1. |
Nature Poem
03:47
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It’s the vast stillness of it,
the epic rolling green and brown,
the speckled rash of birds in the
distance and the rushing silence.
Here,
there is continuity and the
brutality of pure air
offset with the bitter-clean
aroma of fresh manure.
Trees are secured in fertile
soil, amid furtive teeming
multitudes of life that toil invisibly
around me.
It astounds me.
Terrifies me.
These lungs are used to sucking on
exhaust fumes and cigarettes.
The objects of my affections are
reflections in metal-shuttered
shop-fronts and the glow of
battered street-lights
caught in shatter-proof glass
bus-stops. My dreams are snagged
in sagging telephone lines,
my memories are red-brick
and terraced, as vivid as alleys
defaced by neon-coloured
spray-paint tags.
There,
my feet drag me home
night after night, manufactured,
captured and spent, as they tread
on relentlessly devoured ground.
I’m surrounded by the mating call of
Anlaby Road’s traffic.
That’s my natural habitat.
I guess I’m just built like that.
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2. |
Albert Hofmann's Bicycle
04:14
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Falling off,
falling out,
within my mind
there can be no doubt
that everyone is
truly alone when
surrounded by the
clones of all the
showbiz phoneys,
cartoon henchmen
comedy cronies,
still
clinging on to the
faint hope that the world
will move towards
a clear horizon of
understanding,
still living
in a society
that keeps
demanding that we
highjack a worldwide
tragedy
in order to catch a glimmer
of authenticity –
as we make
faint hope that the world
will move towards
a clear horizon of
understanding,
still living
in a society
that keeps
demanding that we
highjack a worldwide
tragedy
in order to catch a glimmer
of authenticity –
as we make
ill thought-out points
about nothing in
particular,
surrender our vernacular,
in a desperate bid to
appear spectacular
in each other’s
eyes,
mesmerised
by the sky as it grows
dark ,
but the stars
of possibility still twinkle
incessantly,
this light I see
travelling across
millions of years of space
in order to reach me,
two galaxies intermingling
and giving birth to
to renewed
stellar activity,
as a sensation
of inverted gravity
tires to pull me up,
but I continue
to look down
at feet still placed
firmly on the
millions of years of space
in order to reach me,
two galaxies intermingling
and giving birth to
to renewed
stellar activity,
as a sensation
of inverted gravity
tires to pull me up,
but I continue
to look down
at feet still placed
firmly on the
ground,
beacause
there’s plenty
to be found
in our heads
other than the
existential dread
that waits for us all
at the edge of experience –
because
this might just the
beginning:
soaking up ideas
and words
through our skin
each moment
of the day and night,
cogs and gears turning
as we prepare to take flight
into the firmament,
a permanent vacation
into the unknown –
the collective mind is blown
into a million pieces,
as all around us time and motion
ceases,
and all that remains is
the fabric of thought
as it irons out its
creases.
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3. |
To Let
04:15
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I’ve never really had a home
just a series of rooms in which I’ve stayed,
rooms in which ideas have played
in which dreams have decayed in
rooms where the hours have passed
where spells have been cast
rooms where I’ve lost my mind
white rooms
black rooms
rooms where I’ve been left behind
rooms where I’ve toasted the passing of the day
where my empty head can lay
rooms in which I’ve made love
blue rooms
green rooms
rooms in which bags are shoved
rooms with locked doors
with dirty floors
rooms where spirits have been crushed
red rooms
dead rooms
rooms where limits have been pushed
rooms where there’s something missing
where there’s no pot to piss in
rooms where I’ve shivered in the cold
light rooms
dark rooms
rooms in which my story will be told.
We are all as transitory as furniture –
gathering dust
we just
occupy a space
until we are replaced
by something else;
thrown out onto the street,
incomplete
like a broken table
a chair
or an empty shelf.
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4. |
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My spider-sense is tingling,
there’s a glitch in the Matrix,
a disturbance in the Force,
a sickening twist in my gut
that says:
something is wrong.
Suddenly
strangers who seemed safe
seconds ago
shift in their seats and stare.Inconsistencies in conversation
insist on being brought up
for further discussion,
details like:
job titles and names of siblings
attain importance,
all trivia becomes significant.
While my mind struggles
with great leaps of logic –
the weaving of events
into a coherent plot –
my eyes scan for the tell-tale signs;
facial tics, eye movement and
sober suggestion.
Trust evaporates, and the night
descends into a game of poker
without the cards;
just bluff, double bluff,
raise and fold.
Convinced, I begin to
challenge and probe,
searching for the loose brick
that will bring the house tumbling down.
The same year I discovered
power chords,
I learnt to surround myself
Trust evaporates, and the night
descends into a game of poker
without the cards;
just bluff, double bluff,
raise and fold.
Convinced, I begin to
challenge and probe,
searching for the loose brick
that will bring the house tumbling down.
The same year I discovered
power chords,
I learnt to surround myself
with paranoia, climb into
it as though it were a
sleeping bag.
And even thought there
is always the chance I
could be wrong,
my faith in instinct is
so strong I will carry on
playing until the game is up.
It’s better to be a cautious
freak
than a pleasant
mug.
