there's no money to be made
from writing poems or stories or songs
but don't believe it's all been done before and better
write for the love of it
write to be heard
and young mr east heard this
and i heard this
clear as day
as i lay on my bench
half-dreaming
under the cloudless january nightsky
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