Tuesday 24 December 2013

santa bring me spare parts



Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring, except for a mouse.
That knocking was caused by the clicking, with care,
Of hopeful young Trewin, who sat working there.

The band were all gathered, stuff spewing from their heads,
(not ideas but old drinks and cheap takeaway breads),
so all that we dreamt of was dismissed as crap,
and all went asunder, for a Christmas Eve nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
Jeb sprung from a hole with a grunt and a splatter.
Away to the window he flew with a flash,
and out of it fell, with a scream and a crash.

The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow,
chilled Jeb’s bloodied head, bloodied legs, and torso.
He stumbled and bumbled and lurched to his feet,
a trail of teeth; bones, curdled red on the street.

‘Mmeeerrrrr’, said old Jeb, as he lurched through the door,
blood covered his face, shirt, shoes; stained the floor.
Holes punched  through his head bared his pulsating brain,
though his skull was crowned white by the petrified rain.

‘It’s Santa!’ yelled Seryn with great childish glee,
and quickly manoeuvred to sit on Jeb’s knee,
‘For Christmas I want…’ Seryn started to say,
but stopped all a sudden, as Jeb’s legs gave way.

‘Gaarrrrgh!’ said the Claus now sat slumped on the stairs,
These things were the stuff of young Seryn’s nightmares.
He passed out and smashed his young head on the floor.
The wind proved his killer - decapped by the door.

The house now looked festive, though sounded like hell,
filled only with screams – no carols, no bells.
In the night, tints of laughter, as from afar I looked on,
through the sight of a sniper, should anything go wrong.

Trewin surfed downstairs, for something to drink,
stepped over Seryn’s corpse, not stopping to think,
that Jeb might need help, no legs, fractured skull,
Trewin thought of music, ‘These tracks, they sound dull…’

‘Ah-ha!’ thought the Trewin, ‘I’ve got it at last!
That section needs brass! A grand trumpet blast!’
Then I, like an angel, abseiled through the ceiling,
and sent out my own blast to send Trewin reeling.

‘But you hold no trumpet?!’ he screamed, hands on his ears,
as I kicked in his eyes, wiped spiked boots clean of tears,
‘I'm using my arse.’ I said with a smile,
before blasting another, with great rectal style.

‘THERE’S ONE MORE WHO’S BEEN NAUGHTY!’ I sniffed through the house,
Ed stayed in slumber, curled like a woodlouse.
So I left a timed bomb there to tick by his head,
Soon he, like the others, would be messy and dead.

Now, all alone, I stopped at the computer,
Exported the tracks, like some dark cyber-looter,
And sent all the songs to the good girls and boys,
So this Christmas day, was the Christmas of noise.

Alas, corrupt files, ‘Porn virus’, I knew,
The music was lost, but I knew what to do,
‘C:\sendChristmastohell.exe’ I typed in the datum,
so Christmas was taken, and ruled, now, by Satan.

‘Well done, Tim’, he said, as he lit a cigar,
‘The boys are now dealt with – you, child, will go far!’
But I knew what to do as I lined up my sight,
‘Merry Christmas to all,’ I said, ‘and to you, a goodnight.’

His horns away flew with the shotgun's great blast,
Dominion was mine - some power at last!
I repainted hades a shade of magnolia,
And Christmas? Under me? There had been none holier.

Epilogue:

Twas the night before Christmas, and Phoria were dead,
But hell gave ideas to my all-knowing head,
The power to raise all the band from their graves,
And use them as musical (and other) corpse slaves.

----

So that, if you hadn't noticed, is that.

Don't forget THIS, also.

Do enjoy whatever you do. I'm putting this up just before heading out for Christmas Eve breakfast with old friends. Leaving the house before coffee is not something that makes any sense to me.

Enjoy yourself, pity me, egg IDS.

Merry Christmas, from All Of Us.

Thursday 12 December 2013

Hugh, more or less.




            Christmas is just around the corner, isn’t it? Can you feel it? I can, weighing on me like an elephant. Every penny counts, so don’t be surprised if we can’t send you all an individually engraved solid gold statue of Seryn on the toilet. I can barely afford the one I bought for myself.

            The new EP is being groomed, like a prize dog. The last few hairs are being glued into place with Copydex. You know, the stuff you used in primary school then never ever used again, and don’t forsee ever using again, because it smells so bad and you go home and realise you’ve got a bit of it stuck to one of your fingers and peel it off and roll it up into a ball and play with it for a bit. Yeah, like that.

            I have no idea how it actually sounds. It’s become a part of the furniture, now. We hope everybody will like it.

            It might be being put through some interesting channels. We’ll know more when we know more, and you’ll know more when we decide to tell you we know more. For now, we know enough, and that's enough to spur us on and keep us believing through the cold, dry nights.

            This intense poverty is taking its toll on our sanity, I think. I say this every now and again – such is the way when you get five young(ish) people working together, chasing after an oasis. The power of belief can be enough, for the most part, but sometimes it fades and you’re left alone, in a desert, surrounded only by voices coming from far away, telling you’re not good enough, and should be doing more to ‘get us all out of this mess’. Still, you’ve got to plough on, haven’t you. ‘It’ll be fine’ is pretty much the band motto. I just romanticise it into a kind of 21st century bohemia. Maybe this will all be looked back upon in one of those ‘I love 2013’ programmes, beamed straight into your eyeballs using Google Retina, and it’ll be ‘Oh yeah we had to hold our house together with bits of string and use guitars made out of felt tips. Great times. I’m so happy we went through that and developed character…’ all the while resting our feet on some slave or other, sipping 25 yr old Glenmorangie in our Canadian mansion while our enemies dig in the dirt outside for a briefcase containing £100,000 that we told them we hid somewhere, but didn’t.

            We’re still straddling that line between envelopment and isolation. It’s a tightrope, for sure, but we are definitely getting there. We have to remember that.

            We have you guys, anyway, and that’s enough to get us through. Of course, as always, your support and nice words make all the difference.

            So, the cold has snapped in, Christmas has taken all the jolly out of us, and now I’m just a whining old wind-up merchant. The best kind of company, and the best kind of person to let you know how we’re doing, now and then.

            I didn’t mean to bum you out. Don’t cry. We’re fine. The future looks rosy, but it’s like when the iPhone 5 comes out and someone says ‘You can’t have it right now, you have to wait for the iPhone 6 – it comes out next week.’, and you’re all ‘Well that’s OK, that’s great. But I’d very much like an iPhone 5. Like, now.’

            Temporal materialistic urges transferred onto idealism. That’s what’s going on. That’s what’s healthy.

            Have fun, and stay warm, whatever you’re up to, or not.

            Tim

PS. Say hello to Mr Ando.




Achieve.

All milky and lava-lamp-ish the street-lights reflecting on my big red car bonnet as I curl it round at night all sound and echoing engine...