Category Archives: songwriting

First we dance and then we go to heaven

First we dance and then we go to heaven
First we love and then we pass away
We see the sky and then round ‘bout seven
Our hearts feel empty and we dream in grey

First we must dance and then we go to heaven
We somehow forget how hard life can be
We don’t realise how our bodies are like leaven
We only know what’s good and what is free

First we dance and then we go to heaven
And heaven loves the ignorance of a child
Never dreaming death can come between us
The purity of love and all things free and wild

Then we tire and find there are no answers
To questions about love lasting years
Then we cry and end our career as dancers
We feel like stone and then we fill with tears

So first we dance and then we go to heaven
And if we love we’ll live forever more
This is the ideal that life seems to teach us
And if we run we can just get through the door

The Bluebird Cafe

I stopped at the bluebird cafe by Coniston Water
I went over the Hardknot Pass under Scafell Pike
I lingered with the Hardwick sheep on the shore of Windermere
Where the rain fell down and the mists obscured my sight
I chugged down the Eskdale railway to the station
I visited Muninster Castle where the owls seem to cry
I viewed Sellafield from Ravensglass harbour
Where in the small street there, no one seemed to alive
And I sat in the Bluebird Café by Coniston water
My thoughts like a gentle whispering breeze
That were trailing behind me through mountain passes
With my dreams in the hilltops and my feet in the Irish Seas
And I sat in the Bluebird Cafe by Coniston water
I saw the bird of the blues disappear into the trees
And the ferry too come circling into the harbour
And the sun came through the clouds on its hands and knees
And I tried to think of you by Coniston Water
I tried to think of you in the Bluebird Café
But like the mists and the breezes my thoughts were trailing
And the sun and the rain they went away
You should have been here with me by Coniston Water
You should be here with me in the Bluebird Café
You should have been here with me but all I have is the breeze
You should have been here with me on this strange holiday
The coach man had to hurry, I hardly had time for some tea

Patient Poems


A prose piece about how much society needs doctors and the strange power they have.

Doctors: picture a world full of doctors, doctors walking everywhere, everywhere you go you see doctors in white jackets.

Doctors from the mould, doctors in white jackets. The only way to tell male from female is short hair or hair tied up at the back. They all look alike, like shapes cut out of paper.

There are doctors, everywhere you go, doctors, in and out of every train door, revolving door, and shop door*. Doctors not smiling because they are serious, they are doctors, and they fill the planet.

And what do they all do, all these doctors? I am the only one left who is not a doctor. I run naked down a brightly lit corridor and out into the street screaming. I climb a high building and then I jump, then, doctors like clumps of snow crowd around the last pool of red blood that they will ever see.

*The sliding doors of the underground train; the revolving doors of banks; the glass doors of department stores.

There’s a Place in Boston

A lyric about how the wealthy can neglect their children

There is a place in Boston Where the people are so perfect
And anyone who starts to scream Is treated like a convict.
There isn’t a wrinkle in a sheet And they always say their prayers
But I don’t think God listens to them I don’t think he even cares
There are the homeless on the street And therapy is just in reach
And everyone is secretly In the bell jars of society
The heart is broken like a plate And when it breaks it leaks our hate
For all who scream to be set free From the perfect people who won’t leave be
And as you walk the Boston break-yard Where the freight trains alone can scream
Where you climb aboard an empty boxcar For it’s the only place to dream


As a child I experienced loneliness and fear at school

I was just a child. I was placing my feet precisely in the center of the paving tiles as I walked, hoping that no one would hurt me anymore if I did not step on the cracks.

I had no idea what unhappiness was or why I felt it all the time.

The idea occurred to me like how the smallest of wild flowers suddenly appears in the shadow.

Stepping across the tiles like that gave me a feeling of security like how the feeling of a small key would feel to a wind-up toy.

And that’s how I discovered the meaning of feelings, of security, unhappiness and, strangely, the existence of a Me.

Where I lived there was a brick wall

As a very young child living in a slum I couldn’t make sense of all the wlls around me

Where I lived there was a brick wall and in the wall, there were several crumbling bricks.

I would see the wind hammering at the bricks trying to get through. I would see the winter weather eating away the cement and the broken bits of bricks.

Then one bright spring day I looked and I could see right through the wall at the sun on the other side and I watched as the wall sagged and then caved in and then collapsed entirely.

And there are parts of society that thinks itself strong like a wall but they never ever talk about there feelings and some of the children in that society grow up having never expressed how they feel about anything that has happened to them. Then they are made to see a doctor, then they are put in a hospital, then they kill themselves.

