Thursday, 29 December 2011


I enjoy the artless. That is where my art is- what it is. Right hooked by the institution.

Wednesday, 30 November 2011

Sunday, 20 November 2011


    ...but, you can't- you just can't.

   - and, I wouldn't want you to. Not really.

'Welcome' A J Casper, 2011

Thursday, 10 November 2011


Monkey Steve's Car Feels Fed Up

Monkey Steve got in his car and tried to start the engine to make the car go along the road that would get him to work in the office. The car didn't want to start- i mean, the engine did- oh by all means the engine did- but the car, the car itself, it thought 'no, don't really fancy this right now'. Monkey Steve got out from behind the wheel- which was also willing by the way- and had a good long stare at the car, doing a lot of very concentrated wishing that the car would decide to start. He got back behind the willing wheel and tried again- but no, this car did not want to go anywhere thank you very much. Monkey Steve locked the car and felt a bit sad about it, then off he went to the bus stop. He was a little bit late for work but nobody minded because Monkey Steve is a very good worker and altogether a lovely monkey. The car however- well, it's not that the car is bad or mean but... it's a troubled car. It feels a bit pointless. It knows it has a high level of functionality but- really, why? There's a lot of 'why' in this car. Throughout the day the car sat on the drive; the engine tried talking to it; the wheels- steering and the ones that hug the road- had a go too, at talking the car round... making the car 'look on the bright side' but, the car didn't want to look on the bright side. In fact the car thought it rather silly that the talk all went in the direction of 'cheer up' 'chin up' and so on, because - why? Why should the light be favoured over the darkness?- i rather like the shadows myself sometimes-... why should anyone do anything if they don't feel like it? What's wrong with feeling ...sad and sorrowful and... a bit, pointless? When the car explained this to the engine and the wheels, and the seats- although they were not particularly interested, the seats- they all sort of, understood, and lapsed into silence. When Monkey Steve got home he got into his car and tried to make it start- it started. But i don't know why.

Monday, 24 October 2011

...not much energy for writing at the moment...

....for 3 free EPs please go to Alisia Casper on Bandcamp... click on... BANDCAMP... not that one, the next one...

 A J Casper 2011

Sunday, 2 October 2011


A J Casper 2011

And when she awoke the world was changed, and she took a breath, and she took a step, and she left the house and laughed again-...


Friday, 23 September 2011

Keep On Keeping On

Make world small- but still big enough to turn around in- not cat swinging or anything so strenuous and wrong, but certainly must be large enough to accomodate falling forwards or backwards or to the side- oh, and the other side- oh, and stumbles are common! Lately on the stairs dying wasps, but i pick them up -careful like- with piece of paper and, zip, off they go out of the window. Oh- dying but still flying. Some i find too late and they have met death on the drying wire of carpet, not out in the fresh. Learning to use crutches- me, me- not the wasps- you silly- this is a demonstration of my lack of co-ordination, the crutches, ooh it hurts, ooh it does- co-ordination was one of my things- PING, GOT IT!- lately, don't got it. See, typing has been the small give-away from early on, but... crutches show me on a bigger scale.....   how....much......                         longer........                                        
Yes, it is very tiring.
All in all- all in all- all in all- i am not at war, i am not witnessing great horror- i am in one piece- i am loved- i am supported- i'm good luck- good luck- i'm lucky, lucky, lucky- i am simply engaged in struggle, and- if i relax- drop my shoulders- breathe deeply- it'

A J Casper 2011

Wednesday, 14 September 2011


A J Casper 2011

Linx & Nausea...


Movement without moving & sickness with no righting.
I make my world so small, so small... till, from the outside, it is hardly a world at all... 
but to me it lives and grows and is so beautiful... yet, now and then, I am still tricked by envy. 
How foolish.

Don't worry.
Keep still.
Endurance & Hope.


Monday, 12 September 2011


A J Casper 2011

Jemima's Pain

   Jemima has always held her perfect pink tongue and said nothing to anybody about the terrible movements she feels in her body. Huge movements; as though a monstrous thing is shifting it's weight- this way, that way- first wriggling slowly in the right leg, wrapping a bone- squeezing, squeezing- then sliding, growling, burning soft and loud, round through the places she wishes to be silent and still. Then, on, into the left leg where it will wriggle again, slowly, slowly, all the time pushing long, long pins of ice down into the foot. On some days the awful shuddering thing will fill her chest and every beat of her fine & swelling heart sends red slices of bright shock down her beautiful arms- razoring her fingers from the inside- thumping at her elbows with an invisible lump hammer.

   Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.


   Jemima's face shows not the pain. There is no quick breath, no flush of colour, no paling, fainting, or tears... no sign. People fall in love with Jemima. They fall into the deep blue of her eyes- eyes that seem to see & know something, beyond what shines before them- oh, and the perfect blush of her cheeks ...  a full white cloud kissed rose by a sinking September sun. Men and women, dogs and cats, feel violent urges to do with the softness of her skin and the spun gold of her hair.

   They love her. They loved her. They will love her.

   And all the time- Jemima is in pain. Giant, arching pain. The pain of ages. The pain of pain.

   As she ages; ever in pain; ever as pain- slipping through twenties, craning her neck to see beyond thirties and, then- setting herself down surely in forties- Jemima grows tired of the hopes, dreams, sex & death she sees in the eyes of those around her. She decides to move away from the city.

   In the city she is successful and rich and devastating, in business and pleasure, because - you should know- pain makes of everything nothing, nothing, nothing. So that beyond the skin there is no more struggle, no difficulty... no- weight.

   It is a forced hand of callousness. It is the vibrant anaesthetic.

.  .  .

   Jemima has moved to the coast. Jemima moved to the sea. The ocean. The vast water. The expanse. The ever-changing constant. be cont...

Monster of The Heart, Monster of The Mind...

A J Casper 2011

Extract from Psalm 102...

For my days pass away like smoke,
and my bones burn like a furnace.
My heart is struck down like grass and has withered;
I forget to eat my bread.
Because of my loud groaning
my bones cling to my flesh.
I am like a desert owl of the wilderness,
like an owl of the waste places;
I lie awake;
I am like a lonely sparrow on the housetop.
All the day my enemies taunt me;
those who deride me use my name for a curse.
For I eat ashes like bread
and mingle tears with my drink,
because of your indignation and anger;
for you have taken me up and thrown me down.
My days are like an evening shadow;
I wither away like grass.

Sunday, 11 September 2011

me old bamboo

oh me old bamboo me old bamboo
me old bamboo me old bamboo
me old bamboo me old bamboo
me old bamboo me old bamboo
me old bamboo me old bamboo
me old bamboo me old bamboo
meeeeee oooooold 
baaaaaaam -a -booooooooooooo! 

... i was in bed- after a panic attack... a bad one...although... you know... and, when i woke up- late afternoon i suppose... i had all these missed calls... and text messages telling me to turn on the television.


Wednesday, 7 September 2011


If you keep very still, and listen very carefully, you can hear the sky falling.
If you look you will see expressions on human faces that you never want to see again- and after you have seen these expressions, the mirror takes a different light from behind you. You will helplessly remember in that light- but only if you bother to look. Really look. Not shallow reflect- what an easy horror that is! Or- how about the first glimpse of tissue paper skin? ...that- once awful, remote- so remote- is now your permanence. This should not worry you. There is no alarm in aging, only calm & sweet blessings- imagine it, aging... growing, old- continuing to live, to be. Where so many are absent, have been so for so long, and are bones, are ashes, are memories, are the wounds of others- but, are gone, gone. But- you- still- grow.

Life is not gloss.

Monday, 5 September 2011




MI      GR       AI       NE
M      I   G R   A   I    N  E
MIGR              AIN                            E
M        I         G         R         A         I        N         E

Wednesday, 31 August 2011



Blooms of dead feathers by the roadside,
The long lick of grey below-
The rolling blue above.

And, side to side, side to side,
Green of all kinds.
So much.
So lush.

You recall another day of returning; of landing,
Turning in the slow air over York
With your parents close,
And me yet to arrive.


Shiny Shoes





(... all bones hurt today- particularly the lot of the feet, each toe a tiny dagger to itself ...)

La-ing Is Book

01 La-ing Is Book by Alisia Casper


Only by Alisia Casper

Yes No Boo Hoo

11 Yes No Boo Hoo by Alisia Casper

Booked Over

03 Booked Over by Alisia Casper

Fantastic Animals

Fantastic Animals by Alisia Casper

Thursday, 25 August 2011

The Virgin & The Monster.

