It’s A Parody Of Me

 

It’s a parody of me!
What’s a parody of you?
The shadows, they’re not my shadows
Whose are they?
Nobody

It’s a parody of me!
What’s a parody of you?
What I see on the street
What do you see on the street?
Waves, rolling waves, rolling above the shadows
Shadows from where, from who?
From nowhere, from nobody

It’s a parody of me
The city skyline
The city skyline above the waves of shadows
Why is it a parody of you?
Because of how I feel
How do you feel?
Trapped, I feel trapped beneath the waves on the shadows and alone

It’s a parody of me!
What’s a parody of you?
The touch of concrete, the feeling of concrete
Why is it a parody of you?
Because of the nightmare I had when my flesh turned to concrete and my tongue became swollen

It’s a parody of me!
What’s a parody of you?
The death I see all around me
Becoming solid like concrete
Like the skyline above the waves breaking over the shadows crashing over the shadows
The waves of invisibility that shut out the light that filter out the light of day

It’s a parody of me!
What’s a parody of you?
The circle, the circle of the earth around me, its horizon filled with skyscrapers
I feel I am in the centre of a Stonehenge circle
I feel that I am on the sacrificial altar stone in the middle of this horizon of skyscrapers
That I have turned to stone, that my tongue is swollen
That I am having a nightmare
That the shadows beneath the waves are surrounding me wearing cloaks of invisibility

It’s a parody of me!
What’s a parody of you?
The loneliness etched into the stones
Is like the loneliness etched into me
As the knifes break upon my bone and the sacrificial loneliness ebbs out of me
Bubbling in the sun with laughter
The laughter of my blood getting louder
Filling the whole city
Echoing through the city streets
Flooding around the skyscrapers that surround me

It’s a parody of me!
What’s a parody of you?
The soft touch of the air of life upon my body
Lighting my flesh up into the great tent of the sky
Waving it like a flag in the sky above the circle of the earth
I can feel the summer wind blowing around my flesh that flutters like a flag
Above the circle of the earth
Above the circle of skyscrapers circling the altar stone in the shadows beneath

It’s a parody of me!
What’s a parody of you?
The way nobody seems to see me
The way nobody seems to know who I am
The way a thin film of me sticks to people like clothing
Making them invisible to each other on the street
The way the laughter of my blood floods over them and down the city streets like a tidal wave
A tidal wave of laughter
Like the lighthearted laughter of people before their deaths in a battle
Laughter amplified so much that their ears cannot even hear it

It’s a parody of me!
What’s a parody of you?
The way the world dries up the pools of rain on the pavements and roads
The way it disappears and leaves nothing and the light from the sun bounces of the windows and into the shadows where the waves are ebbing back to where they came from

It’s a parody of me!
What’s a parody of you?
The way the whole city seemed when I first arrived here
The whole city seemed empty
The whole city, the way it sang,
The way the sky about it made the concrete sing
The way the empty skyscrapers seemed to sing up to the sky a song no one could hear
The way people were invisible in the shadow beneath
The way they vanished like pools of rainwater in the wind from the city pavements and city streets
The way I could see it all as if it were a mirror of my own naked flesh bathing in the pools of rainwater
As the laughter of my blood swamped the skyscrapers in a noise so loud that human ears were incapable of hearing it

It’s a parody of me!
What’s a parody of you?
The way I’m being mirrored by the concrete
The way the circle of skyscrapers seem to mirror me as I lie on the altar in the middle of them
The way they mirror my flesh that has turned to stone and my tongue swollen in my head
The way I see myself mirrored in the concrete
The way the concrete feels like my flesh
The way this old volcanic stone has been set into skyscrapers
The way they are cold and heavy like the way my flesh felt cold and heavy in the nightmare that I had

It’s a parody of me!
What’s a parody of you?
The way my mind can make things vanish
How dos your mind make things vanish
The way they vanish when you close your eyes and time spreads all around you like sand filling your ears, filling your mouth and your nostrils
The way everything seems to become a dream that vanishes like pools of rainwater dried up by the wind
The way my mind gets separated from the circle of stone and the concrete around me
The way it seems peaceful separated from the endless inner pain that grows in my like a tree that grows through the middle of me
Growing up through the circle of skyscrapers
Growing taller and taller producing a single red fruit that that hands from a branch
That is snatched and away and taken and consumed
That is stolen from me
Then someone comes to cut down the tree that grew from the altar into the sky and produced that one red fruit
And it falls and it crashes into the streets and the shock wave follows the laughter made by my blood laughing so loud that no one has hearing that can hear it

