The diary of a social cubist.
Beginning with a description of a struggle and ending with the song of hope, these songs were written and orchestrated in the two years prior to having a mental breakdown due to PTSD in 2002. Using numerous literary references and personal experience, it is a view of the world from the imagination of a broken mind. Recorded in 2023 using the same arrangements and orchestrations from when they were originally conceived.
Description of a struggle
My acquaintance joins me as I drink, when all I want to do is think and be alone.
Then every alley comes awake and offers me a quick escape, come take me home.
And living with eternal grief, pure pleasure is my one release.
Strange apartment, dirty doorway, looking for a momentary peace.
As I walk alone in pinewood trees the stars are shining just for me, I need to rest.
And all the packs of nobodies have bleeding scabs upon their knees and burning chests.
And though my sleep was deep and dreamless, all night I heard an aching voice.
Go be like all the vermin that surrounds you, monotony no choice.
Hand of all life lead me to eternity.
Hand of all life lead me to eternity.
As he plunges in the knife so deep his bleeding arm begins to weep, destroying love.
I can stem the flow with a torn off shirt but only death can cure the hurt of pure sweet love.
And did the fat man die in vain?
Or can we laugh at nature’s best?
I offer no solution I’m just searching for a momentary rest.
The train was on time
I have left my rifle with a priest and soon it’s time to die.
And if a 37 rattled past we’d all salute and smile.
And it’s really not my fault but this must be my last regret.
And I need another cigarette, I need another cigarette.
Then the man who needs a shave stands up and binds the door with wire.
And we drink until we both forget, our heads all full of fire.
And life becomes a game of cards until we don’t exist.
And I never want to sleep again, I never want to sleep again.
But sleep I do and as I wake we’ve crossed the border line.
And I hate myself for being so weak and drinking too much wine.
Then the man who needs a shave offers one more night of freedom.
But I’ll never see my home again, I’ll never see my home again.
So we eat just like disciples full of food and wine and dope.
And the spy who says she loves me offers sex and life and hope.
And as the bullets rip the car apart I see her die before me.
And at last I have the strength to cry, at last I have the strength to cry.
The enigma of politics and romance
As the train makes a stop the travellers shuffle out onto the platform and walk in a line making sure that they never look back.
And the porter sweeps up all the dirt as the cigarette ash dances round on his shirt and a piece of kebab makes a suicide leap on the track.
Woman and man at St Germaine
The princess and the clown march off into town.
As his mind becomes clear, the man in the tie with the pain in his eye sees the knife in his hand and the blood on the sand as the souls from the factory stare in disbelief. So he cries like a child, for once in his puke he behaves like a man, the ambassador picks up a sandwich and begins to eat.
Go call the police.
It’s a dreary old walk to the town but the wine is as red as the blood of the Emperor so let us all dance on the graves of the insects and rats. As the evening moon turns to milk a light on the floor shows a way to the door of the shop that has run out of maggots and mandarin silk.
Take a look at the stream, it’s brimming with bream
The princess and the clown both try on the crown.
And the message is clear, it’s a popular myth that we need to exist look God’s opened his mouth and the casters have turned into flies. Come and lay down by my side and let us have sex as humanity dies, paint a peach on my shroud and then hang it up over the door.
Then go call the law.
Brave old world (revisited)
Here comes the savage soft song minstrel, is he real? Have a feel, feel the flesh.
Drink ’till the sun turns green inside the blood of all, it’s alright take your pill.
The Betas march in suits of grey along to Thatcher’s requiem. Each one aspires to march in front, the rodent stench like rain, it’s all around you now.
Where are the same one’s always questioning which came first the pipe or hole? No one knows.
All of the trained ones argue, work, breed, ignorance, pure decease, watch the street.
The Gammas fill your box with birds and pack away your breakfast straw and hang your clothes and glue your shoes, the insects cry of pain, it’s all around you now.
The Epsilon who clears your drain, who stole the Alfa from his brain, he only has himself to blame so look the other way.
He’s all around you now and She’s all around you now and they’re all around you now and we’re all around you now.
The man in the grey suit
Tread the path that Jesus trod before, where are they? Beneath the ash my love does cry.
Call my past to beacon me be strong and be more than the eyes have seen, a distant lie.
Fight no more for in the darkness lies the beauty
Light my door, your only honourable duty
But face me I dance no more.
Soul assassin wake me from my sleep and mould me with your voice of nails, inside I climb
Waste your expectations not on me, for you could never understand, no soul all mind.
Fight no more for in the darkness lies the beauty
Light my door, your only honourable duty
But face me I dance no more.
Stock comedian reveal yourself, in and out of course you fool, those magic words.
On a hazy day I see you clear, throw away your shroud of doubt, come close my dear.
Fight no more for in the darkness lies the beauty
Light my door, your only honourable duty
But face me I fight no more and I cry no more and I’ll dance no more.
The requiem of Arthur Rook OBE
Don’t come near dear, you’re not clear dear
I’m not jesting, are you resting or testing?
Here is summer without the sun that shines on all the hearts but one.
Come and listen to your song flying into the Dedans, feel your body, feel your soul, feel your mind and kiss the rubble in your ring as the dying angels sing, feel the breath at the edge of your life.
You had your chance, distant death dance now
Groshan bulls head fly’s from Mons Meg now.
