If Greville and the Tombstones had an EP of rarities and B-sides, it might well be called Laying These Here to Rest.
But, of course, there are no rarities and B-sides, only poems I began to get me to the point of being able to say something else. Or were written but never quite enough to be deemed finished. Or have, until this, never been published on the band blog before. The following are notes and starts and stops of things written completists might like to read here in this collection.
Please enjoy the misfit things.
Hymn for anxiety
I’m living life according to my zodiac
I’m dealing blackjack at the card table
Stopping my hands from being idle
I’m in control.
Because I’m doing all my exercises
Taking medication detailed on the label
A caw as comforting as it is demented
I’ll tell you straight
It sings to you.
I’m burying deep on my big mistake
Failures exist only if they escape
And they won’t
Because I’m emotionally stable
I’ll hunt them down
If they do.
When you figure out it’s all meaningless
You’ve no fear leaving behind all this.
Bundled up in heartfelt anxiousness
Because we like death
Well, at least that’s true.
Holes can be dug for all sorts of causes
Echoes appear as dead voice noises
I’m only a mourner
Just like you.
Rembrandt has nothing new to say
You say you won but you’ve no stomach for the conflict.
Best hope is if you lose yourself to never be told it.
Say what you like when you don’t believe in it.
When you’ve got a hammer every nails’ hit.
Buy into it and buy into it and buy into it.
Fall for it and fall for it and fall for it.
Get over it, get over it, get over it.
Complicit, complicit, complicit.
Guess that’s just the way of it.
A martyr.
Bone silent mother.
Silences like no other.
Skins, grind and scatter.
Ink frayed and cloth in tatter.
The end is only going no further.
Accept grief, prepare death a supper.
Men’s smooth faces need no line to flatter.
Teeth melt like wax in white heated candour
Nothing to live up to so it really doesn’t matter.
Nazi nurse so feminine, see the cat-lick eyeliner.
No hint of things wrong, you say you are the victor.
Dead before consequences of the actions of the actor.
We All Want To See A Big Death Scene
Eyelashes dust on astral blusher.
Tendons straighten their ties from soft muscle.
Relaxed cords loose themselves from joints.
Hourglass hips time an empty sensation.
Ringlet hair to accentuate.
The lips, the eyes, the neck.
Plunging robe narrows at amethyst heart.
Daisy-chain the ankle to scent a summer’s day.
Twenty Four Hours of Words Make A Truth
I suffer for you
My muse makes me write things because it likes to frighten me
My muse likes terror tales,
The bloodier the better.
Dead trees, dismemberments,
Hanging skies of sickly pallor.
Told as Wurlitzer tunes,
Dark works to drip and ooze.
My muse collects them.
In cold, tin pails.
To write poetic exhales,
Sighed upon my muse.
Each phrase a precious jewel,
Lay them precisely at red shoes.
I'd like to write life-kissed arias.
My muse demands them
Little terror tales.
