1. |
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My friend who trod where angels tread
Spoke of the voices in his head
Inventions, fictions and the dead
All talked to him at night in bed
When logic, sense and reason fled
He clung like spiders do to thread
A person guided, driven, led
By voices anchored in his head
Stampeding through his brain, there sped
A bestiary that brewed and bred
With bits from books he claimed he'd read
And these became what filled his head
He listened, eaten up with dread
To what this spider-web had spread
A litany spat, shat and bled
A blood-red nightmare in his head
And though he heard the words we said
They came to him with meaning shed
And so he chose to heed instead
The words he heard inside his head
This weird world to which he's wed's
Become his butter, beef and bread,
And dead ahead, the path he'll tread
Alone within his undead head
They talk and he gives them full cred
No proof. In truth, there's none, no shred
Yet they're his all, his a-to-zed
The universe inside his head
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2. |
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We linger at the rendezvous
Arrival now long overdue
No passengers and where's the crew?
And where's the plane on which they flew?
There is no hint. We have no clue
No messages are coming through
The obvious becomes taboo
The falsehoods form. The rumours brew
With hearsay, which may not be true
The situation's nothing new
Yet no one knows quite what to do
No messages are coming through
They've disappeared into the blue
The evidence we misconstrue
Conspiracies: the theories grew
Contagiously, like AIDS, like flu.
The reason is the facts are few
No messages are coming through
And so it is with me and you
And so it is now we are through
With what we had and what we blew
We're wading through the residue
We don't discuss. We just argue
No messages are coming through
When truth tells lies and lies are true
Our wreckage lies beyond rescue
We have no verbal avenue
Our silences line up. Their queue
Just tells us what we always knew
No messages, no messages
No messages are coming through
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3. |
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The thin skins ripple on puddles
As if disturbed by ghosts of this
We're lamp-watched under winter gusts
Which fuss about like hosts of this
See silhouettes on bicycles
Slide past the signs and posts of this
With oceanic skies above
Those roof-tops shape the coasts of this
And every car which whispers past
Testifies and boasts of this
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4. |
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We talk about America, we talk about the Klan
We talk about the terrorists out there in Pakistan
We talk about the benefits of lentils and of bran
We talk about the way to be when talking man to man
We talk about mortality, our blood-test and our scan
We talk the kind of language which governments might ban
We talk about all sorts of sports of which we're each a fan
When we men talk
We talk because we want to, we talk because we can
We talk about the ways to make an omelette or a flan
We talk about the Buddhist riddle known as a koan
We talk about the wars we fought when we were partisan
We talk about Italians in Naples, Rome, Milan
We talk about our purposes, posterity and span
We talk of faith and angels, of milk and marzipan
When we men talk
We talk about our family, of mum and dad and gran
We talk as if we hardly care. We try to stay deadpan
We talk about the job we do, our customers, our van
We talk about our Christmases, Yom Kippur, Ramadan
We talk about the years we spent in Russia or Japan
We talk about our film careers in Hollywood and Cannes
We talk about our situations, how it all began
When we men talk
We talk about the future and envisage some grand plan
We talk about the wealthy, unemployed and artisan
We talk of Myra, Mary, Mona, Meg and Marianne
We talk about our holiday, our hotel and our tan
We talk about the stuff we add, from salt to parmesan
We talk about the life we've lived, the businesses we ran
We talk to change the subject to anything other than
Pens we push. Price we pay
Pints in pubs. Swagger'n'sway
Plain as porridge. Dense as clay
This the stuff that we men say
Razor blade. Rub'n'spray
Black'n'white. Shades of grey
Stains which we won't wash away
This the stuff that we men say
Grass we mow. Fields we play
Oats we sow while making hay
Climate change when tempers fray
This the stuff that we men say
Maybe versus yeah or nay
Could be straight or could be gay
Pagger, batter, belt or bray
This the stuff that we men say
Lay'n'leave or love'n'stay
Pray for bird, get bird of prey
Burden till our dying day
This the stuff that we men say
Kingdom come or come what may
Somewhere something goes astray
Okay, hey'n'anyway
This the stuff that we men say
When we men talk
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5. |
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We painted a picture to show to our friends…
The sort of picture that people can enjoy
But we left it somewhere by mistake
What happened was that we put it down for a moment
Then half-way through that moment
Someone said something important
And we left without it
When we went back, it had gone
No one knew where it went
We asked everybody, described it to them in detail
Let it be known that we'd give a modest reward for its return
Made threats, cursed, got drunk
And shouted about its beauty, the tragedy of its loss
All this, but to no avail
Years later, we were all dead
Still no-one let on about its whereabouts
It took centuries, whole centuries
Now, of course, anyone can see it
It's on exhibition in the main gallery of the capital city
The man who found it paid 2.50 for it and sold it to a dealer for 500
He was pleased to have made such a profit
The dealer sold it to the gallery for 5, 000
And now the gallery say that it's priceless
‘What a painting!' say the critics ‘What a painting!'
