Clockwork Monkey

I cannot explain my existence    I never learned the sequence     mine was a comic wilderness   filled with oppressive beings     high on illusionary power   bought and paid for with my sweat and toil    I was so tired of being shoehorned into those awkward instances      I turned on to the dark    to get my business fixed   some use smooth words for ragged purpose    they beguile to deceive     and I was only too willing to be deceived

 I’d seen his face before    but we all have    he served me black wine     I drank it greedily     straight from the bottle     it filled me up     and I became a beast   my face is fluid now    it can take on many forms     and though I speak with the tongue of angels      my heart is dark and empty     I’ve been totally locked out     but he has the master key

all words are instrumental     that’s what he taught me    the real power resides in the space between the curses   invocations   and fragrant lies   that’s the space between naked intent and imagination    words are snares for the unwary   but weapons in the hands of lovers   he had words to raise the dead    and to bury the living     he made me his sounding brass    he wound me counter clockwise    and set me against myself     just another clockwork monkey     clamouring for the sun  

covid sheets

 

another cold grey start has shrunk my knackers for the specimen jar     bring out your covid sheets     and deliver us your dead     Beelzebub’s children swarm in for the warmth of my brain pan      I’m in the kitchen     wearing my butcher’s apron     I’m dissecting the dreams you bequeathed me      looking for some that match mine     from back in the days when I could still see your smile

I should have been there to hold your hand    I should have been there in my mortuary clothes    but I’m all choked with the consumption and my blackened lungs heaving      you were eaten by moths    in yet another night of dread apprehension     this is the land of the viral load    where we deal in the deadly statistics transmitted to us in bulletins

I shall mourn you in the privacy of my own bubble    my agonies augmented by local enthusiasts   who smother me with their cold indifference and carefully rehearsed denials     I just let everybody do what they have to do     there are priority listings for those on the rise     and cardboard coffins for distant cousins     

I must be paranoid   because I’m the only jailor in this prism       I locked myself down and threw away the keys long before the plague arrived     all my highs are from outside my head  I’m just a mirror for the sickness of the world     symptomatic of a deeper malaise    that makes demons of us all       I shall weep for us from within my simulation     you can gather my tears from social media         before you fetch a big policeman to show me to the door

sharks

she spoke red     it’s a very old trick    but it gets your attention     like a loaded gun      but whatever she said    I paid  no mind     it didn’t mean nothing     she was  just having fun      I’m the same     when it gets down to it     and it gets down to it     often enough

you have to dig deep    if you’re gonna crash out    but you got to stay sharp    when you slip your collar   you must forge your papers    and murder the past   we were both killers     honed to perfection    too well matched    to do no harm

they tell me baby sharks    eat their siblings    I know people     who are worse than that    they think they are special    because they feel no fear    that’s completely reflexive     but it sets them apart      I’ve  been bitten more than once      but she bit deepest       she could still take a piece        whenever she wants

hear the Creature EP

rubber knives

to whom it may concern    two can play at your game    don’t tread on my stones    I’m only setting my papers in order    because you murdered me   with innuendo     accusations     and bitter lies    call the waiter   there are vermin in my soup   

you tapped my wires     rifled my drawers   and embezzled my contents   just for the malice in it    you took my anguish and fashioned it into nails    then you pinioned me on charges     no-one had ever heard of    but don’t cry baby    you were only doing your job     and I was only doing mine

my bones are heavy    from your excuses    you saw an opportunity     the same size as your boots      so you weighed in    I might have done the same  myself      if I was a cunt    your new friends had hard junk faces    wrinkled dead like burst balloons     scary in their pit bull nightmares      full of toothless bite and spit    weeping from an excess of white lightning  

theirs is the zombie flesh rising    some say it tastes like chicken    but everybody knows it’s pork    I’d zap ‘em all straight in the fucking brain pan  rattle their sensitivities    the alky villains who stole my coat     looked just like you do     lonesome    confused      and in search of a decent fit

fear

 

acid flashback   piranha guts   I got the fear on   I’m all body quake   and adrenal expulsion   it’s that weary old fight or flight paradigm   but I go by the numbers   it’s just a question of time    before I shake it off

 

the margins are minuscule   In this cruel season   It’s hard enough to raise a smile    never mind a buck   I rise when the sun sets   and bathe in the dark   scant reward    for all the bareback adventures   and romantic misdemeanours    that blot my copy book  

 

my chapped lips and a caffeine smile   reveal the morbidity in my inner ape   my silver tongue and leaden heels    have me hobbled in the starting blocks    those softer metals conduct static to the brain pan   and my blood impurities leave a tell-tale stain on the deep inside    but there’s no point in concealment      no-one gives a fuck what’s written there anyway

 

fear is the prime motivator    fear is the reflex action    it’s fear that makes the world go round    fear binds our colonies of fragile exiles   and legions of patient coffin fillers    macabre in our fleshy fascinations    nauseated by the differences of being   hungry for the blood of innocents    but fearful of the shock of discovery    and the blinding light of reason

 

there shall be no moment of rapture   the usual terms and conditions apply  there is only one enemy and it shows no mercy   fear knows the darkest secrets that occupy our hearts   and births the tiny demons that tear our lives apart   there is but one commandment   it was forged here in the dark

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?

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

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