I’m average Joe milquetoast 
The only thing on my mind
Is can I grab that bagel
Or will the queue eat up my solitaire time?  

The skies are spitting flaming orbs
The cars upturned, the shrieking throngs
At this rate I’ll be late for work
Can that Horseman even hear my beeping horn?

It never ceases to amaze me 
My fellow man’s capacity
To be melodramatic drama queens
Look, now you’ve made me go and spill my tea! 

It’s an oversaturated media landscape
That makes you choose this alt-lifestyle of eating brains
I cast no judgement on your proclivities
I’m a little piqued by that stampede

The angels and the fallen ones lock swords up in the sky
I’ve got no time to gawk- I’ve used my holiday time
I’m getting sick of this spat of surreal plagues
If I see another locust I’ll go insane

I walk up to the door of my office building
I tip-toe through the rubble and find my workspace
I think I got away with arriving late 
In fact the place is cleared: is it a bank holiday?

It’s a great day, a blessed day. I might’ve been fired. I got away
I’m in a good mood, but please refrain from blasting lasers at my face
My Nissan has been set ablaze; I guess that’s alright, I was going to upgrade

Another Doomsday At The Office

She stares at the receding shoreline
Her voice is wan; it’s rarely used
But through the waves, I hear her whisper
“I need a place where I can hideaway”

There’s a man, slight and frightened
He’ll never meet your fixed gaze
It seems as if he’s always searching
For a place where he can hideaway

It takes a special sight
To see your gentle, flickering flames
It’s such a lovely light
That guides you through your darkest days

The way you clench your hands
The way you try to turn away
I can smell the scent
Of flowers blooming in your mind

To them you mystify
They’re privy to the smallest trace
Of what lies deep inside
The secret place you hideaway
It’s such a lovely hideaway
There’s no shame in your hideaway
Nothing’s plain in your hideaway
You come alive in your hideaway

Hideaway

There was a man who lived at number seventeen, just a few doors down
Sometimes I’d see him nervously skittering on his way back home, where he lived alone; he’d enter with relief
I asked my mother why he always wore those muffs around his ears
The poor dear’s harmless. He was born with a flaw where his nerves are pounded by the sound, with a pain that hounds, at every child’s voice

Mister mister come out to play
We see you there in your hiding place
This song’s our gift to you
Do you like when we sing for you, sing for you

Isaac and Graham and Stacie and Martin and Jonathan, the baker’s child
Enough of your silly, childish fooling, I know a game that’ll make you laugh and laugh, follow me down this path- it’s just along the way
At number seventeen, we saw him glimpse through a crack in the black curtains
Now’s the time, my friends, let’s sing and scream as loud as our lungs allow, make him hunch and cower, until he moves away

Mister mister come out to play
There’s no place you can run away
This song’s our gift to you
Do you like when we sing for you, sing for you, sing for you

Sing For You

I’d grown incurious, aeons had unburdened me
Of my desire to keep track
I gazed with indolence upon the fleeting hearts of men
I never knew that I sorely lacked
 
One by one, the aging Gods, have each left Olympus
Like shooting stars, we hurtled down, and most came to madness
Gone is my holy life, gone like a sacrifice: I see with mortal eyes. 
 
Gods put up barriers, even with the other Gods
Perfectly painless were our lives
Venus weeps disconsolate, vulnerable as a newborn babe
I feel empathy for the first time
 
Enfolded in my bleeding arms, I ask if she remembers
The times we took on human form and walked down among them
Thought we had them figured out, immortals who knew no doubt
We who never knew pain
Take my hand in yours: can you feel this throbbing pulse?
It all comes from the same place

Complex Messiah

Today you were away from me from 2.45 'til 3.03
You’d never leave my side again, if you saw what it did to me
I will touch the ceiling when I have filled your shrine
I will not be satisfied with having you inside my life
I need some memento I can cradle in my arms at night
When I see a stuffed kitty, ideas will come to me
 
Gimme everything that you got got got

(Gallbladder, daydreams, escape plans, nail clippings
Cloud interpretations and Catholic self-abasement)

Beyond a long hallway lies a private room inside your mind
It hardly seems quite fair to me, why don’t you cut me a key?
I resent the feeling, when we breathe at different times
All human anxieties begin when we first leave home
Now we’ve gone it all alone, who will tell us where to go?
I will take the reins, dear, but I have to make them tight

Gimme everything that you got got got

(Tongue piercing, throw cushions patterned with a juggling seal
Basic crochet skills, my name alone upon your will
Ennui, tarot cards, MOT, anima
Purity of essence, finding small dogs unpleasant
Poster of La Strada, quinoa in your larder
Smattering of Italian, your total subservience)

Gimme everything that you got I want it
Gimme everything that you got I want

I want it all, I want it all, I want it, everything and more
I want it all, I want it all, I want it bodily and soul

