What Would I Know?

Happy Valentine's Day and all that jazz. Here's a silly little something I found in a notebook, written a couple of years ago. In my head it's played slowly on a piano, jazzed up at the appropriate junctures.

What Would I Know?

A little I know. Just to sing when you’re winning.

Sing when you’re drowning.

Sing though your heart may be bursting and breaking,

All at once.

Try for the future. Not live for the past.

Consider progress as a function of how much better

I consider tomorrow is from today.

But what would I know?

Nothing last forever.

And nothing stay the same.

We rescue and recycle the myths of our past,

And hand them off to the present context free.

Work, but remember to live.

Live, but don’t demean to merely exist.

Please note, your actual dreams may differ from the picture shown.

Perfection by its very nature is impossible in the human sphere.

But what would I know?

What would I know?

What would I know?

I know the caress of the soil between my fingers.

I know what it is to make life grow.

And I know you’ll find heaven in the grip of a gun,

But you’ll always find the devil in the demon that you bestow.

I know and have always know that I’m different.

I feel what is to be free.

I know, all things considered, I know nothing.

And ‘I know nothing’

Is something was said by poor of Socrates.

So there’s some things I know.

Solo

What do I know of dying?

What do I know of decay?

What do I know about anything now?

And aren’t we all in the same boat anyway?

What do I know of breathing?

What do I know of birth?

What I know would box your ears,

If you knew 10% its worth.

Other things I know include the Highway Code,

The key of A Major, the eight-fold way,

And the feel of a Mediterranean breeze,

Take the edge of a Marseille sun in the month of May.

I know I’m separate. But I know I’m not alone.

And I know you can hear my heart that’s singing,

The little I know.

But what would I know?

What would I know?

What would I know?

But what would I know?

What would I know?

What would I know?

What would I know?

What would I know?

Progress is a function of the future with respect to the past, yeah.

Get it done.

Vampirestat Blues

This one goes out to all my fellow bloggers.

Vampirestat Blues

A Vampire shat on my stats.

Got humped by an Ad Sense Watchdog.

Here’s 7 Search Secrets that can fuck right off.

Honestly, who spams a blog?

Yeah, got shat on by Vampirestat.

Got humped by their Ad Sense runts.

7 Search Secrets fuck right off and never darken my doorstep ever again.

Wankers. Bastards. Arseholes. Cunts.

Oh yeah, I’ve got the spellchecker-doesn’t–recognise-vampirestat-as-a-word-so-I-clicked-ignore-all blues

Get it done.

Get it done.

Get it done.

Gone Time

The lyrics to Gone Time came about from reading 'Divine Invasions: A Life of Philip K. Dick'. I have a number of problems with the book. For a start, the author, Lawrence Sutin, is obviously a bit of a fanboy, which doesn't leave much room for objectivity. Also, I assume the author felt too embarrassed to call his subject, Dick, all the time and so he resolves to refer to him, without variation, as Phil.

Now, 'Phil' was a writer with many of the associated personality disorders that are common in writers. 'Phil' was married 5 times, and he seems to have been physical with most of his wives. So it really jars to hear recounted tales of domestic violence, interrupted by the chummy, 'Phil', all the time. 

It got to me, it annoyed me. I'm used to reading about male 'role models' whom I feel ambiguous towards. You want an introduction to the history of Jazz, read Miles Davis's autobiography. You may come away still considering Davis a musical genius, but it's impossible to like him, not after the countless beatings of girlfriends, wives, the prostitutes he pimped to raise skag money, all rounded off with a shrug and half-arsed apology. 

Or Gandhi. Gained India its independence from the British, but let his wife die of appendicitis because he said antibiotics were unnatural. Yet when he needed surgery, he took antibiotics, morphine, the lot. Far from being a pacifist, Gandhi fought for the British in both Boer Wars and was a recruitment officer during the First World War. He was also a fervent believer in the caste system. He went on one of his famous hunger strikes in response to a suggestion that the Untouchable caste be abolished. As with most revolutions, Indian independence really only meant independence for the top tier. Not that you'll hear about any of this in the Attenborough film, but then it was partly funded by the Indian Tourist Board.

All of which raises an important question: How much is too much? How much of a prick does someone have to be before they are removed from the artistic roll-call? I don't know that I have an answer.

The 1st verse of Gone Time plays on this veneer of male respectability, a pillar of the community, who's true nature only breaks the surface in the last line. The 2nd verse is an old Bob Dylan trick, playing time backwards, each line bringing us nearer the actual event.

I'm no musician, so I nicked the chords from Tom Waits's 'Clap Hands' - Bm for verses 1,2 & 4, Bm & G7 for the choruses and verse 3.

Phil was for everyone, Phil topped polls.

Phil kept a tavern called, 'The Gambolling Foals'.

Phil had a rowing boat to save our souls.

Phil filled his Phillie with a splatterful of holes.

Gone time. Gone time.

Gone time. Gone time.

Say Phil, Phil, it's twenty minutes' time,

Since the bitch had it comin' f'talking outta line.

