West Horn

Everyone jump up
Everybody spin around
Everyone take a picture
Now everybody hit the ground
Everyone get up again
Everybody put it down
Everyone walk away from it
Nobody make a sound.
Write about it on your homepage
On your way back home
But better bring a pen and paper
‘Cos you just lost a phone

Everyone lock your front-door
And on the count of three
Everyone switch the TV on
Bringing word from the street.
They say – everybody best stay inside
Suck hard on the news-feed
Everybody re-evaluate
Your wants and your needs
Whine about it on your home-page
While you still have a home
Because the kids will shop like Romans
When they’re shopping in Rome

Everybody dis the logo
Hide the brand on your shirt
Everyone put your toys away
So the toys don’t get hurt
Everybody in the real world
Start a fresh way of life
Everybody in the underworld
Surrender the knife
Everybody ditch your home-page
Go back to your homes
Everybody reap a living
From whatever you’ve sown

Everybody jump up again
Everybody spin around
Everybody shoot a 3D movie
Now everybody hit the ground

[Simon West on sax]

Put It Down

with simon west on sax.....

He’s been trading in paper
Somewhere at the top of the world
He comes at her with his paper
And who knows what she’s been sold
I can’t offer her water
It’s ferrous in this part of town
Instead I’ll offer her poetry
Though God knows it’s nothing profound

I love her so bad but the things that I had
Were on paper
The cash in my hand was made out of sand
Now I hate her
For trading me in
Paper is thicker than ink

She taught me the profit
In speculating on yourself
Next year I’ll be a contender
I’ll climb to the top of the shelf
The looking-glass wants no admission
Just pay with the gleam in your eye.
Getting out is much harder
When you start leaking faith in your style.

I love her so bad but the things that I had
Were on paper
The cash in my hand was made out of sand
Now I hate her
For trading me in
Paper is thicker than ink

I don’t know why she stays with him
He’s wicked, rough and cold
He makes money from alchemy
Turning mirrors and smoke into gold
If I were him, I’d be different
I’d discover my better self
I’d tear out my paper heart
To repent for my paper wealth

The sum that I’m worth is no more than the earth
That I walk on
The soles of my shoes have worn all the way through
But I walk on
For nickels and dimes
As poets are paid to do


Scissors Paper

Alexander plays with the plastic blade
And the plastic fish 
And the plastic bait
You often join him to lift the weight
Of things he sees
Between me and you

The hooks and lines
That almost find
The depths that they can sink to

Stormy skies bring heavy rain
Alex leaps 
From drain to drain
But if the storm blows you away
Your smile steals thunder
From the gale
As a kiss
As a kiss in the tail

All the leaves on the trees
Feel the call of the freeze
You and I making eyes
In the Fall

Looking to the blinds at night
I wasn’t wrong 
If you were right
But should you choose a different light
I’ll say I was wrong and draw the blinds
If you like
For the sake
Of a kiss
A kiss in the tail

Red wine at twilight
White wine in hindsight

I’ve often thought about the final straight
Our diaries matching date for date
The lost weekends we can’t reinstate
Turn to memories of contrition
In the hope
Of the kiss
The kiss that can’t fail


KISS IN THE TAIL

I’m the only one watching the girl with the mic in her hand
The party is over. The groom has just paid off the band
The girl is stone sober – she must have walked in off the street
And this is her moment as she starts to tap her feet

The gun-runner married the gunslinger’s daughter at noon
The great and the good and the greater good thronged in the room
The champagne was gurgling. The fish-eggs on ice were still-born
The bankers and thankfuls
And diplomats and sycophants
Toasted the couple.
The band played a shuffling tune
And under the lights
Someone offered advice
On where to invest
And build up an off-shore nest

The numbers all added up
Then the girl with the mic shows up

The song in her throat has a dissonant note from the start
The mic takes no prisoners, the sinners are thrown to the sharks
The gunslinger’s slung his last salvo, the gun-runner’s next

The mic is a boom
And it’s strapped to her heart
Until death do them part
In the next thirty seconds or less

No more torture-show talk
No derivative gain
From a deal on a plane
This old school is under arrest

The girl bows her head
No more words to be said
And I’m sweating in cold dread
As the mic self-detonates –

But I have been fooled by paranoid thoughts in my head
The girl is no terrorist. The bride and the groom remain wed
The mic is a mic - it is neither a gun nor a bomb
And as for the girl, when I open my eyes she is gone –
With her song

SIMON W. sax
CAROLINE F. additional vocals

Girl with the Mic [feat Simon West, sax]

Casual song-writer, slowly working on collection of original material ('Poncho Land') in collaboration with others

Scissors Paper

Jeremy Freeson