One Two Three

His grip tightens. Corrupt. Corpus.
You forget the bad water.
1991, uranium.
This cracked skin was a river-

I have human value- if...

Woman is God, veiled.
Uncover, recover, uncover again.

Exile from body,
Prohibit my use.
My memory is mist,
But I can hold my brother,
And I can age- very easily, see?

Oil is not rain, suffering is not pain-
No solution, no salute.

Only war, and abandoning.

Such fabric wraps me.

Art is not money, art is not money. 
It is not. 
It is not. It is not.
It can not be money.


Wednesday, 24 August 2011

Chronic Fatigue Sandwich (22)

I awake far less wakeful. Far less. My night is drowned. I look up from the sleep floor to the radiance of plain tiredness. Tiredness that could be settled by rest, that would be reasoned with- appeased by dreaming. I would worship such tiredness, in it I would bask & bathe. There is another skeleton inside my skeleton, and it burns. There is another flesh wrapping my flesh, and it beats- pulses- pain. My sleep is tipped and poured away from me, now laced with some odd poison. 'What you suffer is not real. What you suffer is symptomatic of Modern Times; it is television; it is celebrity; it is the death of the honey bee. What you suffer could be overcome if only you would overcome it.' As though philosophy were only the realm of philosophers. As though wonder and the hurt it brings are only the hungover lanes of the academy. Like my sleep, I tipped and poured my self away from me. You first, You first. No, after you! I insist. And fell, with paper-cut hands, on the floor of the chilly basement- the fresh fluorescent light giving vibrancy to the pooling blood. The shaking was immense. The deception was so small. Just- 'No, i'm fine!' and then, home- to collapse, and salted horror, twisted sheets, a monster in the mirror. Weekends for repair. Walk the woods- tipping and pouring myself away. Camera. Collects. The edge of my vision darkening. The beginning of difficult decisions. The first requests for help. Rejected. Still, framing, it, with, humour, good, good, good. Then the long swoon into absolute darkness- a new, other, night... without stars, moon, or desire. I would never have believed such flatness possible.

Monday, 22 August 2011

The Wasp.

In the garden I hear a wasp- the furious buzzing- I see the wasp- it struggles with thin wings over the thick leaves of the big daisies- they all deformed from aphid- they all farmed by ants- honey dew honey dew honey dew- poor wasp- poor wasp- this wasp, a big wasp, with perfect yellow black and alarming legs and antennae- the more you look- the more you see the wasp- and the frequently seen fear of it deepens into a dark fool- the sun is very bright yet turning to gold with the end of august- august- and the richness of the big daisy leaves- dark green- dark- background- the poor wasp is -  too - close- is -too -perfect. But something is wrong- oh -intuit - oh -that wrong way of movement- seen. No. I am appalled. I watch the wasp. I love the wasp. I want to help the wasp. It is in distress. I don't care what you think. It is in distress. Something is making it writhe. Something is in its head. It wants the thing out. It presses its head into its legs. Curls. Up. Falls to the floor. Turning tiny circles. I feel helpless. I lift it off the ground where ants have begun to feel it and run over its body. It falls- again - again - again - off the big daisy leaves. I find a safe place. The wasp is struggling. I see. She stumbles away from me and i do nothing but feel; grotesquely grown and witnessed.

And there was a memory of you saying- 'there were about twenty 'I's in that sentence'- and- I have wondered- why all the attacks on me... have been about my - selfishness? I make no comment on yours. Or yours.

And now I have lost mine.

And which I am I anyway?

...everyone photographs themselves in the mirror these days, poor mirror- poor reflections...

A Dog Looks At Colours.

Wednesday, 27 July 2011

BLOGGY- for some reason easier to keep than a diary. And much, much easier to keep than a dairy.


Hello! -hi!- s'me!! sure is bloggy in here...  compulsion- will- be- the- death- of- me.

 I think a sketchbook or a bit of singing or a good walk, or a martial art, are good ways to help one cope with depression and anxiety- also, alcohol and heroin, or just painkillers if you want to keep within the law.  Yes, also- yoga. MEDITATIONINGS. Deep breaths.

