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.

The Lonely Girl -song-

he came too late to save her

she cried a thousand tears
onto his hands as he held her
and told her it’s over my dear

he left her sitting with her thoughts
she watched him leave and she knew
there was nothing for her

she cried a thousand more tears
filled her yellow room with woe
people they came to see her
she drank and she laughed and
she told them to go

ohh the lonely girl
with everything but someone in this world

she drank a thousand bottles
of dirty cheap red wine
and though her life lay out before her
she felt she was running out of time

...many have felt this way
but oh what comfort can that bring?
when you do not
like yourself
no one can give you a thing

ooh the lonely girl,
with everything but someone in this world

she cried one last tear
to see if she could still feel something
then the sun broke through the clouds
and she lay her body down

she fell into a deep deep sleep
and dreamed a thousand beautiful dreams
and when she awoke the world was changed
and she took a breath
and left the house
and saw her friends
and laughed again

oh the lonely girl
oh the lonely girl

Sunday, 17 July 2011


Julie K7

 Julie K7
called you in the night
to hear the line whither
in your absence
called your face 
to my mind
to not see
you clearly
you were there
you were on the train
smoke inhalation
tunnels and tunnels
held by your mother
you will cry
cry out
in your sleep
reach out
this time
this time
emptiness greedy
as the love waits



Fallen arches 
On my chest,
Where the pain rests.
You will insist
It is alright,
But in the night there is fear,
All running
Towards what is near.
The end.
Shifting now to then.
Making of you a shadow.
Do not be afraid
For you have made
And I will hold you,
At once and always,
In my heart
In my mind
In my words
For all time.

Poemapologiser 1


Do I feel my body?

The blood flowing.

The heart beating.

My window is a picture,

The tops of trees;

The sky;

Full and green,

Heavy lilac blue…

Your skin under my fingers,

Your ribs hard under that skin.

A photograph a poem a painting,

Can you see how

I could make any of those

From everything.

Rock sand glass

Rocks and glass

Glass sand rock

Glass and rock.

I adore the bruises you bestow

With your milk white teeth

The blue veins thrill

At your wrist.

Anxiety got the better of me,

In the kitchen I fell

Onto slate,

And did not get up.

Till you found me.

Wrapped arms around me.

Nothing in your eyes but

Compassionate confusion.

The Makers Wife

Coins of cool copper skin
Dress her skull.
In a further truth of years,
Those known in youth
Would not recognize her
Head bowed,
But would flicker recognition
At a raised face,
Staring eyes.
The eyes that shivered them.
The young men shiver.
The young women shiver.
The eyes that laughed
That cried
That danced
And sighed,
At word of trust-
At sights now dust-
And stirred their lust,
For one touch,
Just one touch.
A touch.

He tired in her
A cosmology
A need to trace the form
Of air currents
And constellations
Of the cold sky and the warm
In her belly stirred
A translucent limb,
An ivory army
That wavered and fought
With its military
Molecules netted then –
Whitely stopped their course.

Redly and raggedly began her grief,
He howled down the moon
And gnashed his sculptor’s teeth.

He became nought but a shadow
She all but a cloud,
They danced a shady route
Through lonely light,
Accepting the blows
Of wind and of doubt,
Allowing the world to winkle them out.
Display the shapes of memory
In photographs never shot,
Forcing them to accept
And an air of constant rot.
He moulded iron as stars,
She cast word as stone.
He slept in tar and feathers
As she lay on bleached leaves.

Rain shudders down,
Her walls are sand and board.
The air oppresses decency
And she cries out to them all-
Shuffling down the corridor.

The shadow of a man
Who spent his youth in the pursuit
Of being . . .
Their love grew like an orchard.
Barren it chewed
For years.
Fat and twisted roots
Fed on soil and fallen rotten fruits.