1. |
Boring Love
05:23
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I sit on a boring train
pouring out my boring brain.
Valentine’s has been and gone.
Nothing seemed to get me some
Here, the shelf is boring-bare:
barmy lasses, head elsewhere.
Gorgeous pal all coupled up,
I ask her if she’d set me up.
Like a miser she rebuffs.
Asks me why I’d settle up.
I just want a boring love
nothing more I’m thinking of.
Don’t want someone mad as me.
I’m not mad I’m just lonely.
I don’t want a literary lust -
Passions forged of tortured dust.
Keep your prince and chiselled jaws,
your Viennese cathedrals…
I just want a morning breath,
kinky but with morals left.
I want magic in my hands.
Romance up my daily dance.
I just want a kind-biting,
sweet-mannered, crime-fighting
walking cane.
I just want a hug-ploughing,
kiss-sharing, view-wowing
motorbike
I just want a risk-taking,
tea-brewing, piss-taking
pint of ale.
I just want a go-getting,
soft-nagging, load-bearing
sofa bed.
I just want a hand-holding
deep-thinking, hip-shooting
piggy bank.
I just want a boring love
I just want a boring love.
Someone to embrace the wild.
Parties with her inner child.
Sunrise in her lightning eyes…
and blind and blind and blind when it matters.
Markings on her gallowed chin.
Wore a rope but wore it thin.
Resurrected from her hurt.
Tyson Fury in a skirt.
I just want a long-thinking,
heart-facing, song-drinking
set of cards.
I just want a wake-braving,
knee-squeezing, beast-taming
open door.
I just want a wise-branded
crop-sowing, sword-handed
morning sun.
I just want a flirt-mongering,
high-fluting, dirt-loving
path unrun.
I just want a boring love. (x4)
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2. |
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1,2,3...
So now the days are getting dirty
with early nights and all the rain...
You hide your flirt up in your jersey.
You wonder if you’ll flirt again...
But as you gaze into the garden
you catch a look at all the slugs...
A thought it hits you of a sudden
That you’re surrounded by the love,
rummage in the mud,
check on all the cuddles in the rubble 'cos
The bugs are getting freaky in the shrubs.
All in a slither are the wormies
up for a snuggle and rub.
A daddy-long-legs got up early
to find himself a ladybug.
Atop the tree there are the squirrels
and squirreled up there is a snug.
They get together for a wiggle
and never fail to check the nuts.
You can’t avoid the smut -
there’s consummated marriages in cabbages.
The bugs are getting freaky in the shrubs!
The horny fishes of the ocean,
a fox’s yowl is never done,
the pigeon’s fluttering commotion,
your cat is off to meet a Tom,
a little Labrador is dreaming
of getting out to sniff a bum,
I heard that humans are misleading
but speaking only there for some.
Not all of are dumb.
The Disneyland of marriage is a sabotage.
We ought to just get freaky in the shrubs.
There they sit on their bums all day:
Tiktok-swiping their life away.
Not one kiss on their lips as they wish where
happiness is – I say
who cares the weather or the day
you just need another and your love
(you should get freaky in the shrubs).
So there’s a moral to the story
that this old life is for the loved.
I will not wait til you implore me,
I’d rather push than be the shoved.
And so if love is for the living
I’ll live it every way I got.
I know that nettles aren’t forgiving
But nor is waiting for your lot.
This one aint for the gods
so disregard your morals in the puddles
cos we ought to just get freaky in the shrubs.
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3. |
Grog
02:45
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I stand on this clutch of twigs creaking at sea
And I can’t see the stars for the dark.
The sails' lips a flutter like muttering pals
'sleep a toe-to-toe tipsy with hearts off the ground
but I tip on the deck at the ebb of my fate.
Thought the dip of the wave’s not a bother with mates
but there’s no brave sod whoever escaped
the bewitching of blues through a brew;
want a taste of your heart? Take a few.
See the trick of your darlings all beamishly gay
loose your grip on your hopes and then throw them away
like you were.
The drizzling dawn like a wet angry dog
shivers soberly into y’ bones.
And one lonely lantern is sputtered in fog
as the sun makes an entrance - its colours agog
at the wreckings that happen as soon as it dips.
"May the day clear the night up and ever forgive".