It’s a parody of me!
What’s a parody of you?
This Babylon, this Citylon
This city

Through the glass top of my coffee table

Looking through the glass top of my coffee table
I see the people in Canary Wharf

Adam and Eve were ashamed of their nakedness
But maybe they were more ashamed of what they were thinking
The tree of knowledge had started to infiltrate their minds
An alien life form had begun its life

What is this class under this glass? What is class?
Those with the intelligence to use the knowledge of the world
Swarm here under the glass of my coffee table
Through the shopping centre
Up and down the escalators
A world lost in a lost world

Smart, clean, sharing the same determinations
Escalator man and escalator woman
Each wanting a bite of the fruit
What else is there to life?

Why was God angry
Why was knowledge so bad?
Looking down through the glass of my coffee table
The tree is covered in stinking ivy; dead bodies are now its fruit
Knowledge is a whirlpool in the sand
A hollow tree trunk, aged and rotten

The internet has it all
All the knowledge of the world, both good and bad
And in this an empty centre, a hollowness

Something was left behind a long time ago
Fear of falling, clinging onto the knowledge of the world
What was Adam and Eve supposed to be?
How did this knowledge change them?
What did it replace in their minds?

Slaves, all of us!

Slaves, all of us!
Pulling the World along the road
Like a giant block of stone

Without the world you would have freedom
Why haven’t you got freedom?
Because you lack love

Once upon a time a man thought he could build a world
With flesh, muscle, bloodletting
But he failed to finish it – he died!

He was a typical man
He believed it weak to understand the heart
He preferred war

Ever since we have laboured to finish what he started
Ever since we have been dying and leaving it unfinished

The Little Orchestra

Over a hundred years ago, there was an orchestra, a standard one for the time, whose music sounded adequately beautiful; an orchestra with some of the greatest unknown musicians in Europe. Work was scarce and underpaid and each one lived a life of poverty, practicing in their hotel rooms and boardinghouses. The members of the orchestra confided in each other their secrets, their secret desires, their secret pasts. If they had nothing else as a group they had this, talking to each other as if in confessional, yet in fear of their conductor, a wealthy, cruel man who ruled with a fierce discipline over their lives.
Nearly all players were exotic, strange, lonely living in a strange city, touring the continent playing in the small venues in great cities. When tours were over they dispersed and went and lived as best they could, sometimes towards the end of their rest period they even become homeless and playing in the streets and bars for whatever they could get or else giving lessons for reasonable fees.
There were many from a poor catholic background. One was Buddhist, several were atheist, (they were Italians, Russians, French, Bavarian and Slavic. They moved to Paris to find fame and fortune but found only slavery. Detached from the general hubbub of normal life they were seen as outsiders, as aliens or as being above the general population, to be condescending to be among them. However, they lived stricken lives, crippled by a harsh moral code, part religious moral high society. Except that they never lived in the higher society, they had little money to take advantage of their service and they had little knowledge of any other life except as work-a-day musicians.
The world was confusing and life was fearful. They played because they were trained from childhood; one of them could hardly read a book. They were from a background of medievalism, of gothic institutions and the world of artistic slavery. As children they were made to practice for six hours a day then they sat by their windows to watch the world go by. This was the life of the musically talented, a life so Spartan that their hearts broke over and over again. They had no other schooling or contact with other children except their own families who saw them as precious protégées who ultimately disappointed because of how little, as parts of an orchestra, they were paid.
If you met one of them and struck up a conversation, you would be alarmed at how backward they were, at how repressed in their feelings they seemed to be and you would wonder why.
Their leader, the first violinist was a man of upright character in a moral straightjacket. Responsible for keeping them pure and innocent, believing that this gained favour with some of their more wealthy listeners and sadly and indeed it did. Little did they know about the individual musician or their names, or their claustrophobic lives.
Sometimes there were affairs between them, affairs that were doomed to failure. Swamped in ignorance and fear, destroyed by poverty, a successful suicide was more normal than a successful romance, for while high society was able to move forward with the times, the orchestra was tied up in the girdle of an almost militaristic honour. Still each one of them had their human side, by accident they would learn from lessons outside of their positions, or they would learn from each other.

