Against testing animal fighting.

 

This is... Against testing animal fighting.

Nothing. Nothing.

No thing. No thing. No thing.

Not a thing.

Empty. Empty.

Empty me.

I'm slipping. Detaching. Moving to Heaven or Hell.

Ethereal. No, no:

Ephemeral.

I might be a different person.

From the one who I let imagine

I might be in a different place.

From where my body has been laying.

Below honeysuckle and bees.

Sugar cubes stirred into my cup of tea.

Effect from cause.

Against testing animal fighting.

Placebo cube pill stirred into my cup of tea.

As long as we're taking something

We can be artificial.

Guilt is the only thing left for certain.

Feels like the only thing left that's real.

Only thing that's not an equation.

That's the gospel of travelling Preacher Johnny Fishbone.

I heard on the telephone he's setting up his folding church

Just out of town under beams of broadcast static.

I want to believe. Just not believe in that much.

I heard on the commercial he's handing out tickets to the Rapture.

Offering those who go a legacy software patch.

I heard on the grapevine he's wearing a pastel blue suit

With a golden tie and boots.

I heard on the Ouija board.

About what he's feeding his congregation.

He's talking in computer beeps and bops.

He regards them as data that's corrupt and lost.

Accept the Jesus cookies.

We are damned as predator and blessed as prey.

Servants of God and Kings of home.

Let me put a counterpoint like a driven pickaxe into bone.

Your existence is proof enough for me of no Divinity.

On the thatch ground.

Wildflower of the scrub.

Far from indoctrinations hanging on the wire.

I was led to the reflecting pool.

Led to the colour, led to the prose.

No telling how deep it goes.

I was shown Pan. Not for the prospecting of gold.

But to discover shimmering desire, between the gleaming stones.

To find something to behold.

Stings bite differently once you are submerged.

Bodies strain differently once you put your head under.

Meanings falter differently once you dissolve them.

Then no one taught me how to swim.

Compelled and repelled at falling in

The cubed water disturbed by a tail and fin.

Birdsong echoing like church bells in a thundering sky, above.

Someone take me in.

It's not a baptism.

It's a splash of shock of the sublime.

Your existence is proof enough of no Divinity.

Neither of yours nor of mine.

I can show you the horror of mankind:

God visits whether we are present or not:

We are only witnesses of time.

A eyeball sun rolling, shade in lashes, iris alien botanica flowering,

That's what I'm offering.

Mendicine

To me - and what I tried to do - in this poem is write exactly what my teenage self would have wanted to write. It has all that teenage cool hormonal angst I had to it. It feels confessional, which I wanted. It feels like it is trying to break out of as yet undeveloped way of expressing something, anything. And that came easy as I still struggle to articulate. It's a poem that wishes it could be better, but realises it maybe just needs to be there at all.

It has that grunge to it.

This is... Mendicine

My timing's slightly off.

Plead with a squall:

A little more time over there.

Voice cracks into a beg:

A little less time over here.

Not grief enough for the living.

Comfort myself by consoling the dead.

I'm sickly when I'm sweet.

Watching myself pass right on by me.

Are my convictions based on muscle memory?

A conscientious voice on a whim

I'm no longer

Invested in?

Don't conflate politeness for my acceptances.

Take another bitter pill.

Take another happy pill.

Take another pill

to stop being ill.

Watching my language whenever I can.

"A sensitive boy" is some euphemism to a man.

Well you know I perfectly am.

Sensitive to motherfuckers

Spending beautiful days.

Sensitive superpower at locating our differences.

Take another calming pill.

Take another caffeine pill.

Take another pill

to stop being ill.

Waiting for the mendicine to kick in.

Watching the needle of the record player.

Played B side so much its flipped the A side grooves over.

Spinning reasons to be beside the living.

Some are bloody minded.

Some are forgiving.

Sometimes the bride, sometimes monstrosity.

Take another patchwork pill.

Take another tailormade pill.

Take another pill

To stop being ill.

Watching the surrounding walls closing in.

Knowing they are paper dry and just as paper thin.

I pretend in the room when I said

That the walls are built

of solid lead.

To stop them stopping me torching them with flamethrowers.

Take another paranoia pill.

Take another mind expanding pill.

Take another pill

to stop being ill.

Watching corkscrew chain reactions spiral.

In a fuzzy summer afternoon suburban smog roll.

I threw them out like sickly sweets.

Don't think I don't hear these

Under floorboard heartbeats.

Hands shielding eyes from the blinding flash of consequences.

