Recycled Lyrics #2: ‘Softly Weeping’

In the corner
fixing up my mind,
you can find me
most of the time
softly weeping
safely inside
my cage

And in the kitchen
somewhere down the hall,
I can capture us
standing straight and tall
sweetly dreaming
stealing to the sky

clutching on to this
cockeyed good-bye kiss.
Darling you’ve been missed
Darling, I’ve been

In the corner
most of the time
you can reach me
leeching off my mind,
softly weeping
safely inside
my brain.

‘Cause now and then
I remember my place.
Heavy drinking
blinking into space
softly sleeping
slipping away
to your cage

clutching on to this
cockeyed good-bye kiss.
Darling you’ve been missed
and darling, while you’re sleeping
I’ll be softly weeping


Rhyme Exercise: End Times

Some GCSE kids write rock songs about living in ‘the end times’,

fumbling over syllables and the length of lines,

soul searching for the most desperate rhymes.

One of them heard Tom Waits for the very first time.

Now everything’s the devil in disguise,

and that waitress,


she’s got marmalade thighs

but he doesn’t know why

or whether it’s a good thing, besides,

his lyrics are still sticky and adolescent inside.

Like the tissues hiding down his bedside

This is the kid who learnt how to make love and socialise

By repeatedly watching those Central Perk guys.

His favourite has changed from Joey to Ross.

S’pose he feels like he can empathise.

‘I prefer Seinfeld anyway’ he lies

Still forgetting to dot his ‘I’s

But he pretends to prefer anything his friends

don’t know

don’t like

or even despise.

It justifies him feeling marginalised.

Heck, maybe these are the end times

But who ever promised him otherwise?

Undone v.II

But you’re stuck


Watching the caught up Sun

come undone

for you.

Watching it strip

itself of colour

and cry

for you.

And wash

out the sky

for you.

But you’re stuck


Watching the colour ooze

from the easel

from the earth

as it gives birth to excuses

for you.

From the sea

from your poetry

from you.

from me.

Till all you see are

Fleeting glimpses of the nothings

that flash

through the peeking spaces

of closed blinds

in that timeless space

where you’re ‘trying’.

But you’re stuck.


And when the Sun flicks the switch

and finishes itself

You’ll lay the blame

on somebody else.

So that you might find

yourself un


for the shortest time.

Recycled Diary Entry #1

A good mood.


Trying to sleep.

Then pictures. Crying. Blood. Weep.

Tell myself I’ve misunderstood.

I AM happy!

So why?

Curse. Gets worse. Children dying. Screaming.


Switch the light on.

Shared bed.

Shaking, scared.

Very late. Wide awake.

Try to sleep.


Bodies moving.

Breaking. Wasting. Exhausting. Holocaust. Gas mask. Straight back. She.


Sh-She tries to calm me.



A beautiful room.

A big fireplace.

An empty face. Severed head.

Single bed. Rotting corpse. Staring upwards.



It’s in my head.

Sleep with the light on. T-shirt too tight on.

Awake with the light on.

Too bright. Too much.

Too dark to sleep tonight.


But you’re stuck
Watching the caught up sun come undone
for you.
Watching it strip
itself of colour and cry
for you.
And wash out the sky
for you.
But you’re stuck
Watching the colour fade from the earth and then from the sea
Watching it fade from space
from you.
From me. Till all you see are
Fleeting glimpses of the nothing
But you’re stuck.
And when the sun flicks the switch and finishes itself
You’ll lay the blame on somebody else.
So you can find yourself unstuck
For the shortest time.

Recycled Lyrics #1: Time Piece

Cassette reels to CDs, still sealed,
I’m not listening, I’m playing
loops, chasing after you, worn out
shoes, and you’re lost looking for the next route.

Friction sores: losing the wrong war.
What the heck were we fightin for?
for weak reflections from dirty windows
willing it on,
turning time,
never watching where it goes.
I’m never letting go

Please don’t try
and shield the rain,
play me
my favourite song again.
It’s inside my head.
Crocodile tears, empty threats.
We know trying wont ease the pain.
I’ll just stop filing my scenes with rain,
There’s no more original imagery
Tomorrow is today
take the silver
spoon from my mouth,
and I’ll find those cotton clouds

When you feel your wounds
won’t heal. You turn
against the loyal troops
that learn to drift through
and miss the cues, just wandering
Wondering how best to lose.

