Saturday, 7 September 2013


I play guitar, well the four chords I know
Enough to make a few songs, with repetitive choruses
And dead stringed lead breaks, cacophonous noises
I sing along when I know the words, or just hum
It's music, all right, but not what you'd like to hear
My songs, if that is what they're called,
Are tinged with melancholy, casual observations
Of foot in the mouth love stories
Without happy endings
Because such things belong only in fairy tales
That end with a kiss in golden sunsets
In lands where romance is not the exception
And "happily ever after" is a fitting ending

This cheap thrill, this automation, grinding out rhymes
To the frantic beat of inspiration
Quick! Where is a pen? As idea after idea bleeds dry
My battered fingers, cut on the thin strings
I manically strum, defying the impossible
Making art, a poor mirror of reality, sure
But alive with its own promise, its own premise
A voyeuristic glimpse of my own dark shadows
As yet another muse turns to dust
Imperfect jewel, destroyed in recreation
A poor trophy left to remind us all of an
Existence too brief, as the beautiful exploding supernova
Kills the star

Here it is, the prize
In its glory, a shadow of beauty
A caught breath on a windowpane
Going, going, gone...

Each story is an epitaph to a great idea
Each song, its eulogy
And yet, into that well of ideas I am drawn
Dip my ladle, play that chord, create
I like the isolation it brings, the world with a world
Away from the noise of drudgery
And the slave driver of life
I can live the hermits life as the candle gutters
Moulding these words you now read
Passing to you, dear reader, this precious piece of my soul
Take care; it is yours now, if it pleases you
Until next time, I can rest and not lose sleep
Ah, next time, awaiting you with dread and fascination
To play again with the wonderful alchemy
That is my art.