Take another ten dreams per hour pill.

Take another anti-nightmare pill.

Take another pill

to stop being ill.

Take another pill to get down.

Take another pill to swallow.

Take another pill to endure the collateral. 

Take another pill to be unconditional.

Who made whom; it doesn't matter at all

We won't always be able to

touch the way we want to.

Take another pill to numb all the pain.

Take another pill to feel it all again.

Take another pill to be unreliable

narrators.

Take another pill to be uncompromisingly

put on this earth for.

Take another pill

To be what we always will be

To the other.

I don't need to take another pill.

I don't mind being ill.

It's not the getting better but the scarring.

It's not about the healing but the mending.

Not a rapier blade, but a hickory bow bending.

I hear the sound of arrows whistling.

It's the sound of the mendicine kicking in.

A monkey on an expedition to circumnavigate the face of God

 

This is only a mood piece.

This is...

A monkey on an expedition to circumnavigate the face of God

You hurt me just the right amount.

Set me up just as a body count.

Surround me in ways so few ever do.

By a Japanese master's brush strokes.

My spine is a needle and its being threaded through the canvas.

When existence is only by texture thickly layered onto texture.

Elementals thrashing into spume.

Like peacock feathers in full bloom.

Lipstick spit; nylon dipped; hot wax dripped; cityscape stripped

To the teeth bared back.

Lens flare headlights and growling exhaust pipes.

Copper eyes glinting out the dark.

Out in these lupine days just bright enough.

Everyone sticking onto everywhere from obsessional sweat.

Shirts peeled from surfaces, shoes fetishised in their purposes.

You hurt me just the right amount.

You know I'm your devout.

Seize me as a relic you possess.

Release is slow; every breath as ghosts.

My spine is a weeping tree: leaves may fall but branches remain.

Where you can't see my ribs for the vines laced good and tight.

Skeleton shows sharpened marks from flint.

Sharpened cutlass to slice through the all of it:

Purging flame; curse blowing hurricane; human detonating pain

Of a nuclear blast.

All consumed bones are getting exhumed.

Rake over ashes to see what's glinting out the dark.

I'm in these lupine days just bright enough. 

Time as Witness metamorphoses its final form of Time as Absence.

When existence is only folding matters into madness.

When my existence feels like texture.

When my existence feels like time running out.

You hurt me just the right amount.

Draw a chalk outline around what I adore.

When rain is passing, knocking on new town doors, 

And softening dirt to get the bodies out.

Ends tend not to be wrapped in bows, but in shrouds.

The eaten heart

 

This is... The Eaten Heart

I missed you, so I put a Led Zeppelin record on to be reminded of you
Robert missed you, so he fucked God to be reminded of you.
I wanted to see you, so I climbed the mountain peak, then after,
Climbed clouds on compound fractures, to get a better view.
I had to talk to you, so I built a temple from my body's ruin.
Cracked, broken, chewed by desire.
I'm on fire; for you I'm Rizla paper thin.
An outlier; Alice, here's a wilderness to get lost in.
Devastator in chief, hold me tight, like fresh-cut grief.
Eat my heart. Tear off bites like I'm a sugar donut.
Like the Queen of Jam Tarts, let red jus flow from lips apart.
Eat my heart. Without it, I'll be alright.
Wild beasts in cruel lands feast on hearts by electric light.
Eat my heart. Swallow it whole and don't let blood splash your evening gown.
This world is a hole already swallowing me down.

I am moth, rabbit, and possum

This is: I am moth, rabbit, and possum

Your love bites are hypodermic.

I am a doll for you to dismember.

Dis-articulate me, without resistance.

String me up tightly.

Make me your vision of beauty.

My love is vulnerability.

And it makes me a frightened rabbit.

Sometimes I am so vulnerable.

I need you to put me out of my misery.

Starve me in a Faraday cage.

I no longer want to transmit or receive.

Wants of others are treasures lost in seas.

I can reach them no more

Than the moth can reach the moon.

And believing you to be the celestial being,

Sometimes I am a moth caught by a flame.

I need you to put me out of my misery.

Out draw me at high noon.

Spill my thoughts into the dust.

Put me on my back.

I will play dead like a possum.

And let my imagination take over.

Sometimes I need no future or want no history.

I need you to put me out of my misery.

Something throwaway for teeny-boppers

 It feels like a while since I wrote a love song for the kids to get into.

This is...

Something throwaway for teeny-boppers

Seance wind knocks in the crow feathered night.

Rain drives with the sound of cracking joint bones.

