LIFE
RELICS OF THE PAST
The last time I found peace
Was in the Children’s Ward
Awake at night with my frozen foot
Back in the old country
Where the good old days
Saw steam trains journey slow
Into an age of Diesel
And it was there
Where I would lie awake at night
And listen hard to those fiery dragons
Perched impatiently, on distant tracks
Snorting mournful at the moon
Or sadly at some signal box
Reclining in another world
A coloured world, of light and glass
And I would hear these monsters gallop
Through the dark and rain, their metal hooves
Beating out my pain, as they whistled
Full of sorrow for their lovers
Lost and lonely in the night
But come the dawn and light
Their song was always lost to me
In the muffled call of pigeons
Cradling a new day, in gurgles of sympathy
For the old iron pipes that warmed the ward
And through the whitened stained glass
Of our little world, I too would raise
Mine eyes to the roof
And cry with envy, for their life
In a rooftop gutter, filled with snow
For I sensed that they were happy
With frozen feet, and little food
Whilst the trains and I, alas
Being relics of the past, were not
Audio Version
WITH WATER IN MY EYES
I moved to town, and the people came
And stole from me
They took the brightness from my life
And the colour from my skies
They stole the pity from my eyes
And the fur from off my cat
They killed my pride and crippled my beliefs
Then buried my love and planted seeds of lust
They used my body to poison my mind
And then they took my soul
And slowly crushed it dry
Now my skin grows thicker by the hour
My heart lies coated with envy
And I have learnt the power of hate
Now they own my body and my mind
Yet I feel so very strange
For my hungry hollow shell
That wanders home at night
Sometimes sees the stars
And I must lean against the wall
For I do not see so very well
With water in my eyes
Audio Version
THE METAPHYSICAL TRAVELLER
As my emotions hide in dreams
Masked enigmas probe the seams
Winding round like tears of death
Losing hope with fading breath
But their potent piercing passes
As fatalistic evil masses
Weave their timeless images
In tilting towers of thought
And as my longing lingers
Some sad serene and weary dream
Left uncloaked in hollow smoke
Paints portraits of my soul
On barren rocks so cold
The oracle doth call
To mask those waiting dreams
It shrieks and screams to fall
In sloping groping shadows
Where the prodigal voice of hate
Beckons home like fate
Those riding by to feed
The frozen statue that is greed
That turns my way, to slowly bleed
Audio Version
THRU FACTORY GATES
So much older, wiser too
Those hidden martyrs now are few
For lifeblood spilled , by tooth and claw
Did slowly drain, as thru a straw
And yet by stealth, I had to stay
My weekly wealth spent, day by day
To make me still a servile slave
As I too swung that creaking door
And stalked that same familiar floor
To the tuneless tick of time
Drawing fettered feet that did not shine
Thru factory gates, that still corrode
The souls that slave in her abode
But they now cage a different breed
Whose hopes of freedom fall as seed
To drift upon the wind of chance
All souls now sold without a glance
They find no offer of escape
As memory fades in routine rape
For other mouths must feed, and other shoes
Must fit, on other feet, to spread the news
That wheels with arms, unlike their own
Can always be replaced, or sown
As endless orders, drifting down
Do streams of sweat their bodies crown
While faceless strangers in some tower
Wield their wands of ruthless power
Now twilight fades the workers hopes
As homeward bound down concrete slopes
They hear the songs of Gods afar
Come laughing thru those gates ajar
Audio Version
THE NORM
If you’ve got a hare-lip or a squint in your eye
Every day of your life you may just wish to die
For your brothers and sisters will offer you scorn
And you may even wish that you’d never been born
If you’re a bit of a rebel and don’t do what you’re told
You’ll need to be brave and you’ll need to be bold
Or you’ll be cast aside by the young and the old
And soon find yourself left out in the cold
But if you really do want to be part of the game
Make sure when you’re born that you look just the same
As your brothers and sisters, then they’ll call you by name
Audio Version
THE IRONY OF LIFE
How in life may one man spy
Where drifting dust on each may lie
Fickle fate alone may tell
Where by design that dust may dwell
