bedlam

I’ve been writing rubber cheques again   no problem really   it’s the thought that counts   right?    I was looking for solutions   but only found new problems    they say all problems are illusions of the mind   I say the need for illusions runs deep    it’s far better to struggle with illusions than with reality

 

according to science   a couple of twisted chromosomes     make me a madman    but madmen are alright   madmen are trying to fix things    what kind of things?    tiny things   like lives    so stick a little nembutal up my arse    blur my edges    numb my nuts    sort me out with psycho quackery    help me find a better place

 

I know where the edge is     because I’ve been over    that’s how I ended up here   this place is bedlam   it’s full of madmen   but madness is relative    it all depends whose cage you are in   but I see you    can you see me?  I’m one of those chumps who think too deeply     clever men think clearly   but we madmen think deep

 

I’m being eaten slowly by my thoughts     consumed by my feelings   I wonder what it means to die   do I consider myself alive?     sometimes I want to flee this awful place    but the devil I know has a compelling argument   all things considered I’m better off where I am     just where else would a madman go?

listen to the Creature EP

dig it out (again)

I’m well versed in my A B C’s   but my motor function is heavy   and there are days on end    when my head just feels empty   so I’ll make for my special stash   where I keep a shovel ready   you have to dig it out    if you want to spread it thick   you have to spread it thick    if you want to dig it out

you’re in the control group   and they’re feeding you placebos   we’re getting high and getting there often   we tweak our brainstems in idle curiosity    drugs are the relentless engines of our creativity   and the universal panacea for many untold maladies

I’m not trying to steer anyone here   but if you’re dragging the low end   those state sponsored solutions   will only bring you down   I’ve got portable ecstasies     burning holes in my pockets    I think that it’s time for a simple benediction    so I’m taking solace from my favourite instrument    it’s so clean    it’s obscene     and it works like a tonic   it’s those pastures green   in the kingdom euphoric 

memories

suddenly    out of nowhere    I just blurted you out    but I’m not ashamed    to recall your name     do you remember mine?    you liked the cut of my cliché    and my ragamuffin style   I enjoyed your laughter    and the quickness of your mind    I should have known you better   but there was just so little time

those moments are long gone    but the memories linger still   there on the tip of my tongue    this old  town was shabby news    but the memories are not    the past beats on inside of us    like a shadow heart

memories often sweeten over time   that’s how we endure the past      but there’s no staying there   we must move on   because the past is dead    and the future lives    most things are forgotten in time    but there are some memories   we can never consign to oblivion    good or bad   they remain the touchstones of our lives

I recollect that sorrowful scene      on the railway platform    our apologetic smiles    and the things we never said    in the uneasy awkward silence that marked our final moments together    it was hard to say goodbye   yes   I remember you     you’re not easy to forget

 

listen to the Creature EP

bipolar

 

when you are crazy     as crazy as I am   you don’t realise it    because your perceptions have shifted    away from the reality of the crowd     to a reality of your own   bipolar is a thief   it steals who you are    and replaces you with some imposter      someone you don’t even know   and you are forced to live in a world that’s no longer your own

I cannot escape my illness     any more than I can escape my shadow     on the dark days I scream    on the bright days I laugh    there is no in-between   but even in the depths of misery    there is music inside of me   I get high    I get low   but I can live with myself in either mode  

perhaps there is a world     far far away    that has a darker sun    and that’s where I’m supposed to be    some here think I’m too much    but from my perspective    they’re just not enough    they judge what they don’t understand   and I pity them for that    selective blindness is a dreadful affliction

my illness may be invisible    but believe me   I am not    I do not go quietly    you’ll know where I’ve been     I am a creature of irrepressible emotion    and it’s a life I’d gladly exchange   if I could find a recipient wicked enough to be deserving

between the mania   agitated depression   mixed emotional states   and suicidal ideation    no-one can understand bipolar geometry    least of all me     it’s the will to die    and the motivation to try    it’s a morbid dread scouring the streets in search of murder   it’s a dark well full of bitterness and despair  it’s a curse I wouldn’t wish on the devil himself

listen to the Creature EP

dagger

there is no gelt     in this writing lark      no real profit      no final reward      just a hunger      an insatiable need         to press the keys        and play the notes         that fill the page       all writing is futile      I can’t express how I feel        not in so many words     I’d like to take my pain      roll it into a ball       and stuff it in your mouth    so you’d be mute like me       your seams leaking      blotting your copy book      with a silent crimson scream

but those are just  words     I don’t mind you in the least     you brought me more pleasure      than a thousand dead poets

