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.

It ain't snowing over seas

This is really a b-side.

This is... It Ain't Snowing Over Seas

It ain't snowing over seas,

It's cold pink petals floating on the shore.

What's a rise and fall narrative for,

Only to miss ebb and flow behind every one?

All the while trying to figure out how to navigate

A way through this undertow state.

I'm a plan 9 survivalist.

Left with resilience to last out whatever this is.

Can't be everything it seems, immersion in a deep dream.

But then I got the feeling I'm awake and wired to a socket,

And why do I have blossom in my jacket pocket?

It ain't snowing over me,

It's cold letters settling unwritten, never sent.

The book on the shelf: poetry of Brecht,

In one of these years I'll open it up, I suspect,

When no one I trust is calling on the phone

I want all this living to leave me alone.

I'm a plan 9 spiritualist.

Left with fallow faith to grow with what I'm faced.

Demons exorcised slow notice we're the ebb and flow,

Perished, weakly moaning, they vomit stories to the floor,

Looking much like snow, floating on the shore.

Stripping away what's beautiful

Greville and the Tombstones tries to write beautiful things. But #thereisnobeauty sometimes and this is my attempt to write something that has no beauty at all.

This is... Stripping away what's beautiful

The clouds are gathering.

The crows are gathering.

The day is autumnal because it is spiritual,

the air hangs with natsukashii.

The leaves are gathering, the teeth are gathering

Don't plug me back in, don't reconnect my limbs,

they broke in the season of summer.

Did the sun ever shine like you said it did that time?

I don't think it even shone once.

Rain in glass shoals as it swirls, splinters and falls.

My weakling eyes can't raise because they've 

only witnessed sunsets.

Souls scraping to escape their little black holes.

Coagulating around blood-wet introspective ground,

I've never been so lonely.

Medical experiments and philosophise treatments.

I don't fear these masks no more, they fetishize.

Nurses need the bodies.

Then what will you write, knowing it'll outlast you?

Whatever it is, write it out neatly.

The act of vandalism was not what was pulled from you.

Here admit deviations, recognise you were a

Dead symbol to begin with.

The nights are gathering.

The lines are gathering.

The heartless don't use a key to set the cruel beast free 

from the basement.

They leave it to crawl, pretending it's not them at all.

They thread a needle, call it transparency: 

that's where they hide in.

Does it matter if the saviour invites me to her chambers

So long as she saves me?

Goddess iconography, wood incense of her presence.

No telling after what position she'll chain me

because I'm still agnostic.

Confused at a life that won't love you back.

Now the murder is no longer nesting

in the bell tower.

Memories huddled, the birds' chests are bloodied.

You say sentiment of the missed don't haunt you

then find books with bookmarks.

It's not really so much, it's not really so much

feeling for a pulse.

Check gently for my own, it's here or there I know.

It might be feint as a word sung on skin

But I'd like it to be felt.

The candles are gathering.

The animals are gathering.

Scatter flowers anywhere, they don't matter. 

Supafilm

Is it a cover version when you are covering your own material?

This is something I wrote over on The DarkThrow, the poetry site for my poems that don't always fit in with the Greville and the Tombstones image. However, I think this might find a life of sorts here in the Greville and the Tombstones catalogue too. If you like this, please hop over to The DarkThrow and tell your friends about others you like over there.

This is...  Supafilm

Taking sad photographs

On 24Supafilm spool.

Not sure if tide’s rolling in or out.

With a photograph, guess it’s hard to tell.

Turning a yearbook

Through a Japanese lens.

The developed print was blurred.

People called it societal commentary artwork.

Exposing intention

With a cherry bomb flash.

Framing was for all to view.

Everyone spoke to their own interpretation.

She took a photograph

on a 24Supafilm spool.

She tore it into pieces at night.

They dropped like sycamore seeds.

Don’t shoot at my heart.

Don’t shoot at my heart.

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?

Botanica no. 23

Botanica no.23 by Gail Potocki.

I adore this painting.

The pre-history of the post-apocalypse

This is... the pre-history of the post-apocalypse

Saturday, twenty-first century.

Let's paint the floorboards red.

With a dress, a dress, a dress.

Philosophers say we must be living.

But I can't hear

One breath, one breath, one breath.

Alchemists write "the World must turn".

But I can't feel

Any breeze, any breeze, any breeze.

The last great voice of rock 'n' roll was

Lana Del-Fucking-Rey Or was it

Nick Cave, Nick Cave, Nick Cave?

This is the pre-history of the post-apocalypse. 

Broken down submarine hits the bottom of 

The sea, the sea, the sea.

In 1989, we knew every line.

"We Didn't Start the Fire"

We were the fuel, the fuel, the fuel.

Rent our bodies from the government.

Tells us the goodwill's spent.

Because we didn't buy it, buy it, buy it.

We all mistake the bad things change,

and the good remain 
the same, the same, the same.

Sitting in a parody of a sunny day.

No one gets to stay in a flash bulb moment.

It burns out, burns out, burns out.

Gluing back how those shredded affairs could have been.
Home recorded cassette tapes, touching lips.

What the nets dredge up when grief goes fishing.

 This is a checklist of the pre-history of the post-apocalypse.

 Seek an explanation by our nature.

Hindsight lies a useless mute.

Foresight blindly reaching out as the grave.

Surrounded by modern saviours.

They lost the power to save.

It's ok if you're not all that brave.

Three weeks until daybreak.

Longer depression breaks.

It's a chain of light and darkness anyway.

Empty opportunities is not to say

I didn't fill them.

It's that they cannot come again; it's always the way.

Life’s ups and downs remind me of

Graceful acrobatics

Back in the pre-history of the post-apocalypse.

Saturday, twenty-first century.

Let's spill a little, warm red.

In a glass, a glass, a glass.

My happy place

I wrote this very quick today. I lay down yesterday to calm the calamites and sundries. I remembered someone saying they go to their happy place in their head. And I thought of what would be my happy place.

This is... My Happy Place

Over the iron filigree fence clutched in ivy,
I’m sitting, quiet, in white cotton pyjamas.

Trees tuned, precise garden.

Wildflowers roll like the ocean.

No, an absorption.

Swallows the sun and the panic.

The nurses are also dressed utterly in white.

White shoes too.

They are quiet.

Go to your happy place, maiden.

Sweet airs scatter ideas like a murmur of birds.

Inside, the library contains writing paper

Finely tuned and furnished.

Silent, like pointless haunting.

No, a heart sickening.

It pleads for an injection to beat.

The nurses take my arm and often guide me in. 

I feel a sting.

They are quiet.

Go to your happy place, mister.

Where I go to. I can't remember ever leaving.

I’m in my happy place with melancholia.

Perfectly precise and tuned.

Hospital hangs moon white.

No, seashell upturned.

Spirals, reflections, part of the body.

Lunatics around me, dressed white as pearls. 

And I am one.

They are quiet.

Go to your happy place, animal.

Six feet apart

This is... Six Feet Apart

Disconnected and senseless

Me in my spacecraft

You in your spacecraft

Only six feet of space between us

It might as well be three hundred years

Might as be as wide as my fears

I try to feel what you're feeling

Me in my spacecraft

You in your spacecraft