Long dead, our friends haunt the gallery
They listen to the hushed echoes of admiration
From critics and patrons and tourists
We tell our friends that it's the painting we did for them
They're happy that so many people appreciate it
And they wish they could see it for themselves
But the dead are blind to such inanimates
They see only each other and the living
They can do no more than watch people staring at an empty space
And wish that they could see where the painting was and what it looked like
We can't even remember ourselves what it was that we painted
But its beauty, oh, we remember that well
It was a beautiful painting
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6. |
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Our kids who've grown and flown the nest
Now only phone us to request
More cash on loan, their tone depressed
We're shown their debts. We've known. We've guessed
They own mere pence. They've blown the rest
‘We're stony-broke!' they drone, distressed
They moan. We groan, but re-invest
In those who've grown and flown the nest
Our blood-and-bone, our own, our best
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7. |
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Sap rises to the leaf on which an insect settles
The wings seize the sunlight and split its spectrum of colours
The two front legs work furiously at the head and antennae for several minutes
This could be compulsive cleaning or else it might be scratching
The sun slants its heat over the late tropical afternoon
And this forest is awash with the buzz and hum of predatory animal traffic
A bird catches and snatches the insect forever from leaf and from life itself
Leaf and tree, insect and bird fall below the earth
Time turns them all into coal – a black and tangibly total obliteration of their being. Others turn to oil
I flick a flame from my lighter, burn the gas refined from natural fuel, light a cigarette that could contain my own Death
For a second, in the neat yellow flash of fire, I almost see the bird rise like a phoenix, a rainbow of insect wings in Its beak
Or it's as if I'm witnessing the foliage of a long-lost forest burning in the sunlight centuries and centuries ago
But it's all gone before I draw the first lungful of smoke
And already I feel the impatience of time, its vortex drawing my own flesh and bone beyond life and down towards Earth and coal and tar
There is a sense of the self dissolving into smoke in the lungs of the eternal
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8. |
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And God gets impatient. ‘We done yet?' he asks
Grown pig-sick of listening, exhausted by tasks
His damned omnipresence gives no getaway
No lunch-break. No weekend. No brief holiday
Eternity tells him that he's here to stay
Thrown praise, prayers and sung to, with zero relief
He's held like a hostage, bound by blind belief
Implored without end to arrange the unplanned
And change the unchanging with his mighty hand
He simply can't do that. They don't understand
All-seeing, all-knowing… okay, he's all that
But he doesn't pull rabbits out of his hat
Creation's an art, not a form of magic
And raising the dead is no everyday trick
It's hard enough healing a human who's sick
While his still small voice seems like it goes unheard
Their clamour - like tinnitus - rings loud and blurred
That wailing and moaning worm under his skin
There's no insulating himself from their din
He curses their suffering and curses their sin
There's no job as tough as this deity bizz
The grinding and gnashing of teeth are all his
In retrospect he finds it hard to believe
That there was a time when he'd goals to achieve
Til he went and blew it with Adam and Eve
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9. |
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This city eats, this city eats, this city eats itself
Shovels down its ancient stone
Dines on human flesh and bone
Steals from mates it's always known
Laptop, TV, mobile phone
Neighbourhood's a no-go zone
‘Gotcha!' screams your sick ringtone
Come the king without a crown
City crumbles, tumbles down
One-time wonder turned to clown
Painted grin to growing frown
Business now begins to drown
Cut-backs kill this crippled town
Swallows everything it's got
Cash is hot, compassion's not
Trashes every vacant lot
Tears all down for building plot
Stands back, lets its history rot
Shoots up, shits up, should be shot
No defence, a naked goal
cannibal with begging bowl
Pays the price out on parole
Digs 'n' drags through drug, debt, dole
Turned to meat 'n' eaten whole
Skewered through its urban soul
Bites its brickwork, chews concrete
Bones of buildings stripped of meat
Drags dead rain straight up main street
Shops shut down, troops in retreat
All that's new lies incomplete
Assets gone, there's no receipt
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10. |
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The man who built The Titanic never talks about oceans
And has a morbid fear of the cold
His recurring dream is panoramic
Eskimo sailors steer a ship of ice through seas of scrap metal
Every sound echoes dull and heavy through fog
And the captain is perpetually drunk
The dreamer peers over the side of the ship
The seabed is a mile below
And he can make out fronds of metal weed curling up towards him
The people who are going to jump when the panic starts
Will simply drop like stones
There's no water to catch them here
As the band stops playing
He can feel the great hull of ice start to shudder
And hears the drawn out groan as it cracks apart
Asleep, he keels over in bed, grinding his teeth hard
A sound that fills his head like ice shearing on metal
The man who built The Titanic lives near the Equator
And seldom takes a bath