There's an unlocked graveyard, where what is carried in claws back out.

Over dripped tombs; from upstairs bedrooms; mother will be home soon.

We are cells in the body of a being that is trying to understand its purpose.

Surrounded by shapeless sea: shifting points of compass.

Under bleeding edge moon; only landmarks are our wounds; howling in tune.

Let's share in something throwaway.

A sunrise screaming at seven octillion atoms; death in its present state.

Let's get together to do something throwaway.

Hold each other down and dare to eat the fruitful flesh; defy the sky for aging.

Let's go and be something throwaway.

A spool of imagery blurred from lens flares; part of a circulatory system.

There's a nightclub that exists at the end, named the Four Horsemen.

It sells single cigarettes, private dances for necromancers, green fairies by the hour glass

Inside, names and histories are throwaway.

The Four Horsemen know there's a limit to everything and that is the limit of

The Place we are in and the weather outside is raging.

Let's fuck in a life that's throwaway.

Romantasy

 

This is... Romantasy

Laying on top of sheets, like witch piled sticks.

Limbs placed around ritualistically.

Bound like the oath given by a lover's samurai.

 A place of allegory on which to slay the king.

Where dragons are known to dive,

hunting on the wing.

Needle over vinyl on brushed stereo HiFi.

RPM forty-five: "I'm straight I'm queer I'm bi."

There's no such thing as committing original sin.

It's all been done before.

Over ankles, wrists, elongating spills over the floor,

Winter sun runs shadows like cats.

Mint winter air pinking skin in natural habitats.

Like seasons, love is cyclical.

"Love the sinner not the sin", as if they're not reciprocal.

I love you both.

Sinners sinning.

Don't panic, not everything's satanic.

Like walking with a collar doesn't make you a dog.

Or a religious man.

Operating in a society of binary low-key aggression.

Where the weather is important.

Extreme conformation is aspiration.

Fucking... being a man's man is an occupation.

We suspend our belief system that this is living.

To run fingers over the frame of mass delusion.

That this is a scene to be seen in.

That we have armour that is glistening.

So we tie ourselves in sheets and knot the linen.

To be rid of sports leisure fashion.

From feeling these people are Martian.

From being afraid of nothing.

To lay sticky skin to sticky skin.

You and you and me and me.

Sinners Sinning.

Butterfly Exits The Head

You come like a musical note.

You come like the crackle of lit Cuban leaves.

You come like a stab somehow missing an artery.

You come like from a bygone era.

You come like burning sienna.

I beat like a pen on a love letter.

I beat like barefoot on floorboard timber.

I beat like the next sobbed movement of my heart.

I beat like a detonator counter.

I beat like a flicker of burning sienna.

We will fall to our heart-shaped knees.

We will spill over-flowing froth from coffee cups.

We will show our teeth behind full lips to those we want.

We will see God wet with rain.

We will be buried with burning sienna.

Your eyes like changing skies above me.

Your voice like May flowers in a beastly wilderness.

Your body like a river winding through this religious land.

Your lips like lights of home.

Your hair like burning sienna.

Can I squirm like a contented cat under you?

Can I share that across road eyelash glance with you?

Can I watch you dress and buckle your shoes for you?

Can I do anything for you?

Can I come to your burning sienna?

Your unrequited office love can go suck it: you don't get more unreachable love than for the dead

 This is.... Your unrequited office love can go suck it: you don't get more unreachable love than for the dead

As the servant turned by vampire,

I am turned by you.

I adore it.

As the hypodermic pierces flesh,

I am pierced by you.

I adore it.

Lash me to the yardarm, set sail at the brewing storm

And still I will not be as sick as the sickness from which the poem's born.

As the priest prostrates to any deity

I offer myself wholly prone.

My love: temple to your heart of precious, glinting, stone.

 

The only pure thing is fallibility,

It offers no respite.

I adore it.

History collapses, memories fold, rain is hard.

Everything vacant and cold.

I adore it.

My love is tactile as colour; blessed and cursed

And my love will only matter in this unmeaning, undead universe.

As the comet tears into the black star

I'll rescue you from nightmares

My love: a dream where something in this fucked place cares.

Swan Vesta

This is... Swan Vesta

Lying between your legs.

Head on your hip while you read Brecht.

Doing anything else would be a waste of time.

This inclement June.

I nuzzle into your cotton.

My rib-cage slips under my skin from my breath.

My fingers sliding underneath the elasticated band

Of your ankle sock.

