I was fumbling through the archives looking for a potential track 3 when this popped up. I can’t remember when I wrote it or why. But it struck me as pertinent in these times.

*

We were told, in hushed tones, that he was crazy. And that was made clear from the day he moved into number 21, next to Mrs Simpson.  Although the word ‘crazy’ was never used, of course. He was, more commonly,  referred to as ‘eccentric’. But we quickly learned that ‘eccentric’ meant ‘crazy’. It was just a more polite way of putting it. A polite sort of insult, I suppose. For we lived in a very polite street.

 

He was from Afghanistan and he had a thick accent that no-one understood very well, but from which everyone could somehow ascertain that he was not very intelligent. And probably dangerous.

 

And my mother told me that, under no circumstances, was I to accept any offers of lollies or cold drinks from him. And perhaps that it might be best if I didn’t talk to him at all. Ever.

 

But here was the problem. I walked past his house everyday as I came home from school and if he wasn’t tending to his vegetable garden at the time he was sitting on his verandah sipping on hot tea and staring out into the distance. And when he saw me he said hello and before I knew it we were talking daily about football and the weather and how to make lemonade and what sort of roses grew best in dry soils.

 

And he told me about his former life as a doctor and how, one night, the police came and took his wife away. And then he said, “but don’t you worry about that because this is a better country where everyone is free and they don’t put people in jail for no reason.”

 

And so I was a bit surprised when they came with their flashing lights and their sirens and their airs of self-importance and they pushed him into the back of the van and drove him away. I was walking home from school just at that moment so he had the opportunity to say, “don’t worry …. a misunderstanding … I’ll see you again soon”, or something like that.

I never saw him again.

 

There are laws against eccentricity here, of course. I realise that now.

 

 

So I was wandering the streets this morning rounding up vagrant buskers. We broke in through the back door of the recording studio and, for the short time that I could maintain their attention, we gave birth to a second track on this yet to be titled album.

Once again the lyrics were dragged, kicking and screaming, from the archives, where they were expecting a dignified death. There is a slight, but tastefully rendered, S&M flavour about it. The original words may have been penned by my alter-ego, Alicia – she’s into all sorts of weird stuff.

So the lyrics are included only for true masochists.

Heads you win, tails I lose

Baby, that’s the game we choose

Tell me now what’s on your mind

I’ve heard that you’re the nasty kind

You can see me as your fool

Nag me. Gag me. Make me drool

Hands are tied, I cannot move

What more is there to you to prove?

That coin keeps spinning round and round

Feet aren’t finding solid ground

You make the call, you roll the dice

Baby I will pay the price

Throw the coin and make the call

Baby catch me as I fall

 

Sun is sinking, blinking black

Heart is beating. Beaten back

A final kiss, a final breath

A little love, this little death

So it’s about time to clean through the garbage. Here’s some detritus that has gathered, for one reason or another, in the drain. Mostly in response to prompts or challenges or whatever, or in response to other people’s responses to whatever. So …. whatever.

**

You are looking at me

And you see

Me looking back

Through a little crack

In my imperfection

Hints of faded beauty

Drift in your direction

And after brief inspection

Your duty as a man

Is to put the picture back together

If you can

To reassemble pieces

That resemble a woman

But if you can’t

You shan’t

Waste a thought

And the risk of being caught

By that mirage in your head

And instead

Turn away

To stay

In the shadows

Of  your virility

And let me fade

To  invisibility

**

 

So dark out here. It smells like fear

Music beats. Guns on the streets

And sheets of rain keep falling

I’m looking back, along the track

From where my ghost is calling

Don’t know what I miss the most

Overdosed on what’s behind

The streets down here are lined with gold

And now there’s no more gold to find

Whatever happened to those days way back?

When the world was safe, and seemed worth saving?

The future just ignores my gaze

And from the past that ghost keeps waving

 **

“Look,” said the Doc, “face the facts

If it looks like a duck then it quacks

Your calorie count

Is a staggering amount

You have got to stop eating those snacks”

I said to the Doc, “listen here

It’s either the snacks or a beer

And by way of an answer

I already have cancer

So really, there’s nothing to fear.

**

Darling I have no excuse

The fact is that I’m not of much use

Aside from now and then some fun

I’m not much good to anyone

And looking back I think you’ll find

Your eyes were shut. Your love was blind

And thus with hindsight, clarity

You’ll wonder what you saw in me

And love, as I will come to see

Does not extend to charity

So listen, as your friends explain

That for you there’s nought to gain

In spending even one more night

With this fellow parasite

**

I suppose I will go if I must

Ash to ashes, and so dust to dust

One cold winter’s morning

I’ll go without warning

In search of a God I can trust

**

Are you still with me? Really? OK. You asked for it ….

Actually, where’s Chel? She used to run a terrible poetry contest which I always narrowly lost. But you’d all agree that I’m really kicking some terrible goals now …

**

I’m trying, sweetheart

To be yours

Despite my poverty, my flaws

My odour

Yes it’s all about

But, darling let me sort that out

 

I did my nails

Applied Cologne

Called you on the telephone

I’ll find some money

Notes of green

I’ll learn stuff from a magazine

 

But just for now

What might you say?

Might you love me anyway?

I’m poor, for sure

But smell alright

So might I lay with you tonight?

**

Love crashes through the door

Like a home invasion

An unequal equation

Wanting more

Than you can give

But can’t live

Without

So you shout

“go away!”

But here to stay

Is love.

 

An infection

That escapes detection

Spreads through your head

Onto the bed

Where you and me

Instead

Will share the key

So no invasion. No limitation

An invitation

From above

Is love

**

Enough. If you’ve read this far I applaud you. I thank you. Most of all I pity you. Come on. Get a life. 

But speaking of getting a life … here’s a note I sent to a trout fisherman. I don’t remember who or why. I don’t actually know any trout fishermen.

**

Trout fishing has an aura of elegance about it. A subtle style of violence and brutality practiced by gentlemen.  Doctors, dentists, lawyers. Men of influence and deep pockets. Chronic masturbators.

**

Just one more for the masochists

**

The Captain wears reluctant frown

The engines stopped, we’re going down

Below the ocean, dark and cold

It doesn’t look like we’ll grow old

together dear

Alas, this is the end I fear

So for these moments hold my hand

Try somehow to understand

I loved you always in my heart

Adored you from the very start

Likewise understand just how

It’s too late for confessions now

Keep our secrets in our head

(like you and Dave, that night in bed)

No-one’s perfect, that is true

(but what a nasty thing to do)

And please don’t mention Mary-Jane

As we die aboard this falling plane

Or the night you slept with her

Only then did it occur

to me that you were gay

But hey! It made you happy anyway

But goodness me I’m feeling sick

This plane’s descending like a brick

If this is it, if this is death

May I kiss you with my final breath?

**

THE END (for now)