His house smells of him, except the kitchen
Here, without a fridge, food rots quickly in the heat
And the stench attracts gulls
They wheel and screech in the air above his house
And, when he throws out the garbage
They dive onto the deck, and fight like people in a panic
And that's the man who built The Titanic
The man who never talks about oceans
The man who has a morbid fear of the cold
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11. |
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And after dusk, and in the deserted library
The night is a small black book
Through which no one ever looks
I pocket it, leave as quickly and quietly as I came
The pages are cold and silent against my hip
But the stars are metallic and pass for coinage
They pay for my bus ticket
I sit upstairs, let slip an accidental handful of owls
These settle on the seat-backs and stare me out
Eyes huge with accusations
And on the walk home, and then in my dreams
And out across the surface of my wakening
And even in the daylight: moths
They follow me everywhere, because my clothes
Because my body, because my thinking
Because all of these and everything I touch
And everywhere I go adopt the odour of moonlight
This they follow because they are moths
And because the moon has never been so close
And all my clothes are black and heavy
And I cannot undress, and I have no pockets
And my hands are full of high cloud
And I cannot touch the book
And my body is thinned by night air
And my head is a void of echoes and distances
And the carpet fills with pins of light
That are cities caught up in a mesh of sleep
All of which pulls away
Beyond the odour of moonlight
Beyond the taste of planets
Beyond the texture of stars
Until everything has been stolen
And the theft is complete
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12. |
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Drowned sailors lie in St. Mary's Graveyard
In the Devon fishing village of Appledore
Lifted from the water, lain below the ground
Long lie the many men, lured from land and drowned
Birdsong lulls my footfall. They hear neither sound
Flesh and cares have fled from dull bones bared and browned
Silent strands like sea weeds wrap them round and round
Tides of time now trap them near where waves still pound
These the seas that left them lifeless, lost then found
Borne ashore by mourners, stored where all are bound
The graveyard, Appledore
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13. |
Man On A Train
03:51
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The man on the early train sees the sun rise
Arthritic, and slant a few fine squints of watery light towards him
Along the dusty surface of an end-of-October landscape
It conjures this picture: of an old man, crumpled fingers
Clutching the edge of a hospital table, puckering the cloth
His mouth hangs open
And he's waiting for the nurse to bring him food
He hunches, head hung between his shoulders just above table level
And he is what he seems to be: a sun on its horizon
There's a familiar noise in the distance
The old man tries to remember what causes it, and tries to place it
It moves slowly across the far side of the tablecloth
He stares after it through watery eyes
The cutlery, cups and pots become industrial structures under his failing gaze
The creases in the cloth form divisions: walls, roads, hedges…
And he now knows what that noise is; it's a train
As a child, he'd stir in bed after dawn
And hear it hammer down the valley with its load of post, papers and early risers
Now, the table-top train thunders along the rim of his vision
All those years ago, as a child
He'd have leapt out from under warm blankets
Onto the cold shock of polished floor
Padded across bare boards to the window
And watched it go – steam then, diesel now – sailing away
He might even (Leaning in blue-and-white pyjamas
Over the sill and into the icy air)
Have been seen by the man on board
So the two of them would watch while the rising sun struggled
Ancient and open-mouthed, groping forward
With spidery fingers of light across a misted landscape
That had become the vast spread of time
Between the one person who was all three…
Child, commuter and old man
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14. |
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The poem I wrote about you
I didn't write one, I actually wrote two
And then there were others. I wrote quite a few
I tried to keep count but the numbers just grew
So those were the poems I wrote about you
Because I'm a poet and that's what we do
And, when they'd been written, I sent them to you
The Post Office told me that they'd all got through
Which I knew and you knew and they knew was true
Anonymous poems from someone you knew
Though you hardly cared that you didn't know who
You asked a few friends but they hadn't a clue
You got lots of poems. Mine just joined the queue
Yet such stuff was something from which you withdrew
The way that some people are frightened of flu
Or spiders or clowns or what cannibals do
You never read poems, not even haiku
Averse to all verse, your antipathy grew
Some people, they're like that, and you joined their crew
And anyhow you'd other things to pursue
Like Pernod and pretzels and trips to Peru
So, off on your travels, you bid us adieu
As they say in France, parley-voo. Entre nous
Those poems, unread and long rendered taboo
Were missed off the list of what you took with you
You'd yesterday flushed the whole lot down the loo
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15. |
Stiff With A Quiff
04:21
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Half-past-six with a belly full of grub
Stiff with a quiff quits home for the pub
Seven to eleven in the public bar
‘We're here for the beer and a laugh – Ha-Ha!'