And it’s a sign about the wall; that the wall is growing weak and that the wall will someday collapse because it’s a wall with no feelings, it’s a wall without love.

Blue Flame

Prose exaimining how society can set thepath of your life for you

Some machinery released the trapped gas in the bowels of the earth. It travelled along pipes into a factory to be cleaned up than along more pipes until it popped up out of the gas ring where it tried to escape to freedom, and then it was set fire to, in the blue flames that were destroying millions of years of formation.

You had been in the womb for a long time until formed into a baby you; you travelled through a tunnel and into a place where you were cleaned up. Then you were taken by car to a house (did you see the engine that turned your relative into exhaust fumes). There in a house it was both hot and cold. Your mother loved you; your society awaited you. There in the house, you received mixed messages; your mother nurtured you and society waited for you like a wolf.

You expect society to be like a home, but instead, your mother let you go free and society turned you into a blue flame.

In a Cosmic Mist

I have known friends who spend time in mental hospitals

In a cosmic mist where no real people could live was a hospital with six beds and one electro shock treatment room.

The nurse and the warden came silently through the pinpoint of reality gate and down the long white corridor into the ward where Henry VIII’s six wives were sitting on their beds.

She was taken down into the dark cavernous basement. She looked up but she could not see a roof in the thick black silence.

The fat Henry the VIII bird flew onto the warden’s shoulder. It had a tasseted breast and a gold chain around its neck and a hat tilted roguishly on its head.

She lay down on the contraption and the nurse and the warden strapped her down. An order was made and a great bolt of lightning passed through her temples and she became unconscious.

In the evening, a little recovered she joined the rest of the wives in the ward. Their faces were bright white. The room was bright white and everyone shone with a jangling brightness, from the earth people talked in wonder of the new constellation of six stars, bright as gleaming toothpaste blobs, icy white. There was a droning noise coming from it as if it were trying to give birth to a boy.

The Falling Gate

A prose story cartoon about the neglected child in me

The big gate fell down and shut me outside. It was a grey morning; I looked through the iron grill at the creature inside. Who are you, didn’t I know you once? This creature was black with dirt and long black uncut hair and rags … and was crying.

The inside of the dungeon room was small; there was nothing to give light. It was black as jade.

Who was this person? Did I know them?

I felt cheerful in spite of myself, cheerful to have my freedom, to see the winter light of a cloudy day.

I struck a match and looked into the darkness. I was looking into a mirror. There reflected back at me was myself.

Am I real? Is this really me outside here or is it my imagination? Am I really the person locked away in the dungeon?

I sat on the old crumbling ivy covered wall opposite the arched dungeon under the railway bridge and as night drew in, I seemed to disappear

– Like a phantom into the night.

Down in Mr. Kelly’s Workshop

Lyrics to my song about going to Art School.

The tramps, the troops, in ceremonial groups
Are playing classroom rebels in the hall.
Meanwhile there, a boy with Gainsborough hair
Is drawing graffiti on the wall.

The vamps, the groups, of Babylonian girls
Are keeping something secret up their sleeves.
Meanwhile there, the wooden spoon it stares
Is telling tale of secret love affairs.

Down in Mr. Kelly’s workshop
That’s where I go till break of day.
Down in Mr. Kelly’s workshop
I go to work my troubles all away.

The knights, the hoods, the mystic from the woods
Hold a séance in a darkened room.
Meanwhile there, I was in despair
As Houdini’s ghost came falling down the stairs.

The prince, the pawn, wearing old school clothes
Are painting both their shoes a pretty pink.
Meanwhile there, in his ragged old armchair
I sketch them all with invisible ink.

Down in Mr. Kelly’s workshop
A bunch of dolls are bleeding on the floor.
Down in Mr. Kelly’s workshop
Museum bones are tapping at the door.

The mother, the lover, the child of the rover
Are trying to understand the fallacy.
I cannot see, as I walk in from the street
Why they fear the worst in everyone.

A man in black, with a briefcase and a mask
Walks around the sculptors rented room;
Now he’s back and he’s walking very fast
Decides it will be demolished very soon.

Down in Mr. Kelly’s workshop
Past the statues standing in the drive.
Down in Mr. Kelly’s workshop
The ally cat struggles to survive.

Wipe the frost from off the window
Look out into the rainy day
Let’s go somewhere now; lets be happy and I don’t care how
So long as we leave our troubles all behind.

(If you’re hungry and forlorn, and you need to be reborn
From a life that turns its back on you
You can sit and stare from his old armchair
At the people working in his studio).

The phoenix has flown, from the ashes of the stone
A carving that is done from memory.
Meanwhile there, … … …
They fear the worst in every one.

