Provocation (of the pencil-pushing prophet.)

Get yours, get even. -Who said that? Are you in my mind?
Relax, dont have a heart attack, everything will be fine;
for now you can just think of me as a friend,
I'm here to make sure that you get your revenge.

-Get what? Are you crazy? I LOVE my job!
I haven't yet said a thing about work; that's odd,
that you think of your job and think of vengeance
but dont worry, i'm here to win back your independence.

But wait; I cant! I have a wife and kids and a car,
dont you think vengeance is going a little too far?
A family? A cheating wife and kids that call you a loser?
A family you're so ashamed to face that you've become a boozer?

A boss that literally spits in your face
-Not everyday. -Aren't you sick of this place?
This claustrophobic 4 metres by 4 cell,
this cubicle that was designed by my minions in hell?

How I hate it! -You hate it. -How i hate these walls!
Just wanna burn 'em. -Then burn 'em. -Burn every one of these stalls!
I wanna kick my pig-faced superior in his gutless balls
and run his face through the copier and have him take MY calls!

I wanna do all the things I wanna do before I'm dead,
hey pal, hey friend, are you still in my head?
Thanks for giving me the guts to fight these heathens and chores,
I wont take it anymore! -That's right; get even, get yours.

Plight (of the pencil-pushing prophet.)

One more morning for the mundane master
how did your life become such a boring disaster?
it's all proof read, edit, return to sender
you coulda been somebody, coulda been a contender
it's all rows, columns, figures and microsoft word
life forgot about you, or hadnt you heard?
it's all select, copy, paste, double click, repeat
children could have thrown fresh roses at your feet
it's all cubicles, screen savers and water coolers
some men are born slaves and others, to be rulers
it's all small talk, gossip, flat jokes and stale breath
you think anyone will mourn your death?

It's everything you hoped you would never become
it's the soulless survival to which you succumb
it's the small checks that sidestep you into the taxman's pocket
it's the plight of the pencil pushing prophet.

Trapped in hypothetical nostalgia

Trapped in hypothetical nostalgia,
I get no rest. Is it self induced,
this hypochondriacal cardialgia
stray memories of you have produced?
Haunted right down to my dubious core
by your disarming, incessant laughter
that heals me of each self-inflicted sore.
Banished to an imagined hereafter,
caught in a bliss that never did exist;
yet i can not long for liberation
for the mind is moot should the heart resist;
you're the price of my self-revelation.

A discarded man of baseless morals
dreaming sparkling diamonds out of corals.




You almost always know after you've met someone that they are not "the one". Sometimes you settle for them because you're tired of looking, alotta people are brave enough to keep searching and get lucky. I wrote this for the only person I ever met and let pass me by that I am still not sure about.

The myth

Look at the sheer size of my hand
you see where I'm going with this
forget the parts of me you dont understand
I am built like a pumped up fist.

I'm Johnny Love-god-sex-machine
the ladies call me J.L. Sweet
cos I knock them right off their feet
and onto their backside
for that last ride
to pleasure paradise.

Walls crumble when we tumble
they call it disturbing the peace
for anyone that may doubt me in the least
one glance at my pedigree and all doubts cease.

I'm Johnny Love-god-sex-machine
the ladies call me J.L. Quiver
cos I make them shiver
in places they didnt know they had sensations
I am discovering and conquering entire nations.

They've tried and tried to dispell the myth
i exist in flesh and bone
I make them moan and groan
as we align our chakras all night long.

I'm Johnny Love-god-sex-machine
the ladies call me J.L. Butter
I make them stutter
like their mamas didnt teach them to speak
they break into tongues as they hit their peak
I'm the Love-god, the sex machine, the super freak.

The Arsonist

Careful, Massa, you push real hard,
why you treat me like I is retard?
I work good, Massa, I pick your cotton,
I no sing sad songs, I be forgotten.

Each time, Massa, each time you push,
I hear the voice of the burning bush,
but I no say nothing, I pick your cotton,
I no sing sad songs, I go rotten.

The voice, He hear me cryin' out,
He ask me what I cry about,
I no have rest, I pick your cotton,
I no sing sad songs, I hit the bottom.

The voice, He tell me be prepared,
the night is falling, I no be scared,
He tell me now sing what I desire,
wake up, Massa, your cotton catch fire.

The face of transition.