He's wed to a flooze but they hardly speak
So he hits the booze most nights of the week
‘And it's a lousy life,' she thinks
‘It's a lousy life, and it stinks'
Flatulent, fat and forty, fortified
He's put fourteen pints of bitter inside
Nowt in his pockets as he staggers home
But a packet of fags and a greasy comb
He slams the door, kicks off his shoes
And is fast asleep before the tea brews
‘And it's a lousy life,' she thinks
‘It's a lousy life, and it stinks'
She looks at beery slumped in his chair
Call it a marriage? There's bugger all there
An hour more telly to drunken snores
What with him and the box and the household chores
Home's a hopeless habit, like heroin
With its needle stuck firmly under her skin
‘And it's a lousy life,' she thinks
‘It's a lousy life, and it stinks'
It's a lousy life for the washed-up wife
Of a permanently plastered
Permanently plastered
Permanently plastered pissed up
Pissed up, pissed up bastard
Bastard
Bastard
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16. |
Scars
04:12
|
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These are the regions of hatred and pain
Pieces of days that we cannot contain
This is the burning returning again
Wounds which have healed yet their shadows remain
After the cleansing there'll still be a stain
Sins are forgiven but grudges ingrain
Tattooed forever deep inside your brain
Faraway songs with a snagging refrain
Atmospheres lingering long after rain
Items of evidence buried in vain
Surfacing shrapnel our bodies retain
Devils deputed to drive us from sane
These are our scars
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17. |
Quiet Riot
04:22
|
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We riot in our quiet streets
Suburban scum, we dumb elites
Lob angry emails, texts and tweets
While coppers stroll by on their beats
We riot in our quiet streets
We riot in our quiet streets
With nobody to photo-take
And no political earthquake
No Arab Spring. No windows break
While dieting, for Heaven's sake
We riot in our quiet streets
We riot in our quiet streets
While reading Shelley, Wordsworth, Keats
We pay for stuff and get receipts
And chewing gum and eating sweets
We riot in our quiet streets
While mums are baking birthday cake
And bread-fed ducks park on the lake
Our home-grown revolution's fake
So knowing there's no life at stake
We riot in our quiet streets
Though no one gets up from their seats
While TV stations screen repeats
But ruled by liars, thieves and cheats
We riot in our quiet streets
Then tidy up what mess we make
So all's shipshape when we next wake
And those who don't take part partake
And though the cause now seems opaque
We riot in our quiet streets
While, out at sea, we're losing fleets
And daily learn of new defeats
Though all we hang are laundered sheets
And when things burn, it's by mistake
Black smoke from barbecuing steak
We mow the lawn. We hoe. We rake
The boredom makes us bellyache
We riot in our quiet streets
Where, like some shark, the darkness eats
And sinks its teeth in human meats
So peace won't come to these retreats
We riot in our quiet streets
Where Crimewatch keeps us all awake
Its nightmares stories make us shake
And rattle us just like a snake
Or vampire with a thirst to slake
We riot in our quiet streets
Then bag up shit the dog excretes
And sit and beg like him for treats
We snarling sheep, our barks are bleats
We riot in our quiet streets
While, out at sea, we're losing fleets
And daily learn of new defeats
Though all we hang are laundered sheets
We riot in our quiet streets
And when things burn, it's by mistake
Black smoke from barbecuing steak
We mow the lawn. We hoe. We rake
The boredom makes us bellyache
We riot in our quiet streets
Where, like some shark, the darkness eats
And sinks its teeth in human meats
So peace won't come to these retreats
We riot in our quiet streets
Where Crimewatch keeps us all awake
Its nightmares stories make us shake
And rattle us just like a snake
Or vampire with a thirst to slake
We riot in our quiet streets
Then bag up shit the dog excretes
And sit and beg like him for treats
We snarling sheep, our barks are bleats
We riot in our quiet streets
|
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Nick Toczek & Signia Alpha Bradford, UK
Poet Nick Toczek began collaborating with Matt Webster in 2019.
They released Shooting the Messenger in 2020. A mix of
indie, jazz and funk grooves with Toczek’s surreal poems and stories.
Walking the Tightrope followed in 2021 & included a guest appearance by The Damned’s Paul Gray.
A third album in 2022. Webster plays many of the instruments with contributions from guests, including Paul Gray,
... more
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