Monday, January 28, 2008

A new poem, written (as many of my poems are) for one of my latest paintings.

So, It Has Come To This

So, in this dead sea.
Sky red with sunset's end.
Ice floats by the concrete shells,
the empty markers of this hell.

So, in this hot air.
Choked with carbon's green haze.
Smoke on water, flows,
like acid clothes.

Sea sighs.
Fall then lift.
Fish bodies drift and kiss.
Chemical stained beach rocks hiss.
So, it has come to this.

Thursday, January 24, 2008

Another new song. This one is swung and a bit like a Madness song. I'd like to record this but it might be tricky for me.

So Many Years Ago

I still see your, green eyes
as I was speaking to you that day.
Back then I felt, nothing.
I feel it now more, forgive me for the pain
my words caused you.
My curse was made

on that day so many years ago
so many years ago.
but that was so many years ago
so many years ago.
Dry tears, I know, but I can't let it go.

What's retrospect, but an
arrow of knowledge, point of regret.
Who could expect, in those days
you were the lesson, I can't forget
I hear me say...
You blink and turn

away-ay so many years ago
so many years ago.
but that was so many years ago
so many years ago.
Dry tears, I know, but I can't let it go.

(solo)

Now I live there, with an
aristocratic romantic air.
I like to think, that I'm
a bit eccentric, or int'resting to meet
but it's a joke.
Inside I'm broke

from that day so many years ago
so many years ago.
but that was so many years ago
so many years ago.
Too long, I know, I did not sense
the wrong I sowed and now I can't let go.

Monday, January 21, 2008

I've been painting all week (my weeks usually start on Friday and end Tuesday) and the main glazing layer of my new Morning Hour painting is now complete. I've also signed two others, So It Has Come To This (is about pollution and is similar to The Flute Player, the football one and other complex ones) and Mary Brian Twenty Years On which is a simple portrait. That makes 3 paintings done in 2008 so far. I'll put them on my website once scanned, which will take until they dry sufficiently.

Meanwhile I've also finished a new track to the twelve seasons, the extended version of an old musical idea called The Four Seasons of Dance. This time there is a mix of tracks a moods, around the theme of seasons; three for each. Most of the tracks are done now, only two left to write. This should be my second musical release of 2008, with the new Spiral Staircase due for release on March the first.

Friday, January 18, 2008

I love this song because of the ascending melody (okay, you can't hear that, but the chords climb, a bit like The Beatles' Here There and Everywhere). I had the idea of brainstorming concept albums with simple track list of titles as a way of coming up with song ideas. One album was typically sci-fi and called "Journey to Elsodus IV" and "Space Love" was pencilled in as a track.

Space Love

Reach up and float to me,
breathe in my space love
free from your gravity.

See the stars weep in loveless skies.
Breathe in my space love,
red love in my gold eyes.

(solo)

Kiss me on liquid skin.
Touch me with pure love.
Invite your stone soul in.

See the sun die in frozen skies.
Behold by space, love,
behind my almond eyes.

Sunday, January 13, 2008

My first song of 2008, number 318 in total.

The Invisible Man

No parts.
No broken clockwork heart.
No bits of hair to, depart.
That's me.
That gap in the crowd.
A snowflake inside, a cloud.

There's no-one to believe me.
There's nothing left to leave me.
My body is clear as air.
There's no eye that can see me.
I blinked and I was gone.
I woke up to find myself
invisible.

Too bad.
My happy life went sad.
I've turned from obscure, to mad.
I call,
but make no sound at all.
The mirror just shows, the wall.

There's no-one to believe me.
There's nothing left to leave me.
My body is clear as air.
There's no eye that can see me.
I blinked and I was gone.
I woke up to find myself
invisible.

Sunday, January 06, 2008

My latest poem; inspired by the thought that birds seem to sing for no reason.

In day of sun, and night of dust,
they raise their voices, and they must
defy the need for food and lust.
The birds sing art, at dawn and dusk.

No food, no love, no sex, no home.
No need, no purpose to exist.
No future, no security.
No tasks to tick upon a list.

In structures made with beaks and wood,
they forsook food, and cursed their blood.
Today in fields of death, and mud,
the birds made song, because they could.