The Big Country

(Unless my cousin is a massive bullshitter) I found out earlier that my grandad once met Burl Ives. Which makes this the ideal time to hit you with my favourite Western theme ever. The theme from The Big Country by Jerome Moross, played here by The John Wilson Orchestra:

The Rotten Onion

Full up on death, disease and loss, life shed its kinder colours. Time weathered off the outer gloss, and peeled away the covers.   There’s things that don’t add up down here, such things are not for knowing. Left watching loved ones disappear, unsure of where they’re going.

You Say Tomayto

Intoxicated by a collective delusion of freedom   Choose how to wear your hair while they wrench you away from your family and break your human spirit on the wheel   Choose which hole to be hammered through to render you a grotesque servile peg in their collection   Choose which box to travel in … More You Say Tomayto

The Wicked Ones

The wicked ones are winning, it happened overnight, corruption’s underpinning, all activities in sight.   The honest folk are losing, they never stood a chance, the wicked ones are using them, to do their crooked dance.   I think it goes in cycles, from darkness into light, like chains of Christmas light bulbs, which waiver … More The Wicked Ones

Cyclops

The half machine, half human kind, he left his human heart behind, in favour of a robot mind. God witnessed and he wept.   At cracking codes he’s most adept, he knows where all the keys are kept. There’s nothing he can’t hack except, a probing pair of eyes.   He orders our IT supplies, the … More Cyclops

Circular

Out there, wandering the pitch black badlands, of demonic jazz improvisation, I stumbled on a clue, which led me to the revelation, that my uniquely fucked up thing, was not just my thing after all, but a shared thing.   So now I have a label, and fellow sufferers, and a whole taxonomy of facile terms … More Circular

At the Front

At the front, he’s at the finish.   Warily we shuffle into church, to pay sedated tributes, to the dead man in the box, who was alive just two weeks prior.   Gathered in new hats and suits, to witness hand picked words, conjured by the tonguely ones, to wrap black holes, in bright red paper, … More At the Front

Train Poem #7

Moving through the morning snow have to go so careful slow driving sliding to and fro watching mountain ranges grow in the road where tyres don’t go opaque snakes of snowflakes blow floating in my headlights’ glow weather man said 6 below feeling like an eskimo trudging through the white plateau found a thing I … More Train Poem #7