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5. |
Special Brew Blues
04:14
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S’only about one-sixty a tin,
so it’s a bargin
by any fucker’s reckoning.
It’s a day spent on the street,
sitting on my seat,
asking, chasing, scoring, snoring,
here and there
I pick up a couple of quid
and everything’s sweet for a bit.
Don’t think about eating
or living or being
anywhere else but
here,
in the sun
or in the rain –
when the evening escapes me
and the morning runs
and everything’s sweet for a bit.
Don’t think about eating
or living or being
anywhere else but
here,
in the sun
or in the rain –
when the evening escapes me
and the morning runs
away.
Perfect product for a perfect consumer –
cheap as chips
and with a couple of wobbly-eggs
washed down
it even beats smack.
So FUCK all you who sup
bottles of Bud in shitty nightclubs
at three quid a go,
buying into a dream
of a self-image
that melts like snow
and soaks
into the dirt
and the mud.
Like a down payment
on a car
a flat
and the words you utter;
a job,
a life,
a reason,
has no true meaning when you
see the way in which
everything disintegrates
like empty pizza boxes
in the gutter.
I’m content with
making it through the day
until the night collapses
covered in puke and piss
mewling like a cat in an alleyway,
everything will be OK
so long as I believe
that one of you lot out there
is gonna buy
the next tin for me.
Cheers!
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6. |
Imposter Syndrome
06:25
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Bleating like sheep,
repeating the same old tired shit
over and over again.
Like a washed up nightclub singer
gone insane from
repeatedly doing the same requests,
beating on your chests
in a rhythm I’ve heard
a thousand times before;
and it was boring the first time
I heard it,
and it’s still boring now,
watching as you plough
the same patch of
barren earth,
a dearth of new ideas
as your fears become
a reality,
as you kiss goodbye to
any hope of originality
in your
desperate scramble for notoriety.
Thinking you’re some kind of
aristocracy,
sycophantic royalty,
your piety sickens me –
every time you
open your mouth it’s like
a school kid reading out an
essay on Marxist theory.
I respond with ferocity;
it might not be pretty
but at least it’s from the gut –
I’m put my money where my
mouth is,
the words burning
as they pour out
like a toxic waste spill
that kills
the local wildlife.
So stick another knife
in my back,
continue your
journey down a
well-beaten track –
the easiest one you can find.
I’m sure
in your own minds
you’re up there
with someone like
Joe Strummer
or John Cooper Clarke,
but in reality
you’re just stumbling around
in the dark
trying to put parts together
that just don’t fit,
your democracy is actually
a dictatorship,
an opportunity to roll out
your ‘greatest hits’,
over-inflated past glories,
incoherent politics and stories
designed to make you
appear unique,
raise you to the status of legend
within your own little clique –
the same people you hang out with,
the ones who are
always
there when you speak.
So I’m leaving you to it;
your lame quest
to turn literary rags
into riches,
a bunch of snivelling snitches
so far up each other’s arse
you’re practically
prison bitches.
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7. |
Everyday
04:10
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I'm sat on a bench in the park.
The previous night's excitement has
turned into granules of sand in my nostrils.
My sweat tells me that I dropped a logo,
sometime around 3.
On my lap sits a list of all
the people I haven't pissed off yet -
places to shit, shower, shave,
brush my teeth and maybe have a coffee
and catch an hour of Jeremy Kyle if I'm lucky.
I haven't paid a bill in months and
many, many sofas bear the imprint
of my arse. But today, the sun is out
and I’ve got Szechuan flavour Sensations
and half a bottle of Shiraz for my lunch.
And to be honest,
it'll do
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8. |
The Way It Is
03:11
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Scraping by on the
minimum wage,
my life on a stage,
counting down the days
until I next get paid,
watch the money come in,
watch it roll out again
straight away,
got to believe that
everything will be ok
or I'll go crazy:
whether I’m working
my arse off in a factory
or serving beers and coffees
to people younger than me
who spend money
like it grows on trees,
it's all a joke;
haven't bought a decent TV
in years,
spend what little I have
when it appears
on booze and smokes
to help me cope
as the desperation grows,
round and round the jobs
I go,
where I stop nobody knows.
Thinking:
I'm better than this;
even when I’m
pissing away my potential
like it doesn't exist,
my mind is a
clenched fist,
punching the wall after
crawling out of my pit
because I've got to go out
and earn it -
the right to live,
a chance to survive
and keep my dreams alive
for another week -
because I'm
up the fucking creek
with the bills again
so I smash my brains,
flush them down the drain,
just get fuckin' wrecked,
come out with stupid comments like:
at least they can't tax
drugs and sex.
Wish I didn't have to think
and watch myself
as I sink
deeper into doubt and debt,
got nothing to look forward to
except
going to bed
at the end of a shift,
praying before I go to sleep
that something will come along
and lift me out of the shit
and make all the struggling
worth it,
while at the same time
I have to try and accept
that this is
just the way it is.
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Ashley Reaks Harrogate, UK
Genre-hopping musician and collage artist.
"an incomparable talent and a true original, a man who often borders on genius" - Louder Than War (UK)
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