(The night has fallen, the stone carving that they work on
Will be born the next sunrise)
The atmosphere inside, of energy is devoid
And rebirth weights heavily on his mind
(As if death has been unearthed by the artists eye).

You feel too bad to work,
You don’t understand a word
And time is like an ice cube in your shoe
You’re let down, I know,
You know you can only go
Down to Mr. Kelly’s studio.

Down in Mr. Kelly’s workshop
Mr. K. pulls a bluebird from the stone.
Down in Mr. Kelly’s workshop
Into the wind his miracle has flown.

For a place in school, there’s an audition in the hall
Like a slave market from a covered stall.
While the hand that is ignored, is the one that can’t afford
To let down the home just to be disguised.

The rich with the law try to teach the poor
While taking every penny that you own.
Art won’t make your bread, they teach you law instead
You spend your time taking their exams.

Down in Mr. Kelly’s workshop
The lock has been forced on the garage door.
Down in Mr. Kelly’s workshop
His dolls lie broken on the floor.

Like orphans of the road, some from broken homes
Pass through the workshop like …broken flowers.
Meanwhile there in fashions of last year
… girls who break down in tears

And the silence burdens you with manic principal
Who wants to integrate you all the time.
While the hand that is ignored, Is the one that can’t afford
To let down the home That he/she came fro Just to be disguised

Meanwhile there, he wants more G.C.E.’s
But he cannot see the trouble on your mind

Down in Mr. Kelly’s workshop
No one there has stopped you being free.
Down in Mr. Kelly’s workshop
A box of dolls has begun to bleed.

When I went to my first art class
The streets were paved with glass
Looking into a world I’d never know.
Now the streets are in dust
As the wind blows in disgust
Turning my poor heart into stone.

The tramps the troops, in theatrical groups
Would discuss my social problems in the street.
Meanwhile there, I’m seen weeping in the canteen
Because I can’t afford to buy anything to eat.

Down in Mr. Kelly’s workshop
Every one must wear a disguise.
Down in Mr. Kelly’s workshop
No one can talk to me eye to eye.

Mr. Principal feels its time for me to leave
All I want is a chance to draw
But you’ve got no money and no G.C.E.s
And you’re not sophisticated enough in how you talk.

Down in Mr. Kelly’s workshop
That’s where I’d go till break of day.
Down in Mr. Kelly’s workshop
Is where I’d go if ever I’d lost my way.

A dog in labyrinthic gloom, Peggy Sue’s sad tune
I’ll go to hide in his little office room.
Meanwhile I’d curse, the system till it hurt
The pain was something I really can’t explain.

The Bran-den-burg, like Brancusi’s bird
Soars passed the jeep that’s parked out in the drive.
Meanwhile outside, with mysterious hungry eyes
You draw nudes, fruit and empty bottles of wine.


Down in Mr. Kelly’s workshop
The cosmopolitan people never died.
Down in Mr. Kelly’s workshop
Though the changes came, it’s still there in my mind.

Sex, drugs, and the disguises of love
You can be a bohemian, even if you cannot draw.
Just pass all the exams, thieve ideas from my hands
Then you’ll take the place of artists in art schools.

The dying and the born, walk in from the storm
And begin to sculpt a pregnant form.
Meanwhile outside, the starving angel cries
And the model on the bottle stands by his side.
Or; (the devil with a sheep’s carcass hanging by his side)

Down in Mr.’ Kelly’s workshop
The manger and the tomb are done.
Down in Mr. Kelly’s workshop
In the rising and the setting of the sun.

The talking clock, the bones inside my sock
Simultaneously are heard to groan.
Meanwhile all day, the ghost piano plays
For the drunken navy’s asleep on an old tombstone.

The lathe and the file, argue all the while
Over who put the shine in a wedding ring.
Venus knows what to do (in blue), will take them down a peg or two
It was then that everyone began to sing – – –

Down in Mr. Kelly’s workshop
We sand the problem till it fades away.
Down in Mr. Kelly’s workshop
Only the beauty of the form remains.

(Why don’t you come along inside
Join the party and have a real good time).

I’d be footloose and fancy free
But for these chains on me
Put there by the authority.
I’d know all I need to know
If I didn’t have these blues so
That everyone feels
But no body else can see.

the church by the pub, on the hill of modern love
up the market to the old art school
the sun has set, the students all have left
and the market is empty of its stalls.



Sombre Music Piece

i got it into my head to try and write a symphony on my music app. This was to be 2nd movement. I’d love to get feedback on this or any other item I’ve posted. Regards, Michael.