I might as well try to stop the birds in the trees

From singing as here and now stopping wanting you

"The curse of reincarnation

Is growing pains"

No more than a growl.

You say:

"Your monsters are like

 all you have read are medieval texts.

Flowers grow crooked in angled sunsets"

I say: "Leave me to preying wolves"

You say: "Even when your empty skull is found,

I'll put my middle finger into your eye-socket and

 I'll know you again."

"Writing is eroticism."

"Intimacy of writing in the ink I gave you"

I say: "I run a finger to a smear of wet ink

letters across the paper so I might place each 

word on my tongue."

Your reclining whisper:

"It's like an indie girl taught you how to kiss"

Quote "One's freedom fighter, is another's terrorist"

I spat a lot of blood out

in the bathroom sink.

You say:

"When time turns flesh,

You can twist a knife in, really mean it,

And twine ourselves between its naked warmth"

I feel every moment

When you enter my head.

I say:

"Spending time with you is a fetish you sell.

Quote "What isn't Heaven is Hell, can't you tell?"

Our rib-cages slip under blood and flesh

When we breathe.

Sleazier than a misused religious metaphor

I've tried to write something hot. I'm not sure a graveyard poet with an imaginary gothic band can "do" hot. But here's my go.

This is...

Sleazier than a misused religious metaphor

Across the sticky floor, stepping out a Fujifilm

"Give me a Quick Fuck"

Teasing the F out of a lower lip bite.

Bartender pours a shot of something like

Green cough syrup.

Neck exposed in the swallow.

Maneki-neko 

 Clinging to a white-T

Under, cartoon words:

"I purr if you stroke me"

Shoes that never take themselves off.

Desirous fingers always to unclasp the buckles.

Unthread the straps.

Bare footed walk into the last call black cab.

Across sticky lips, over Jesus and Mary Chain tape:

"Give me little deaths"

Smoke mixed with your breath blows

slow into my mouth on the beat of the vowels.

Try to look like I don't care for it.

Nylon to cotton.

Merlin to Morgan le Fay.

"My tongue will weave you to incantation as it takes little lives away"

Nothing more religious

Than truth telling when we consecrate the grave.

Flesh to flesh.

Across your body wearing Chanel number six. 

"Unclip me from my crucifix"

Sleazier than a misused religious metaphor.

Slithering down and round and lower.

Untied snake gold chains slip loose ends.

Let's dig our bones

Up from the soil of Eden

Let's smear each others' make-up and get to it.

In the greased embrace

Arches and eyerolls collide into energy lit

as anti-matter.

Because nothing matters.

Across a night clutching you tighter than shrink-wrap

"I love fucking darkness"

I imagine the words dripping off your shoulder.

In air thicker than smouldering fume diesel, hair touches

Sweat of the night

Glistening in the ambient light.

We can see the shapes of you and me through the nebula

As it settles on spent things.

And discarded clothing.

Like a polished adder stone

Falling through a hole in a pocket

Into a black stream.

 

Go-go sunrays (pool party mix)

 

This is... Go-go sunrays (pool party mix)

Flesh starved.

I'm ready to rip out throats with my teeth.

This is only painless if I couldn't care less
that it fuckin hurts.

That's how it fuckin is.

Touch deprived.

Let's get down to it and compare depravity.

Nails run over like vice and I swear to Christ

They cover me like sunrays.

That's how it fuckin is.

What's the point of building bridges

if I don't use matchsticks?

What's the point of living in a castle

if villagers don't wear crucifix against the blowing wind?

Tongue tied.

You didn't like my handwriting so I changed it.

I draw letters blotted out on sky-less days

now shaped into sunrays.

That's how it fuckin is.

Hard wired.

Drink me. Eat me. I taste exactly as you want. 

Snip the countdown wire, it won't stop the fire

It wasn't connected anyway

That's how it fuckin is.

What's the point of building bridges

if I don't use matchsticks?

What's the point of loving you now

if it's isn't for the suffering?

What's the point of where my spirit lays 

if it can't be dried by sunrays?

Light sensitive.

I keep losing you again and again in the maelstrom.

But I won't stop reaching for you to get it on.

That's how it is fuckin is.

Song for Winona

I woke up in a morning with this lyric in my head. This is like my McCartney dreaming Let It Be.

This is... Song for Winona

I got a crush on Winona.

Hangin' out hopin' she's gonna

One day go steady with me.

Sometimes I catch a movie of her

On Alternative late-night TV.

Half-eyed, it's like she's in the bedroom with me.

Or I'm hangin' at the back of the scene.

I got a crush on Winona.