Take note that when i look at you
all I see are broken dreams,
tattered remnants of the hell you put me through,
with split ends and open seams.

Your bitterness has left you deformed,
I get sick just being in your presence,
like all the self-pity within me is reborn
along with everything else unpleasant.

What happened to who you hoped to be?
I dont believe you were always this impaired;
I get nauseous knowing that you're close to me,
thinking of the past we shared.

In fact, I think you're the devil
envelopping all around you in tragedy,
my hatred has never reached this level;
I wonder what relationship you ever had with me.

It disgusts me for us to occupy the same space
and I would heave if you got any nearer;
Oh! how I've come to truly despise your face
yet I can't look away from this mirror.


*So, a little dose of self deprecation. In truth, this heat made me feel really crappy and it distorted my reflection in the mirror summoning the memory of one of my favourite passages that i found when i googled "the saddest poem in the world.":

"I, Lais,
dedicate this mirror to Aphrodite.
For it will not show me as I was,
and I will not look upon myself as I am."
-Plato.

Merci, Zizou.

We will never be here again
time is no longer your friend
from here on out, we see things through
victory depends on you
So play with all you've got
this is your one and only shot
in 4 years you'll have gone rotten
life's too short to die forgotten.

Here is where men become kings
so forget about everything
you and the ball are perfect
show them one last time you're worth it
Show them Zizou is the champ
no more room for aches or cramps
in 4 years you'll have gone rotten
life's too short to die forgotten.

Let go of your numbing fears
give them blood and sweat and tears
let glory carry you unto the skies
the legend is born, the hero dies
Make their women throw you bizous
the only name they'll chant is Zizou's
in 4 years you'll have gone rotten
life's too short to die forgotten.

No one knows what history remembers
will you burn away and be lost to the embers
or will your name last an eternity
through this game of universal fraternity
They will say Zizou blessed this sport
this is my love, my thanks and support
for all the dreams that you've begotten
gone, retired but never forgotten.

Coat of Ash

He finds the silly old photograph in the fire place,
lost and buried in painful ashes;
something about the coat in the picture-
what is it that he can't understand?

He catches a glimpse of who he was
and starts to recognise
familiarity in the eyes
but he can not trust what he sees.

All he believes is the coat.

He can not take his eyes off it,
this old friend from another life;
the ivory buttons, the suede leather,
his history starts to come together.

Why does this strange coat warm his heart
with emotion that is no stranger?
A warmth that spreads across his existance,
melting away chains of conditioning
until he can not hold back any longer-

he lets himself remember.

This used to be his drinking coat,
then too-short blanket, then sinking float;
this very same coat that he wears today,
in ghostly tatters, weathered away.

Together, they've lived through each incarnation
if only so he should never forget this incantation:

Simply to give a man his coat back
does not rid him of his pains
for no matter how empty the coat rack,
the man inside forever remains.


A more fitting tribute to the late great Mr. Levi.

Tribute to Primo Levi's "If this is a man"

Consider if this is a man
who can not remember his home,
he works and sleeps,
he exists.
He is a cart-horse, this man,
who never questions a task;
the man has only one face
and he is ashamed to recognise it.

Tell me that this is a man,
with stolen scraps for shoes,
whose heart is warmed by cold porridge,
he breathes.
He has no shadow, this man,
they have taken everything from him;
his body can not understand fatigue
even as it breaks apart.

It is a sad and painful thing to look at this man
knowing he once held his freedom in his hands.


I just read "If this is a man" by Primo Levi, a great and absorbing book about the mass dehumanisation of Jews in Auschwitz and the incredible survival of a few unbreakable spirits. Surprisingly, it doesnt bash the nazis as you'd expect it to.

My wedding vows

I thought i wouldn't know what to say
infront of everyone on this stressful day;
but no stress, no fear or angst, no doubt:
you're simply all i cant live without.

Damn! ...you look insanely fine,
every inch of you is some unique design,
i just wanna have you, right here, in front of all the guests,
grab that sweet ass and bury my head in your -

Oops; i'm sorry, i'd even begun to drool;
i warned you that you'd be marrying a fool,
but the luckiest fool on the entire planet,
let's hurry this up so we can get down on it!

For serious, girl, you are lookin' all kinds of tight
and i promise i'm a represent at least twice a night,
cos i've hit the jackpot without ever spendin a buck;
for real, let's slip outta here, go out back and just-

I can't believe i amlost said that in front of the priest,
let me wind up by saying, last but not least,
that i know i act crazy but this is my wedding vow:
I wasn't ready for love before you but i'm a prove i'm ready now.