Here is what i did yesterday... -don't worry, it's not all 'and then i did this... and then i did that... and then his head fell off!' ... not that you were worrying of course.

If you want to sing this song yourself- please do- it's to be sang in a sort of whining apologetic way- not melodious- slightly croaky, bit sad, but- ultimately- meaningless.

Cappo 5  cover 2/ 2&3 then 3&4 then 2&3 then 2& 3rd fret 3

Sister (26julyb)

Sister I’m sorry I left you in the cold,
Sister, I’m sorry –I left you in the cold—
Your skin----so white---
Your hair dark as night---
And I had to –leave you-
-i---was afraid---
Sister- I’m sorry I left you in the cold-
Sisters I grow more sorry----as I grow more old---
Warmth is hard to come by
In my white walled cell
Sister I’m so sorry but don’t you worry-
I’ve made my own hell-
Sister- your skin so white-
Your hair as dark as the night-
Your eyes on me again-
And you my only friend-
Sister I’m so sorry-----I left you in the cold-
Sister I grow more sorry as I----- grow more old---ooooooh-oooh-woo-hooo-oooh-oh?
-------(gentle)----your softness --------------your softness---------

...and below- another song i made yesterday- so cheerful! Such fun!


(cappo 5…messing…) (rolling slow)

Aaaaaaaaaaa-oh-ooooh-aaaaaah-ah…. Etc…….-ooooooooooooooooooh (high)

Bird flies,
Tree stands,
People die,
The same as all


Don’t fear,
Is here.


-and finally...
'Dear Wendy' is a good film. He is too clever he is- it makes my ears curl.

Wednesday, 20 July 2011


click on this... 

I had to write a sort of 'biography' thing and choose 'genres' that my music would fit into, for a music festival I am going to play at... here is what i wrote...

'Alisia Casper lives and works in Leeds and has been making and recording music at home for the past 6 years, over the last two years she has started to occasionally play her music live- it's very basic; lo-fi folk, born of modern frustrations and the usual heartaches... just a voice singing and a guitar setting the rhythm.' 

And for the genres i chose... Lo Fi. Folk. Low Technical Ability/ Outsider/ Music Therapy.

Do you think that's okay?
It's really a strange thing, this sort of classification... i never enjoyed this aspect of Art School... I think many people must find this difficult; category gory gory gory gory gory 


Monday, 18 July 2011


-story for K. -ongoingoingoingoing!


Angus knelt by the bog. He sank a little. The tree close by was knotted. A very old tree. Not wise though, not wise like Angus. Gertrude thought she was so clever. Ha, just wait. Just you wait Gertrude, thought Angus. He sank a little more. In the bog, below the wet grassed surface, lay treasure. Angus knew this because Gertrude had told him. Gold. Silver. Probably Myrrh. Angus had not even a notion of what Probably Myrrh was. He sank a little deeper. Pushing a whole stick-thin arm into the spongy earth he squelched forward.

Gertrude sat back. The fire crackled. She checked the time by the Big Clock. Half past nine.

Arthur leant forward over his jigsaw.

Astrid ran from the house screaming ‘ANGUS!! ANGUS!! ANGUS??!’

Gertrude turned her head to the noise then turned her face to the fire. Her cheeks glowed pink. Her hands reddened.

Arthur leapt to attention. Jigsaw disintegration.

Arthur slowed to a jog as he neared the bog. He heard Astrid speak low and strong reassurance.

He saw Angus in her arms.

Angus smelt terribly of bog but was far from dead.

Exactly how far no one could say.

Dully Arthur realized he had to have thought death a possibility in order to have noticed it not being the case. Less dully he realized Angus being not-dead could only be the work of Gertrude who often became bored and, having no apparent sense of morality, or perhaps simply mortality, would amuse herself by jeopardizing the life of the nearest thing. Cat. Dog. Spider plant. Angus.

The front room swelled hotly with the humid remains of Angus’ sinking. Astrid fed him honey and milk by the teaspoon, tears stuck silver on her too-white cheeks. Gertrude looked on from the green chair. Arthur finished his jigsaw and noticed that no one had spoken for three and a half hours. Sometimes Arthur felt his head would implode from the weight of silence in the air. Arthur dreamt of conversations.