Here is autumn and I’m a leaf, here is God now without belief
Look I’m in love with a shell and you’re the last one I should tell, feel your body, feel your soul, feel your mind.
And take a look at all you’ve done flying into the Dedans, feel the breath at the edge of your life.
I said really why are you not laughing?
Maybe it’s because I’m talking about really!
Here is spring now without the flower and here is year now without the hour.
Dr Fortescue’s research has resulted in a birth, feel your body, feel your soul, feel your mind.
Look at him belting the sun into the heart of the Dedans, feel the breath at the edge of your life.
Rest in peace the head has hit water boatmen.
Cannon smoke tells your last joke are you watching.
Here is winter without the rain and here is morning without the pain.
Look I don’t live here anymore please does someone know the score, feel your body, feel your soul, feel your mind.
And take a look at your book flying straight into the Rook, feel the breath at the edge of your life.
Blood on your soil
Once I loved you, loved your country, lost myself within your beauty.
Cheered your teams and shared your dreams. I fell so hard I could not scream.
But see me now, I have found a greater love. Someone shares my soul. Forgive me now for I can cry with you no more as blood runs on your soil.
Standing naked at the altar, rescue me like Dustin Hoffman. Like a lamb my love lay slain. I prayed for you, you never came.
But see me now, I have found a greater love. Someone shares my soul. Forgive me now for I can cry with you no more as blood runs on your soil.
The eagle and the dancer
Let your soul run brave, stand there and laugh as you sink to your knees like a slave.
Love can’t break my toil, fighting to win with your head buried deep in the soil.
Come, sit by the hand of life, together we can grow.
Come take a stand, sit by the hand, sit by the hand, sit by the hand.
Burn your heart in fire, stand there and laugh as you sink to your knees on the pyre.
Dancers fall from grace, fighting to win with the sun beating down on your face.
Hush, now I don’t hear a sound, the pain has almost gone.
Now here’s your chance, stop all the dance, stop all the dance, stop all the dance.
Come, ride on my eagle’s wing, together we can fly.
Now we are whole, lend me your soul, lend me your soul, lend me your soul.
My last days of poverty
I’m enjoying the taste of my last cigarette
I’m enjoying the taste of my last piece of bread
In a couple of days I’ll be free for a while, I can drink, I can smoke, I can laugh, I can smile
I can look at the canvas and feel I’m alive.
I’m enjoying the smell of the grime in the air
I’m enjoying each moment of utter despair
I’m enjoying this last basic need to survive, I’m a bee that’s about to break free from the hive
Then I’ll look at the canvas and know I’m alive.
I can let loose the pain of a lifetime of tears, like a bullet it rips through the souls of my peers and the music they hate burns a hole in their ears.
I’m enjoying the taste of my last cigarette
I’m enjoying the sound of my deepest regrets
I can hold up a mirror to everyone’s face, are you smiling or hanging your head in disgrace, one day we’ll all learn to find our own place.
The perfumed gardens of Interzone
There are agents all around me with shiny suits and mobile phones, there’s a green cloud on the death shroud, welcome to my Interzone.
The garden smells of Berlin, the world is at my feet.
There’s a princess in an old dress like Nadja painting on my brain. God bless you Dr Mitchell and welcome to my beauty train.
The garden smells of Paris, tonight the wine tastes sweet.
I do not fear the agents breath or hide behind the mallard’s beak.
I do not fear the smell of death, the piercing ear still hears them speak.
The hole is filling up with dust above the pipe that bears no rust.
The dying angel sits and waits to kiss the smile at heaven’s gate.
There’s a perfume in a stale room and every king must have his queen.
Disappear like a tear the memory remains serene.
The garden smells of Jane Street, the beauty is my own.
Forget the daily grind of life, come deep inside and have no fear.
Pretend you’re William Burroughs’ wife, the perfumed garden is quite near.
Spit in the face of those who speak in conversation thin and weak.
The dying angel sits and waits to kiss the smile at heaven’s gate.
There’s an insect with a cloth head, ouranophobia from the grave and the princess like a tigress is devouring the willing slave.
The garden smells of Christmas night in Tarragona, the journey is complete.
The night at the end of the tunnel
The fourteen mile road to the house made of flesh, where the dead trees of summer command no respect, standing erect like the hands of the gods, alone in the wilderness like crucified dogs!
The landscape is littered with Forbian sheds, hession costumes enshrouding the dead, bathing machines that have long lost their wheels, alone in the wilderness like crucified thieves!
Deep in the bowels of the house of four teeth, the old lady offers some welcome relief, smoking our pipes in the shade of the sun, watching insects eclipsed by the shadows like crucified nuns!
Advancing each mile looking centuries back, laugh at the fools in their Forbian traps, dining on carp by the side of the track, throwing bones to the dancers who stare like crucified cats!
The storm cloud appears like an emperor’s eye, pouring out water to help keep us dry, deep in the house lies a smile with a cave, where souls hang on washing lines like crucified slaves.
Tomorrow (the song of hope)
Tonight is mine so drink your wine
Here’s where the punishment fits the crime
Tomorrow’s self is somewhere else and life without pain never made such sense
Come take my hand, the promised land is near.
Pull down the mask, expose the ass, now no more performing of daily tasks
The willing slave digs his own grave, freedom belongs only to the brave
Come take my hand, the promised land is near, is here.