Belly-worth of bourbon and a face full of wine.

Gently arching crimson in a parabolic line.

Gone time. Gone time.

Gone time. Gone time.

Don't know why I wonder, but wonder if you will,

Why no one gets the name of the victim of the kill.

Get fifteen minutes fame for every victim that you maul,

Don't know why I feel it, but I'm properly appalled.

So Phil, Phil, had enough cane?

Mopping up the spillage from a heartfelt vein.

Coming on for dawn now, coming on to rain.

Blue light flashing in a high Vault pane.

Gone time. Gone time.

Gone time. Gone time.

Gone time. Gone time.

Gone time. Gone time.

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Disunion

Disunion

scene: man in bed with his wife, awoken by noises coming from downstairs. A demonic clown breaks the bedroom door down and begins to sing to musical accompaniment

Dis union don't work so well these days,

Sleeping off a decade's drunken haze,

Oh so now ashamed of this one time craze?

Well what did you think we were going to do?

I'll state it plain, we'll not behave,

We'll pinch the fillings out of your grave,

And while I divert you here with my many ways,

The boys are ransacking your house. [manic laughter]

Oh there's stagnation, stagflation,

Recession, repossession everywhere.

But we got opt-outs. Bail-outs.

We got options and you think we really care?

Coming back atcha with a brand new rhyme,

Whole bunch of concepts gonna redefine,

Ever more siphoned off all the time.

And what you gonna do about it?

Gonna own ya, gonna pimp ya, gonna prostitute.

Gonna turn for a profit 'to a nice hair suit.

Gonna leave ya like a leper when you're destitute.

And we got a million chumps just like ya.

Oh and that one charged the jobless,

And fiddled his expenses,

And the Quiet One claimed he done a degree.

And the one what bellows, 'Hard Work',

Is fifteenth earl of somewhere,

Filthy rich and all his breaks for free.

So listen up sonny, I'll say once more,

Plenty more land grabs left in store,

Ya can't have rich if you don't have poor.

And I could care less what Jesus has to say on the subject.

We'll take your weeks, we'll take your hours,

And your wife and kids? Yeah, they're now ours.

And all the while, the pack devours.

And you are just going to lie there and take it like the bitch you are.

Hey boys, I'd say it's just about hopeless in here. What say we finish up.

[fade to black]

The One Week Waltz

A week, a week, a week,
This song took a week, a week, a week.
A week, a week, a week,
Yes it took a week, a week, a week.

Took one solid week to get the lyrics right.

But still they came out crap.

The Hill of Howth

Oh there once was a babe born of fire and ice and Andy was his name oh.

And he vexed his mother for the things he drew all upon her kitchen table.

And he drew in the yard and he drew on the walls,

And he drew on her skirts and he drew on her shawls.

And he drew all over our Queen Vic's halls.

Andy. Andy, Andy, Andy.

And when he was a boy-child, beasts of burden folk would bring.

And he cured them of their ills all and learned them how to sing.

And the priest called him heathen and brute before God.

And he packed up his things and away he did sod.

But he still had time to heal one more dog.

Andy. Andy, Andy, Andy.

And when he was a young man to the Yankees he gave aid.

Sawed bones and sewed their wounds shut and at night the nurses made.

And he sawed off their feet and he sawed off their arms,

And he bound up their wounds with his ointments and balms.

But he washed his hands 'fore he worked his charms.

Andy. Andy, Andy, Andy.

And he became a wise man and through the seas he set to roam.

Felled trees and gathered lumber and carved the ship of stone.

And he threw up the decks with a flick of his wrist,

And he found him a ship that the seas daren't resist

Bent the sails to his will with his mighty fist.

Andy. Andy, Andy, Andy.

And as he was thought an old man, an inn and wife he kept.

And from hill and o'er dale they came and sang and danced and leapt.

And he poured for them porter and he poured for them stout,

And he dished out his council and cooked them his trout.

And he filled up their wives when 'is weren't about.

Andy. Andy, Andy, Andy.

And oh they laid his body down. Way down. And I pray you remember people, I think you do. They laid him out in that big old airship he liked to fly around in all day, having his adventures. Placed brandy bottles at his feet and at his head and all around him until his whole outline was in cognac and bathed in bronze. And they jigged and danced till dawn and sent him on his way into the grey sunrise. His ship did rise and float out to sea and folk cried and they moaned. Andy. Andy. Andy.

And an age went by, another life it did seem.

And all across town folk had the same dream.

And weren't long then till folk said he were seen.

Andy. Andy. Andy.

Andy. Andy. Andy.

And he returned a new man to teach what he did know.

And gathered 'round him students wide and learned them how to grow.

And he found them a college and he built them a school,

And expounded at length about freedom and rule.

And Fridays gave his lectures from the pool.

Andy. Andy, Andy, Andy.

Dark shades on a Lillo like some fool.

Andy. Andy, Andy, Andy.

Andy. Andy, Andy, Andy.

a(n)d(y) Infinitum