Astrid parcelled Angus in blankets and set his drowsy hot head down on the blue cushion. Gertrude cleared her throat loudly and left the room.

Arthur stood in the hallway staring at the coat rack. His father's wax jacket held a world; his mother's sheepskin a comfort. Astrid caught his arm and gently shook him. ‘We must make her stop this Arthur.’ ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right.’ ‘You suppose I’m right?! –Angus could have died out there today and you suppose I’m right? What’s the matter with you Arthur, you’re the oldest- you need to take responsibility. I can’t bear this anymore…’ Astrid’s voice weakened. Arthur took the sheepskin off its hook and buried his face in its soft torn lining. He pressed his back against the wall and slid to the floor, where he stayed until the next day.


Arthur had grown up well. His body matched its expectations and his mind gave him carefully rationed lots of thought. However, putting this combination to use on his siblings seemed a wholly unacceptable proposition. He knew he could run and tumble with Angus. Pass afternoons between the pond and the old willow sketching fowl with Astrid. Gertrude could be driven up to town to shop for sharp pairs of shoe and boot. As a lot of four they could travel to the coast and be blustered along the shingle shore and into the café once favoured by his mother and father. There they could reasonably sip tea from cracked cups and Angus would snooze in Astrid’s lap, his face rosy from the spritz and spray of the East coast.

He would rather run alone. He would rather not sketch. He would rather a trip to town end in the purchase of a good piece of meat for dinner. The only option seemed to be the coast. At least if they were all together he could alleviate his guilt at previous inattentions to all three in only one strenuous day.

Astrid packed a lunch of three lots of quartered fish paste sandwiches and three green apples. Gertrude did not eat. Angus chattered over anticipated seagulls. Arthur sat heavily at the wheel of the Morris Minor. They drove six streets to the motorway. After the motorway they drove four streets to the sea.

The great grey sea.

Gertrude had worn deliberately inappropriate shoes at which Astrid glanced; furious & frequent. Angus ran about his three elders pointing out tattered blue strings of once-was fishing net, popping polips of seaweed with his red Kickered feet. ‘Your lace is undone…’ said Astrid, once. She made no move to kneel and retie. Arthur instead knelt; with de-gloved hands he made of the wet stranded laces a bow.

Away and back. Away and back. Away and back ran Angus, as though himself tidal.

Gertrude kept her face stony as the cliffs and spoke not one word.

Astrid held her ellipsis of language but hummed meaning toward the waves.

Arthur watched shingle as he walked.

Arthur said they should stop to eat the sandwiches. They did not sit down. There was no rug. The sandwiches were eaten from the foil in which Astrid had wrapped them. Gertrude smoked a long cigarette and slowly walked toward the broiling gunmetal. A thin plume of pewter behind her. Angus pulled faces as he ate. He felt certain that there could be no more hateful combination than fish paste sandwiches and cigarette smoke.

Sandwiches finished, Astrid handed out the apples.

Gertrude was very close to the sea. It spoiled Astrid’s sense of fairness that Gertrude could stay so steady on such a shifting surface in so inappropriate footwear.

The curl of Gertrude’s cigarette smoke mocked the straight whip of the wind.

The four moved along the beach. Three apple cores were lost to the shingle. One cigarette stub jollied away on foamy salt water.

At the café they sat by the counter, the three elder siblings lacking the attention and imagination to see that Angus would have enjoyed a table by the window. The waitress brought them a large pot of tea with a small jug of icy milk and four white cups with four saucers and four teaspoons, the tray upon which the collection sat was opaque with fractured bunches of beneath-the-surface daffodils. Astrid poured the tea and Angus added the milk. None of the four took sugar. All four stirred. Three mindlessly as habit and one with the tinkering joy of childhood.

No cake was ordered. None was wanted. Sweet things were unnecessary.


Arthur lifted Angus from Astrid’s lap.

Angus felt himself lifted by Arthur from Astrid’s lap.

Gertrude waited outside the café. She thought about drowning Astrid.

Astrid paid for the tea and went to the toilet. She cried and bit on her right fist until she felt calm again. The calmness was a veneer easily crazed. She thought about drowning Gertrude.