Hangin' out hopin' she's gonna

One day go steady with me.

Inertia Pareidolia

My attempt at writing in britpop.

This is... Inertia Pareidolia:

Sitting at a window. 

Rewinding and forwarding the view. 

Even while it's bleeding out. 

Still life creaking, high rising, falling hard at you. 

Missing what it's all about. 

Sea-glass forget-me-nots wash into the picture, 

From the eternal, uncharted wave, 

Her driftwood voice, slow quotes scripture. 

Jesus would come again for the head she gave. 

I'm seeing faces in the time that passes by the door 

oh-oh-oh 

Are they from a future I will never see anymore? 

Sliding the abacus. 

Counting out bad dreams. 

Taking register when they return home. 

Horizons narrow, hands reach cold walls as she leaves. 

Lost eyes will always be burnt holes. 

Man way up in his moon puts down songs of sorrow. 

They're limited and out of tune. 

Morbidly listening in to heartbeats in the afterglow 

of love long since abandoning the room. 

I'm seeing faces in the afterlife that walk by everyday 

hey-hey-hey 

Are they ghosts of the usual or have something new to say? 

Watering houseplants.

They keep dying one by one. 

Even while they're blooming. 

Words picked for their beauty of lovers to listen. 

Birth roots dirty and ripped open. 

Is that the sound of rainfall, or is it the typewriter 

stripping petals to their waist? 

"Restlessly pulling at bedclothes, I recognise her. 

In creased sheets: her taste."

I'm seeing faces in the static received by my tv screen 

yeah-yeah-yeah 

Are they reflections, premonitions or moving in-between?

To be treated like an author discovered off the prescribed student reading list

In this summertime, I appear to have written a gothic love song.

It came from first trying to describe the feeling of the first discovery of a book no one else is reading and falling in head over heels with it. Becoming obsessed with it. Wanting more of it. Hiding it away from others. Protecting it from others.

This is... To be treated like an author discovered off the prescribed student reading list

Hold me as you do a book.

Suck on these new found wounds

As you do on words of lust.

Forbidden, now tasted first.

Read me as bones up at the church,

An outlier with your youth.

A connection to something other.

Grip me as I grip you.

Attached by our unreliable truth.

Part of the Altogether.

Turn pages like lips in pulse.

They draw a guilt from paper

Kisses like a poultice

On the body.

An unremarkable body nonetheless

Beats and writhes - ugly thing -

on pulped, bloody sadness.

The way we like a sadness.

Take slow licks up my skin.

The salty spit reveal papercuts.

From sharpness written.

In your blessed annotation.

Letters bladed as birds' beaks.

Peaks scratched into the surface.

Untie the ribbon which you have me bound.

Crack my spine to lay me down.

 Then open me as you do a book.

One outside the prescribed reading list.

I wrote this super-fast on the occasion of the super-moon

Sometimes a title says it all.

This is: I wrote this super-fast on the occasion of the super-moon

“Moon of my Delight”.

An age recorded soundbite.

I echo out from time to time.

Listening for any sign.

From way out… there.

Nothing comes by or care.  

That satellite line: “Moon of my Delight”.

Then in the woods last night,

As night was closing,

The sea was dozing,

Riding on a frosty leaf did fly,

A beautiful whisper in reply.  

Like an astronomer first hearing a message from static light-years.

Stumbling, unable to comprehend what suddenly clears.  

“Moon of my Delight”

Goddess from starlight

Tore forward the infinite sky

On a golden chariot from high

Called “Gloria!”

And the breeze it swept chorused “Gloria!”  

Crescent wings in long, moondril hair

Bodice made of moon white bone

Luna and Juno nestled in bustier

She lashed at the two galloping, silver steeds

Rearing their heads, crazed eyes, manes wild as trauma

Foaming constellations from their bridles

They skid a scorch across my view, to a crystalline halt

Weaving forth a wave of space colour behind

Splashing great fans of painted lurid vibrancy

Crashing behind the vision above me

Like rough waves crashing against shore breaks

She: on awesome acid sprayed canvas

Above me, on my back.

Rhymes no longer mattered.  

Wide eyed, I looked up.

She drew death gilded leaves around me.

Lusts and Grudges

This song came unexpectedly, but took some time to get to this state. This state where I am happy to show it.

I think that it is unusual in that it can be played by Greville and the Tombstones in two ways depending on how the vibes are: bouncy free-roaming or as an aging stomp. Who knows which is lusts and which grudges?

Of course it is unusual too, because there is not even one tune for it.