(Pre-molar filling, afternoons spent milling
Liz Taylor glasses, pottery classes
Guilt at literary choices, conversational pauses
Absent father, mood change with the weather
I.B.S., Raleigh bike, ottoman, star sign
The plasma in your veins...gimme gimme everything)

Gimme Everything

Hey, Mama
Hey, Mama, hey
In the evening when the earth fell quiet
You’d come and sing the sleep into my eyes
When my neighbourly love cools
I can feel your warmth reaching, burning for us both now

Hey, Mama
Hey, Mama, hey
You have a spirit that disarms
They come with a heavy heart, and leave you calm
You never stop to gather moss
Quicksilver gypsy soul, go out and share your love, now

Hey, Mama
Hey, Mama, hey
You lifted my eyes, elevated my gaze
Showed me the world was filled with colour
I can’t thank enough, can’t thank you enough
For your presence, for your patience, every single day
Don’t ever go away
Hey, Mama
Hey, Mama, hey

Hey Mama

We picked her up in Holland, famished little beanpole, a runaway who’d never been tamed
She didn’t say a word, if she even could; we ran through the play, she was beaming away
She charmed the company, until we all agreed: we gave her a role, incidental and small

The audience forgot their names as she stepped onstage
The chintzy set began to fade away

Rising through the ranks, beguiling ever higher, until the crowd only came for her
Her gift was the emotion, etched into her features, which she gave from the open stage
Her star shone bright and briefly, as they often do; she met with Love, that thief of fire

I knew the moment they locked eyes her time with us was through
All he had to say were platitudes:

“I’m in love with you. It doesn’t matter what we do.  I’m in love with you, it doesn’t matter where we are.  I’m in love with you, it’s true, it’s true.”

The Travelling Players

Mastering by Triphoenix Mastering(@triphoenixmastering)

https://www.alzheimers.org.uk/

In the morning air I came to myself
The storied room belonged to someone else
Strangers flooded in with careworn eyes
They clutched my hand, a hand they couldn’t know
 
Recoiling from the over-familiar gaze
Horror at the strength of strangers’ love
Rising to my feet upon a hobbled frame
The strings within reacting much too slow
 
I brushed them off and stared outside
At the chorusing life
The world felt young and so did I
Then, why?
 
I made my way towards the door
Every step a chore
She barred the way, “Please remember me!
“Just try…” 
 
Wounded by their sharp looks of sympathy
Nowhere could I go to escape
The girl scanned my face expectantly
What she wanted I couldn’t know
 
I looked down towards her clear green eyes
Not a trace of hate could I find
All she needed was a shred of hope
Then perhaps she might let me go
 
I placed a hand upon her head
And stroked her hair
“My dear, I long for the open air
Outside”
 
She let me pass on through the door
But behind she bawled
In the sun I forgot them all
And smiled

The Visitors

In the early hours
My father glowered,
“Have you lost your mind?
We thought you’d died
You only make your mother cry
 
“I was young like you
Had a patent on the truth
But the butterfly
He only flies
In his later life”
 
I told him, “When’s the last time
You saw the sunrise?
Missed a meal and drove into the night?
If you’re a butterfly
You’re one that’s died
Pressed away your spark of life
You’re terrified
Of things that fly
And wish I’d play dead like you
You know that it’s true”
 
On my bedroom ceiling
Where the damp was peeling
I drew a door
To far-off shores
Away from their lies and laws
 
I’ll keep this angry feeling
When my hair’s receding
How can you smile
When all the while
We’re living rank and file?
 
My dad said, “Maybe you can see what I can’t see
I’ve been alive so long it’s just a part of me
But the storm inside
When it subsides
I’ll be there by your side
Can you say
With honesty
That anger has enriched your life?”

Butterflies

Dredged from the bottom of a dead man’s gullet
Carved into the ugliest down-and-out
You’ll live with the smell in the heart of winter
Pass me in the summer, and you’ll wanna leave town
 
Poked by the sticks of a children’s choir
Coughed up something awful: they’ll never sing again
Bathed in the river, got a rash that feels like fire
All the fish decide that they’re amphibians
 
I know when I’ve finally outstayed my welcome
Stocks in pitchforks go through the roof
Weathermen have started using my name
They’d rather have a hurricane than see my face
 
In this ugly world I feel like a model
I’ve been the worst me that I can be
I’d rather have a purpose than having sod all
Even if it’s turning stomachs in the streets
 
You’ve walked by me with your mind on salad spoons
Spice racks, and brand new bidets
My black eyes rained down a monsoon
Right upon your godforsaken gilded cage
 
You set fire to me, but my diseases
Will take to the air like a pestilent fog
Try and hold your breath, there’s no avoiding
I’ll leave you like a ragged, wretched, plague-bitten dog

(Image taken from Twin Peaks season 3)

Simon Maxwell-Stewart

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