The beach seemed longer walking back. Arthur still carried Angus. He enjoyed the weight of the boy in his arms- he did not say to himself, ‘I enjoy the weight of the boy in my arms.’ He thought empty practicalities of petrol, loft insulation, his father’s greenhouse; an untended structure overtaken by straining pale and fruitless tomato vines.

In the car a cold salted damp was slowly replaced by a slumber of warmth. Arthur drove steadily as three slept.

Angus felt a great sense of achievement at having successfully foxed his way all along the beach in Arthur’s arms. He watched his older brother through slitted eyes and felt so grand a swell of love that he had to truly close his eyes for fear of a sissy teared spill. Before he fell to a sea washed sleep Angus thought of his mother and how uncertain he was of her face these days. He had tried to draw her last Thursday when Astrid gave him the paper and pencils he had asked for on the Tuesday. Drifting now he thought he recalled her smile.


The night pressed thick against the humming glass. Angus pressed his left cheek hard against it. His teeth rattled, his tongue tickled. A lick of hair against his forehead made an O. Astrid slept. Gertrude stared hard ahead. Arthur took the final seven corners of their journey too quickly. Seven times Angus felt hard glass against hard skull. He liked it, he was not easily hurt. He had no room to be easily hurt. He did not wish to be over comforted by Astrid. He disliked her tears, they fell too easily. Gravel crunched. The car slowed. Stopped. Arthur tumbled Angus out of the car, grabbed, lifted, swung, and arched him briefly into the night. Angus wriggled free. Arthur’s playfulness was unexpected. Astrid and Gertrude went as shadows toward the dark house. Arthur got back into the car. ‘I’ll not be long little brother, look after those sisters of ours old chap!’ ….Angus smiled at Arthur’s smile.


There once lived a girl, in a forest. She lived far far away from anyone else. The birds sang her awake each morning and the wolves howled her to sleep each night. Her heart was often heavy in her chest, when this feeling came she would run to her favourite tree and climb as high as she could. This is like being a bird she would think. When she was high up in her favourite tree she might even think of letting herself fall. Who would know? The singing birds and howling wolves would not care long that she was gone. That’s why she loved the singing birds and howling wolves so much, they would sing and howl whether she could hear them or not… and the trees would stand silent witness to a world with or without howling wolves and singing birds, this she knew. In her fine finger bones and her heavy searching skull.

From her favourite tree she could see a very long way, even on misty days the tree seemed to lift her above the gentle obscurity. Out to the edge of the forest, where a great brown river curved through sight and beyond, a noble mountain rose. The forest, the river, the mountain; these were her family.

On a day with sun streaming yellow through her burn colour hair she fell to her knees in leaf litter. She cried for the streaming sun and she cried for the low slung cloud and she cried for what she could not feel. Her hands tore through the earth beneath the littered leaf and her legs were wet cold with salt puddle tears. Why she wondered. How she wondered, when she wondered. Would one day the sun stream upon her with another? Streaming sun would warm the two. Streaming sun would warm her not so much as the skin to skin of two. Another.

On one day she cried, she cried with joy. She grasped the hair of the howling wolf and loved the song of every bird. She danced as her tears fell and knew solitary was beauty- was the only, was the ever. Lilac sky pressed her. Whistling winds caressed her. She cried in happy sleep to come.

On days countless, she made in her mind a great rusting road besided by every wish she had ever wished and every dream she had ever seen, these verges of hers watched her run walk fall. Run walk fall. The lonely tittered inside her in some bright dusk field, the solo of violent rage burned between the rust road and her breaking heel. Too often came the rough of bark in place of the space of some one. Too often to surprise. Too often.

With the wolves she howled.

With the birds she sang.

On one day she climbed her favourite tree and looked to the noble river. She looked up to the mountain and down onto the forest. She filled with the blue of the sky. The clear iced air wreathed her veins in calm, expert as nature she balanced there- and slept…

When she awoke the world was changed- how?- somehow, and she took once more the iced air into her deep redded lungs and looked forth into the above.

A beginning...

SONGPOMES- small act of bravery cont'...

Idiots return-

you went your way

and I went mine

but now you’re back

and you’re wasting my time



the same again

who are you not to tell me a thing

to not mention

who it is


with the telephone ring

I’m not tied to you

Only bound.