This apart, I'm pleased with it as I think it is definitely a full-on Greville and the Tombstones track.

I hope the fans and the adorers like it.

You are in my soul.



Lusts and grudges:

I hold lusts

As long as I hold grudges

No matter how deep below

They can be

Resurrected

So they burn through me

Soul for gasoline

I feel lusts

Same as I feel grudges

Fill my feeble condition

Spiteful

And essential

And they won’t die down

Soul for a dungeon

I’ve trapped them

I’ve buried them

I’ve painted them

I’ve caged them

I’ve ripped them

I’ve slit them

I’ve adored them

I’ve rendered them

I’ve carried them

I’ve used them

And I burn all your religious artefacts

Can’t cast out

Lusts and grudges

Keep me held under the gun

With Jesus,

I’m on fire

Lord parched from sermonising

Sole for clear water

I’m nothing but

Lusts and grudges

Beautiful and terrible to behold

I hold them

All to me

But none I hold the way

My soul holds you

I’ve loaded them

I’ve filed them

I’ve torn them

I’ve revolved them

I’ve explored them

I’ve taken them

I’ve washed them

I’ve stirred them

I’ve whipped them

I’ve shot them

And they burn right through my photographs

And I’m nothing but lusts and grudges

They are beautiful and terrible to behold

I hold them

All tight to me

But there’s none I hold the way

My soul holds onto the image of you

Monster

I began to write about melancholy, and I recognised parts of grief and then I saw sex take a shape as I kept writing.
These, in a way, are monsters.

In the end, I've no idea what monster I've incanted.

This is the Greville and the Tombstones song, Monster.

Monster

The stars have no will for me

I’ll not set on the

Moonbeam sea

As long as you lay beneath

Yeah, know this

As long as you are under me

I will struggle to slip

Constantly

Under receding tides

Manifest night, undulating me

It licks, blinds and

Chokes me

The scent of ash and lead

Yeah, you are this

Cut, apply the good lobotomy

Anguish, jagged dread

Leaves me

Under receding tides

Gasper of burning dust

Feeder of the moribund page

Sinkhole of

Atrophy

Black silk of the mind

My fucking destroyer

Delicate monster

Arcing, blossoming electricity

I’ll bide as I shiver

Uncontrollably

At dark storms in a bell-jar

Yeah, I know this

As long as you wrap ‘round me

Bones, flesh, skin will

Choke me

Under receding tides

The magnificent teardrop

Wow! The weather has been amazing this week. It is full of shine! It is tattoos of birds exposed, wings spread to collar bones, talons clutching at ribs, kind of weather.

It's as hot as the girl with black eyeliner who doesn't know you exist.

A few years back Greville and the Tombstones wrote what was the alt-gothic summer anthem of the year. No One Hates Me More Than Me. This recent weather has been the inspiration to write the second great summer alt-gothic anthem.

This is the bangin' boss tune the alt-gothic kids will be drinking to at evening BBQ's and in the Magaluf this summer. Almost certainly. If someone puts a bloc rockin beat to it on a Casio.

This is:

The Magnificent Teardrop

Slipping down the face

Of loss

It becomes grief

Of hurt

It becomes torture

Of God

It becomes a thief

Trailing down a cheek

Of a girl

It becomes glass

Of a boy

It becomes sand

Of youth

A charm in the past

And you know

I see it magnified

In a teardrop

Clear, as a mountaintop

A diamond in the sunrise

Light’s reflection in the night

Falling from the face

Of remorse

It becomes pity

Of regret

Water’s quiet edge

Of faith

It becomes a cage

And you know

I see it magnified

In a teardrop

A focus on your beauty

Cross-hairs track

So slowly

Down wet skin

So gently

Golden angel’s breath

So coldly

On the winter moor

Hospital Radio (screen shot version)

It's perhaps not a surprise that Greville and the Tombstones was always going to go a bit Radiohead.

Radiohead's musical journey is rather like losing one's mind, after all.

Releasing tracks unconnected to albums.
Using scuzzy-dialled-up electronic technology.
Talk of a Japanese market only EP.

All pure Radiohead. And now, at least for a time, Greville and the Tombstones. Without the Japanese market only, fan coveted EP.

Here is a screen shot version release of Hospital Radio.

With the 2nd album still to be released, I truly hope this will become a #grevilleandthetombstones fan favourite in the live canon set. It might even make it onto a future album. Or EP.

Oh, there is no Japanese market only EP.

Please enjoy Hospital Radio (screen shot version) :