This is for my girl that's getting married in July. Cant believe it, Bella, but i'm incredibly happy for you. And insanely jealous! Thanx for not doing it in Vegas. Mad monkey love.

Tribute to Hugh Mearn's classic.

These 2 are mine:

"He lost himself inside my head,
amongst dreams i could not follow,
the inner child i thought was dead;
hope to see him tomorrow. "

and you know this one has happened to you:

"Flushed away to another world,
drowning in the toilet swirl,
words of wisdom i should have known:
miss the call or lose the phone!"

Okay, here is the Hugh Mearn's classic that inspired it all ( for me, at least):

"As i was walking up the stair,
i met a man who wasn't there,
he wasn't there again today,
i wish, i wish he'd go away."

The last known photo of Gavrilo Princip.

I'm sick of digging their roads and ditches,
today i'll show those sons of bitches,
i'll put their callous tyranny to sleep;
all of Europe's going to weep.

At last there's a fire in my heart
though the rest of me should fall apart,
i'll know my death has left a stain;
Petar, forgive me for the pain.

Marija, i'll be the last child you forget,
this young Bosniak is far too upset
to spend another day coughing blood;
Europe's tears will cause a flood.

My hand has turned the darkest black ;
watch me pull off my sneak attack,
watch me slip right under their fat noses,
i'll bury them in their wine and roses.

Seventeen years of this disease,
today i'll bring Europe to it's knees,
two shots for all their future sins;
this is where the war begins.

So, quick! take your silly photograph,
they'll look back on it but they wont laugh,
they'll know my face and recall my name;
Europe will never again be the same.


Special Thanks to Iwaya who's insightful blog brought Gavrilo's story to my attention with this post: http://madandcrazy.blogspot.com/2006/05/gavrilo.html

Devotion.

Its not easy to be such a mess,
a neverending work in progress;
there are days i'm so close to deflating
but somehow i end up just waiting.

I'm so far off the track it's funny,
but life cant be just about the money,
so much time i spend debating
that somehow i end up just waiting.

Why can't i just be one of the pack,
and just unleash my daddy mack?
i really should be out there mating
but somehow i end up just waiting.

Even when all the elements are aligned,
when any other man would jump in blind,
when their arms are more than accomdating,
somehow i end up just waiting.

There's so much more that i can be;
gotta rid myself of this debris,
cos it's for you i'm self-creating
so somehow i end up just waiting.

I sometimes wish i could believe
that contentment was all i would achieve,
that you're not even worth contemplating
but somehow i end up just waiting.

I don't know how i know i'm right
why i fight temptation with all my might
cos at times it gets real frustrating, true,
but i know you're out there, just waiting too.

paranoia

No one would ever question the facts,
the events were deemed "best forgotten",
for they were such heartbreaking acts
to befall that young couple, newly betrothen.

Twas the landlord's son who made the find
while investigating an odour from their room
2 young bodies morbidly entwined
their apartment had become their tomb.

A suicide note was found without hassle
clutched firmly in the dead grip of her hand:
"Every man wants to believe he's king of his castle
and every woman, the most beautiful in the land."

"Kiss in the dark"

You bring out the animal in me
like a raging rhino stung by a bee
like a pack of dogs that piss when they bark,
so how about a kiss in the dark?

You love to play this silly game,
with you it's always been the same:
a moment of romantic bliss and a spark,
so why not a kiss in the dark?

I wanted you by the sycamore
and then again on the kitchen floor,
you laughed and did that and this in the start,
but what's a kiss in the dark?

Do we really need the moonlit walk?
Let's just ignore the pulpit talk;
we've already shared a pack of chips in the park
so where's the kiss in the dark?

She'll never be privy to this information,
not from any strung out conversation,
not from some oddly amiss remark,
so what's a kiss in the dark?

The truth is i'm just talking big,
deep down you know i'm just a kid;
I'd probably fumble and miss in the dark
but it'd still be a kiss to the heart.

The Insomniac (Family Unit, Voice 3).

I glance over at your side of the bed:
empty,... you're still not here;
a collision of thoughts run through my head,
not the least of which is blinding fear.

I'm just not ready to be a dad,
how can you want me as i am?
Forget the good times that we had;
i'm too young and selfish to give a damn!