Letting go

I let you go a long time ago

And stayed here holding out my arms,

I know you’re with someone new

But my thoughts still end with you

That maelstrom

Oh how can I

Move on

When your breath concerns mine


I let you go a long time ago

But I’m still here

Holding out my arms

Oh my bones ache

Oh my heart aches

Though my actions will never tell.



Like I You

Like being woken from a dream

Like being taken from what you need

Like being learned from a book of lies

Like being told that only success can set you down high

Way above

Way below

Way one sided

Poor poor solo

I could jump in the waters and drown or swim

I could leave my love and never long forget him

I could earnestly earn and never get rich

I could tell you all to fuck off & live like a bitch

Way above

Way below

Way one sided

Poor solo

Way above

Way below

Way one sided

Poor, poor, poor solo

You will hear forever nothing

You will see what you can touch

You will smell always of something

You will dance only to love.

Clear as Night

And the love you take

Won’t return

If taken without care

And the love you give

Will come back

All covered up with hate

If you took my hand

When I said

We wouldn’t be in this mess

And If you heard my voice

When I cried

We would both know what is best


Clear as night

Bright as day

We would feel-

Clear as night

Bright as day

Take it now

Take my hand

Let’s go walking out

Of the door

Down the street

Into nothing new

Blunder Buzz

There are a thousand ways to loss

But not so many ways to found-

The last waltz last night

I’m banned from street & mountain

The city is neon stripes

Soaked eyesight blurs



Forever is a long time,

I cannot wait.

That sets the wet moments alight

That wraps me round me, tight.





And that’s only one little piece of me.

String job’s lot together and we might get on alright.

Discord is your sound

Talk some more, I invite you round.

We listen to seven inches of happiness-

… wine and careless,

You fall to the floor in a laughing fit

And that’s only the start of it.

We talk and we talk and we talk.

It is all always nothing.


There’s something being built here.

Ignore it.

Ignore it.




Ignore it,

We must and we will-

There is a way

To nourish a friendship without sex in the way.

And forever to never say.


You never wrote to me but if you had

I would’ve kept every letter

But as it is you didn’t

And I think that that’s better.


Strong Not Strong

Rain falls.

I make the call

To bury you-


One thousand times I’ve tried

To find a way to hurt you

But nothing gets through

Nothing gets through to you

Go under the ground now.

Nails and days hammered,

Lead nights sleepless and cold


Would you be so bold?


To tell me the truth just once.

I must warm.

I’ve taken all I can from a man who doesn’t love me

I’ve given all I can to a time that does not hold me

Go tell!

What never was-



Has come to an end.

And I’ll begin the pretending

Of being… friends.

In November the lights draw thin

And what kind of mess have I got myself in?

I had not understood deception.

Cynical baby.

I’ve taken all I can from a source that will not nourish me

And I’ve shot myself but I’m not bleeding.

Although my face is a mess.

You have riddled me.

You have rumpled me.

Telephones make me anxious,

You could never be on the other end

With your breath held and your mind empty.

Come back to me

Come back to me

Come back to me

The most I know is,

You are not to blame.


All this,


My blood & bones.


I’m no believer

But I’ve been told

That the sun makes the moon

And that time will roll

All over me

I’m no great learner

But I’ve been taught

That happiness

Can not be bought

By anyone

I’m no lover

But I’ve heard it’s true

That over and over


I love you-

I love you.

Pointless as owning a leopard.


gladly mistake a day for a week

and a week for a day

now she’s gone

time stretches back and away

medicated green covers the wall


seven years is too long

underneath boatman's song

drift the tenderest notes of despair

oh, but tell me; how will I get there?

What is it that she needs from you?

Tell me,tell me- tell me again

I was born strong

I can understand pain

And not much else

Oh, not much else.



And maybe tonight I don’t feel like staying in

With you and your ego and your shit eating grin


Hold your tongue

Till I tell you

To let go….

We are not sleeping,

My love.

So when I tell you

I’m leaving,

The least you can do is believe me

Oh, believe me.

I’ve held your head

In my hands

While you wept

For another

Whom you love

More than life itself

And knowing your heart is

In the palm of another man

Leads me to this day….

Where I hold your hand

One last time

And leave this land,

To travel on my own…

So please believe,

We are not sleeping.

And understand why I am leaving.

...i'm not mad i'm just big brained.