Take a turn on the oars and do all your chores.
What the heck am I crying for?
You’re praying
that the minute hand slows

turning time,
never watching where it goes.
I’m never letting go

Oh please! Don’t hide behind the rain.
Put on that happy song again.
It’s inside my head.
Crocodile tears, empty threats.
Lying wont ease the pain,
so stop trying to catch the rain.
Spent too long willing that the limelight shows

Tomorrow is today
Take the silver
spoon from your mouth

and you will taste those cotton clouds

The clocks
ticking the gun
shot the others
running me

Oh please don’t try and fight the rain.
The world just turns around again.
It’s inside my head,

A ball-point romance and an empty bed,
crying won’t switch on the night light 
It may be hard to take the strain
the pain will never outweigh
knowing that tomorrow is today
but take that final word from your mouth
and you will feel those cotton clouds

A Thief In Plimpton #2

When noon came, the residents responded as Walter had hoped. Dawn, Scruffy and Scruffy’s six-pack of Allium’s all made their way towards number five and were each greeted with a sour glance from Walter who led them inside. Nora turned up soon after. They waited a short while in poorly orchestrated silence for Joe’s arrival but Walter was anxious to start.

“I’ll get straight to the point. One of you here has betrayed me.” Walter began.

“You what?” said Dawn.

“François! Someone has taken François.”

“You mean that pathetic toy of yours?” chuckled Scruffy. Walter’s dog growled at him.

“I mean, Mr Snogheart, my priceless artefact from my travels in Ublivia! My most valued possession, my life, my… my love! All four of you, including that unsavoury being from next door, are suspects.”

“Oh Heavens!” replied Dawn.

“So let’s get right down to it, shall we? Steven, it is clear that you are still holding a grudge against me for the measures I took against our mole problem.”

“Poor little buggers”

“Moreover, you are ignorant of the societal norms we all hold dear, though I don’t suppose you know what that means.”

“What? I was not!” Scruffy retorted, largely unaware of both his location, and the spittle that just vacated his mouth.

“Dawn, I know you see a lot more in art than many and while your tastes – if your creations are anything to go by – aren’t quite as sophisticated as mine, I’m sure you might know somebody who might be after it.”

“Well I’ll be!” Dawn said, but Walter continued.

“Nora, you’re a self-confessed kleptomaniac and that Joe… Well he’s avoided this meeting all together. And that is highly suspicious! Scruffy, where were you yesterday morning?”

“As per usually, I was at the café. Oh an’ I saw Nora go by with quite a face on ‘er” replied Scruffy.

“How dare you!” said Nora, borrowing the dog’s bark “Suggesting such a bloody thing! I’d been at work all morning! But, but Scruffy was spitting insults about you, Walter!”

“It couldn’a’been me, Wulter, it couldn’a… couldn’a been me! The ‘ole bleedin’ village knows I can’t sneak about for nothin’ after a few pints. Why don’t you ask ‘er?” Scruffy lazily flopped his arm in the rough direction of Dawn Peters. “She…er… she…woah…” His eyes glazed over, finding a deeper meaning to life in the ever expanding eyes of the dribbling dog.

“Erm… well?” Walter questioned Dawn.

“Surely you’re not serious? What would he know? Lord knows I wouldn’t steal! By the word of God himself, I’m no sinner. It must have been Joe! All those secrets. That ridiculous get up. It isn’t right! He’s up to something, I tell you. You can’t trust a man who doesn’t dress as God intended! ‘No socks, no service’ as our John used to say! The heathen! Why, I bet he took your lawnmower last winter too, Nora.”

“I lost two pennies and a guinea-pig as well that winter. It was a cold and lonely Christmas without Martin by my side. I tried CPR, I tried the mini-guinea defibrillator but his little heart just couldn’t take any more. It’s a miserable old life… Oh Martin, if only you could see the grass now! Your little legs would be lost in it…”

“See! In the name of the Lord, let’s execute the bastard!”

“Yeah!” Screamed Scruffy, throwing his final, half full can across the room. “Wait…what?”

Walter left the room, leaving the two present residents, and the semi-present Scruffy to get riled up while he weighed up his options.

A few minutes passed before Walter returned, hunting rifle in hand like back in Ublivia.

“To Joe’s!” commanded Walter. His dog ran out before him to dig his paws into the earth. They all followed Walter through the door and collided on the hippo-hide door-mat. Joe was standing a few metres in front of the house with a pistol in his hand. The residents hung, paralysed in the doorway. Walter held his rifle tight, Dawn clutched at her crucifix and Scruffy grabbed for a beer that wasn’t there. Joe lifted the gun and turned it, pointing into his mouth.

“I-I’m sorry” whispered Joe. He squeezed the trigger. A small, white pellet came out the barrel. It refreshed his gums. It was a novelty mint dispenser.

“I’m sorry I’m late. I’ve got to tell you something. I saw who took François. It was-” but before he could finish, Walter’s dog ran by them with something in his mouth… It was François.