Fast casting spells like flaking lead
Unfailing favour for each head
So timeless pains must fall on each
Soft shadowed soul within its reach
As grinding on this wheel of fate
Spins tears of joy to tears of hate
And yet unheeding to its call
We end up victims as we fall
And stumble into ashes deep
To kindle them in hope of sleep
Yet some remain who standing still
Find wonder in the will of Him
Who sprinkles dust in careless whim
Audio Version
THE WRINKLED YOUNG
Youth is wasted on the young
They should be born with bodies hung
Of heaving lung, and stiff arthritis
And wrinkled ears, that sport tinnitus
But as they grow up, day by day
They should mature in every way
Learning wisdom and compassion
As they reap life’s painful ration
To suffer fools then, they would learn
That others they must never spurn
And as they grow up day by day
They’d get wiser as they play
Their bodies would recover vigour
As they learnt to handle rigour
Infirmities would fade, hearing would improve
As vision sharpened up, their wrinkles now would smooth
Their hair would lose its grey and age would have its day
We’d see a world of wisdom, where lasting strength would pave
A just and patient world, from birth unto the grave
Audio Version
THE TRAIN
Here I rest, a rusting hulk
Alone, aloof, within my bulk
The hiss of steam within my veins
The pistons pulling at the reins
Mere memories now of a loyal life
Now round my rivets rust is rife
No clank of coal, no whistle shout
No churning wheels, no water spout
Now rust flakes fast to line my grave
Where only leaves and litter pave
This epitaph to a faithful slave
And don’t deny I served you well
Yet now condemned within my cell
Of rusted rails that bind me fast
Those guiding hands of days long past
When smells of grease and hissing steam
Echoed gleams and children’s screams
As stones and steel rushed past my head
Now tears of rain make up this bed
A burial cloak for a servant laid
To rest and rust in romance dead
Audio Version
THE RASTA – FERRY MAN
I’m a Rasta man, I ain’t no thug
I smoke a little weed, but it ain’t no drug
Don’t want no hassle, don’t want no aid
Ain’t got no job, so me don’t get paid
But a like a little sound and a like a little smoke
A like a little girl and a like a little joke
I’ll drink when I’m dry and I’ll eat when I need
A don’t need no grief, a don’t need no speed
Am stuck in this place which is all wet and cold
A can’t escape England, for me soul she is sold
Audio Version
MONKEY BUSINESS
She was a real artist in true classic form
Spending many a day making colours conform
Painting sunsets and seas that took many hours
And even old trees, or vases of flowers
With news these fine efforts would simply not pay
She accepted the muse of the modern art way
Having loved all Picassos she dillied with Dali
But found those in the know around her would rally
Stating simply she wandered alone in a void
They stayed vexed and perplexed and even annoyed
In her stance, that pure art should be simply perceived
But these vultures of culture would not be deceived
They rejected all sense of her talent and skill
And claimed a true artist must destiny fill
A blank canvas, with splodges of dabbles and dots
And splurges of colour, that gave them the hots
Not arcane or archaic but simply obtuse
So lickspittle morons could have no excuse
Than to drool and to fawn as they all got their kicks
Seeing dirty old knicks on dirty old bricks
Your quintessential essence must not cloud the air
So swallow up your ego, she heard them all declare
For status and for power, display a blinding effluence
So we can see your taste, decay away with affluence
I mean, Congo the Chimp sells for over ten grand
He may be a monkey, but he’s gathered a band
Of faithful old fauvists, all trying to look smart
As they burp and they fart to this primal art
So these prophets of doom made her paint on in hell
Now their own troubled minds could suffer as well
Like old dogs in heat they would ogle and claw
To view any old spawn from this prostitutes paw
Standing drinking, round her painting, in reflected glory
Gleaning meaning, so bizarre, it verged upon the gory
But kindergarten sprawls offered psueds a-sunder
All a chance to sense pretence, and float in naive wonder
Upon this vulgar altar where she offered up contention
As anointed cognoscenti waved away convention
So her new renaissance could make its presentation
Making monied monkey-art, in utter ostentation