Venus and Mars

I have to stay up “till midnight”
You will be asleep by then –
Then the watchman leaves into the streets
Overlooked by Venus sparkling over the city.

Midnight is a long time away now
As far as the North Pole in winter
Where the giant clockwork machine turns the universe
That ploughs through the fields, tuning up bones and larks eggs.

After two years of seeing each other you ask
1. Is there more to life than love?
2. Lets play hide and seek with the stars.

Sleep draining sleep; until Venus strikes her bell.
Dream of me as the thin wooden man on the battlefield
Struggling with the red eyes of Mars in the shadows.

Sleep, darling, sleep safe in your soft bed
While Venus sparkles above you – unforgetfull of this hope . . .

A reprimand from the absent guest at the A.G.M

You invited yourself along and all that you do came too. Carolyn’s shrub, wet with pain, you passed by as if you wore the night like a fairy tale. Now what have you done with the oyster of your mouth? Counting the steps of my vertebrae up to the moon that rattles in my brain amongst the deadwood of words; A white lie in the dream of corridors echoed through the old building like a rampant albino nettle. The piano played like a skeleton in the hunger of my heart; the music was a dark closeted room of loneliness; Despairing in the maze of rooms in my identity of ice and fire. A spoil of war put at your feet by the red ghost of love.

How often unfairness drags me through prison walls laughing
How often has unfairness blunted my own words in my own heart?

Tired alone and defeated by the stress of cats mewing in my brain
I left you to the spoils of war fashioned out of the ivories of my bones.

Now you have formed a mystery with me
Your inbred arrogance slips through the closed door like bath water.

I can hear the voices of the roses inside
But all I’m given are the pledges of distant voices.

My imagination is plastic and it is clay
It is formed into whatever you want it to from.

If I were a man made of glass windows
The world would see the fool inside in his red fur coat.

But it seemed like a normal day to Jehovah
And I seemed like a grain of sand in a fire.

 

2000

Life surrounds you, hems you in

Life surrounds you and hems you in
People like antibodies congeal on you
Drag you down to the ground
Pin you to the floor so you cannot travel

The place where you grew is far away
Those you grew up with are trapped
By life congealing around them

A force for life or a force for death
Loved ones are separated from you
the power of strangers crowds around them

And each man, woman and child
Is helpless in the sea of humanity
Is sown into the fabric of life
Absorbed into the quicksand of society

Freedom is a level 10 in the heart
So many of us barely reach a level 2
We sit into the tapestry of life around us
Like birds without homes flying forever

2002

Song: Picassos old man painted pigeons

It’s another winter’s day and I’m sitting here alone
The night descends, the air gets cold and I’m a long, long way from home
The super heroes of my youth could be passing in the street
I hear the occasional trampling of their feet

It’s a day like any other
That brings you down to the ground
And makes you think of the ordinary things
Going round and round

And Picasso’s old man painted pigeons
He didn’t paint nothing more
He just liked to paint pigeons
That gathered around his door

There’s a stillness in the room I’m in and a quietly ticking clock
A few children’s voices playing run around the block
The roar of underground trains I can hear beneath my feet
A person rattling a paper bag as I write upon this sheet

And Picasso’s old man painted pigeons
He didn’t paint nothing more
Piccasso’s old man painted pigeons
That fluttered around his door

And I’ve got that waiting feeling like a statue in a square
That people all are passing by as if I wasn’t there
But in my world I’m not made of stone, I’m not waiting for anyone
I’m thinking about the everyday things that everyday people get done

And Picasso’s old man painted pigeons
He must have counted everyone
And Picasso’s old man loved his pigeons
And he watched them fly in the sun

Pigeons they are everywhere
Some are here, some are there
You can love them if you try
You can love them if you care

And Picasso’s old man painted pigeons
Maybe they’re not so well known to you
But Picasso’s old man painted pigeons
That’s all he really wanted to do

Memorials to murders

Memorials to murders
Stand like bus stops in our land
Wreaths on every corner
It’s hard to understand

Babies and teenagers
Old ladies and old men
Blood stained city corners
Where’s it going to end

You can walk across a pavement
You can walk by a door
Where someone fell dieing
And won’t be seen no more

Killers are growing numerous
There’s a handful in every street
And justice ties its shoelaces
And is tripping over its feet

Where’s the heart in the system?
Where’s the heart in this land?
They try to play fair like in cricket
And let evil gain the upper hand