We can't make the huge mistake
of bringing a child into this life;
i lie in our bed, wide awake,
and, for a second, picture you as my wife.

No! this is not who i'm meant to be!
i'm a one man island, bloody Ibiza!
i've got the passport to all i want to see
now you're trying to revoke my visa.

A bottle of pills couldnt bring me rest,
not when i know i've done the things i did;
it's clear now but who'd have guessed
that deep down, i'm still just a kid?

I wish i'd said something to put you at ease,
this must be a lonely hell for you,
instead i acted like you'd caught some disease;
i just didnt know what to do.

Maybe we could somehow make this work
if it's not too late to set things straight;
i wish i hadnt been such a jerk,
all i can do now is lie here and wait.

I trace the line where you'd place your head,
say my prayers and hope for sleep;
glancing at your empty side of the bed,
i lie awake all night, counting sheep.

The Confessor (Family Unit, Voice 2).

She arrives worn out by the news
and stumbles weakly into the booth;
she'll have to put up with all their views
and find sanctuary in knowing the truth.

There is no priest to hear her confession
and it feels like this could be her last,
clearing her conscience has turned to obsession
but she's felt this way in the past.

The stained glass windows reflect no light,
only the fading glow of a single candle,
casting playful shadows against the night,
stirring fears she can barely handle.

She falls to her knees in vigorous prayer
warding off the hollow disillusion,
the guilt grows inside her, too much to bear
she loses herself in childhood delusion.

One memory plays after another,
she blocks it out but the visions persist:
the repeated image of her childless mother,
she passes out and begins to un-exist.

She's lost in a far and timeless place
where the homeless souls find retreat;
it's a truth she can choose to deny or embrace
as she draws closer to self-defeat.

But she's often struggled with her belief
and knows to hold back her death rattle;
she recovers with a calm and numbing relief:
one more day, one more battle.

*Greatly inspired by a discussion with my Skater Girl.-*

The Philanthropist (Family Unit, Voice 1).

Offer me a place to hide,
let me be your wounded pride,
make my bad dreams go away;
awkward hugs are here to stay.

Raise me into your regret,
label me your unpaid debt,
hold me through my restless night,
let your comfort be my light.

Take me as i am, father,
you're the one that has to bother,
i didn't ask to be your understanding,
ofcourse i'm going to be demanding.

Yes, i expect for you to give
more than just enough for me to live,
it's gonna take some sacrifice,
but passion's got to bear a price.

So lay the world right at my feet,
responsibility, you can not cheat;
let me into your circle of trust,
love me, daddy, because you must.

The drunk goodbye.

I'm off to Las Vegas and it's for good,
been playing the stakes higher than i should,
I gambled my shadow right where i stood,
woulda tried abit harder if i thought i could.

I'm headed to Vegas but before i leave,
i want your name to be the last breath i breathe:
i'm gonna win it all back, babe, cos i believe;
let that reassurance to you be the last i deceive.

I'm going to Las Vegas and i wont be back.
Whatever the stakes, never fold your right to be black;
i leave you all my chips though it's no big stack:
my life silently switched to the side B track.

I'm on my way to Vegas cos it's in my stars,
whatever you do, dont let them see your cards,
dont lose yourself to loose women in loose bars;
I'm 'a win it back, babe: our house, our love, our cars.

It's off to Las Vegas and then it's done,
you're the only jackpot i ever won,
but i lost this race even before it begun;
gonna win it all back, babe, gonna be number one.

I'm leaving for Vegas but first i'll say:
just ignore Frank, don't do things my way,
don't hitchhike your way through life on the highway;
take care of yourself, i love ya, goodbye babe.

Inimitable.

Every dream has been sold,
every story has been told,
every question has been raised,
every art piece has been appraised.

Every song has been written,
every lover has been smitten,
every symphony has been played,
every comment has been made.

Every portrait has been painted,
every image has been tainted,
every invention has been concieved,
every lie has been believed.

Every battle has been fought,
every lesson has been taught,
every theory has been tried,
every tear has been cried.

Every danger has been warned,
every tragedy has been mourned,
every faith has been exposed,
every doorway has been closed.

And everything i've said has been proved untrue,
but never has there been a beauty like you.

My song.

Don't ask me about litote and elision,
my writing ne'er was anyone else's decision,
i can't use metaphors to describe everything:
love is music and i want to sing.