 “The only good poet is a dead poet.”

 isn’t that what you said?    imposters pout and posture      all across the page     with borrowed icons     and stolen voices       but genius lays face down in the gutter     death is the final measure     of dedication to the craft       but not for me darlin’    I don’t believe in tragedy    and I want to score in this life     not the next   I don’t intend to exit  prematurely         but after a long while       when I’ve perfected      my papers       and catalogued     my women     in alphabetical order    or numerical significance      according to rank  and ability

I like my words jagged    as crocodile teeth       dirty as a whore’s tongue       and rabid as the breath of infected dogs        I don’t require prettifying           or disinfecting      keep those nice words       for old ladies       to sprinkle on their cakes      I want you to feel me in you     I have no time       for ambiguity          or tickling ears       I want to ram my words       right down your throat            one day I’ll find the beat       that forces the rhythm          of my concoction          into your heart       like a fucking dagger

god must die

 god is dead     long live god   the god of mercy   that sacrificial lamb    paved the way for the church of sex and violence    we are all subscribers now     to the show that never stops    

we kill god again   and again    every time we murder innocence    when we kill for killings sake   when we make children enemies of the state   we doubled up on that shit   we never tire of killing gods

happiness is fleeting   but your pain will always be attended   god whispers to us in our joy     and screams at us in our pain     I murder god in my sleep   in my very dreams   I murder god for breakfast   before I start the day   

our prayers are an admission of our weakness     ours is a hunger that cannot be satisfied   we were meant for some other world    some world of eternal love    because of what remains for us    faith    and hope    and love    the latter is sovereign in our hearts   they say the darker the night    the brighter the stars    the deeper the despair    the closer to god    and that is why god must die

listen to the Creature EP

mendacious

 

there are things you never forget     especially things that didn’t happen    the past is what we remember    or pretend to remember   it’s purely subjective    there is no past really    just shady memories   and stories we tell ourselves

there’s no real distinction between the true and false   most things are neither   most of what people say is evasion   to expose the poverty within ourselves   is a frightening possibility    best to make something up   do a little dance   and hope no-one is watching

I don’t remember you    I remember me    and what I thought of you    I had you pegged as a liar    but we are all liars   our lives are one big lie   and our lies are beautiful   they help us perfect who we are

don’t all lies lead inexorably to the truth?   is there not a kernel of truth in every lie?   all stories    true or false   lead to the same conclusions    sometimes lies are easier to swallow than truths   the truth can blind    but lies merely illuminate

we are all actors in our lives    we just pretend to be who we want people to think we are     as actors each must play their part as if it were real    but we are all of us works of fiction     in this world of monstrous truths    it’s probably just as well

 

listen to the Creature EP

assassins

some tender moments remain uncharted   those rendezvous are covert affairs   instant hook-ups are of little consequence   cause if nobody knows then nobody cares   but beyond the cheap thrill and the base gratification    it’s still a charade    I was never really there

I severed those ties with definitive force   I cut them off and cast them out   then I set them on fire   powdered the ashes   and buried them deep   far far away   but they haunt me still    the flesh of my flesh   that lost appendage cleaved from the bone   a bloody sacrifice   to some lesser evil   they’re a revenant organ   or a phantom limb    they’re a forbidden exhumation and a filthy itch I long to scratch

 

those stones we so carelessly cast   birthed ripples of unforeseen dimensions    now there’s a tsunami of shit about to engulf you and I   and we shall reap more than we ever sowed   in yet another dismal harvest   of sorrow and despair

 

our practiced tongues wove convenient fictions from little grey lies   which we honed into truths sharp as knives   some kinds of love can smell like hate   some kinds of devotion feel like possession  

 

there are truths made of lies   like the stories told by jealous souls of bitter adoration   where romantic weapons are used with cooler calculation   yes  some kinds of love are poisoned daggers   wielded by lovers who are gentle assassins

listen to the Creature EP