The endless use of hyperbole would fail
for i'm weaving the greatest, most magical tale,
and though my ballads may have a burlesque ring,
love is music and i want to sing.

Loosely lacing my lyrics with alltieration
would be like leaving the house with no destination;
what simple joy a simile can bring,
love is music and i want to sing.

But you can't write a song as a blank verse
and to misuse enjambment would be worse
than choosing epic over melody to be king;
love is music and i want to sing.

So i ignore structure and throw out the rules,
that kind of systematic writing is for fools;
i'm gonna belt this melody out in full swing:
i'm in love, now hear me sing!

The Blame Game.

Bite me till i bleed,
you'll still be my special need,
but i'm vexed;
how will our love fail us next?

You see everything i'm not
and dwell in a past we both forgot,
it's tiring;
lately you're just not inspiring.

Only you could make me smile,
now i find you've changed your style,
your fashion;
we say we're in love but where's the passion?

Remember how it used to be?
Dont you remember you and me?
We tried;
we said it could work but we lied.

This was doomed right from the start,
there was never room for me in your heart,
i'm exhausted;
we might have had love but we lost it.

The limbo of a breakup.

They sit infront of me on the bus,
she kisses him and gives him a hug;
I sit there watching them, thinking of us,
nostalgia kicks in like a drug.

I feel your lips press down against mine
and run my hands through your honey-scented hair,
the world goes silent for that moment in time,
I can feel you just like you were there.

You whisper something into my ear,
a sweet nothing saying all that it should;
I cant understand how much i wish you were here,
I'd unbreak your heart if i could.

I'd unravel history and take back that night,
would change it all if love was that strong;
I could be mistaken when i say you were right,
but i miss you enough to be wrong.

I watch them spiritually devour each other;
how quickly it all comes apart,
the blame mis-placed on the loved or the lover
when love, itself, breaks the heart.

I dont understand how you get on so well,
how you never stop and cry in the rain,
and scream, rip your hair out and curse me to hell
and just feel like you'd die from the pain.

I hate you right now and probably forever
and i hope that you're hating me too,
that you're hurt and angry cos we're not together,
how i want so much for this to be true.

Its clear to me now, what i'm supposed to do,
i've gotta work through this on my own,
i have to not miss being up close to you,
i need to want to be alone.

And its amidst my angst, buried in confusion,
that i'm struck by the emptiness of this bus;
seems the madness engulfed me and formed an illusion
for there's no one here, especially not us.

To the moon and back.

To the moon and back, Alice,
this world's full of malice,
there's no room left here for us;
A "you and I" could be
but thats not how things should be,
let's leave quietly without fuss.

To the moon and back, honey,
this world's mad with money
and i fear we can not survive;
they will force us to choose
who should win, who should lose,
just so that our love would divide.

To the moon and back, baby,
this world's going crazy
and we're close to being swept away;
what we have is a beauty
so this fear is my duty
if our love is to see another day.

To the moon and back, dear,
this world's feeling queer
and i dont know how much i can take;
they cheat and they lie,
they laugh when you cry;
it feels like its all become fake.

Time unravels, let us travel,
let us leave this place,
while we're here, i still fear
that our love might yet hide its face.

Let us hurry, have no worry,
there's no need to pack,
just come quickly, come with me,
let's to the moon and back.

Night ships

I fell in love with the beautiful girl
who was oddly in love with me
and so together we took on the world
for our love had set us free.

But soon she grew tired of my embrace,
my kisses landed on cold lips
until i couldnt even recognise her face,
sailing past each other, two night ships.

The Colony.

Destiny cast me as a bee in an ant's colony,
eluding the hands of time, dark clouds still follow me;
blurred visions of wings, the scent of honey, my hive;
yearning to be set free, longing to feel alive.

I close my eyes and stare into the abyss,
leaping from one ledge to another, hoping not to miss,
but i slip, then i'm falling, time rushes by,
space closes in, suffocation, death stares me in the eye-

-then nothing; no sounds, no fear, no meaning;
just a bee missing his hive, all alone, dreaming.

Holding hands.

Holding hands.

Who knows why the rivers flow,
or what their tides will bring?
I felt this way a long time ago;
isn't life just the saddest thing?

But then i found a hand to hold and go
to the place where the birds still sing
and the dreams of children forever grow,
knowing that the tides will come in.