For there’s no brave sods wherever they lived
‘scaped the witching of blues through the gloom;
want to picture your heart? Take a view.
But ye hide before shambled-and-shamed by the day
as the waking life laps ye and throws you away...
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4. |
Light's Song
03:40
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Light's song.
The birds, a throng of manic,
panic up the dawn...
"Take off your shoes inside"
a hallway beckons
and everything is fecund
and the carpet's torn.
I'd sworn
we'd meet and say "it's so good to see you".
Each worn out fate;
the sense of time and place,
was buried like a crime
but still every winter
we'll be on my mind.
Time...
Night's song.
The birds, a bomb of claret, carry up the sky...
"Take off your blues inside"
a stairway beckons
and everything...
"and hey, what do you reckon,
are they perfect thighs?"
I tried
and made mess that time left to deal with.
That hopeful bed;
the hope of us instead
no braver than a breeze
departed that winter
blew us to our knees.
Cry...
Brave, brave!
you pink and silly sausage coming out the sun...
"Drop off your news inside"
your friends will listen.
The wine begins to glisten
and there's food for five.
You'll find
your memories cannot lock the present.
Move fast, move on,
the past is just a song,
the guilt is but a line
you sing every winter,
frozen to your mind.
Sigh...
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5. |
Grown-up Now
02:54
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Hey, how does it feel to be loved by an angel?
Been a long long while.
Is there pain?
Do you break bread with the dead and ancients?
Do they all say hi?
Is your best
better than mine?
With your storybook of good and your Sunday time?
Sometimes I plead
to once again feel that I'm loved by an angel
but I'm a grown-up now.
Tell,
how does it feel to still kneel for the blessing
When they draw that cross
Like a spell;
The shiver of spirit, a limit caressing -
Or has that too been lost?
Is your death
better than mine?
With your show-and-tell of hell and that blood red wine
Sometimes I dream
That I'm still a teen and receiving the blessing
but I'm a grown-up now.
"Great.
Great is the mystery of faith" - so they told me:
God, that did sound good.
Each mistake,
Loosening lies that they looped round to hold me
as then good lies could
but then life
opens your eyes:
There's no Eden to believe in just a great divide.
Sometimes I sigh
and think of the beautiful lies that they told me
But I'm a grownup now.
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6. |
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Past the peeling piers of Bournemouth;
past the edgy Boscombe scree;
through the Southbourne bungalows
where windows eye the aging sea;
Past the crusted cake of Christchurch,
Norman motts and clotted cream;
Britain bids you welcome at the Nelson
- Real Ales and Thai Cuisine.
Spin through Lyndhurst’s leafy lanes and
Burley’s wont for witchcraft kitch;
the gorse and grassy brooks of Sway
where horses pass the curtains’ twitch;
and whilst, by Beaulieu’s bend to Bucklers,
yachter’s yawn for G&T;
Britain bids you welcome at the Nelson,
- Real Ales and Thai Cuisine.
Because we’re needed,
because we’re breathing wipe the
2CB and Mandy from your nose.
Put on all the clothes that get you ready
for a day somewhat more steady
than the midnight gripes from pick-up pipes
let’s see how far the air can blow you. Go!
Past the cans and prams of Springbourne;
past the Winton white-boy fist.
There’s miles on miles of country mile
where toffs lived off their peasants’ grist.
Let’s jump atop their pleasant wreckings.
Pack a parka just for me, ‘cause
Britain bids you welcome at the Nelson,
-Real Ales and Thai Cuisine-
Britain bids you welcome at the Nelson,
-Real Ales and Thai Cuisine-
Britain bids you welcome at the Nelson,
-Real Ales and Thai Cuisine.
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7. |
Morning Cuddles
03:14
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8. |
The Yiddish Clockmaker
01:42
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9. |
As the Humber Flows
05:30
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All is quiet
in the city of snowflakes
Fakery covered by slumber
As the Humber flows
Rocking its bones
Passing the homes of the chip-fed
Landlord and Mistress alone.
“Do you love me?”
she strokes through the whiskers
of her once-a-week mister and whispers
his eyes are enraptured
post-coitally captured
arm on the arc of the bow of her back
which had slinked like a cat
and at long last relaxed in his arms
at one with her charms
and the danger of chance
and the duskiest glance
and the taste of her lips
and the shift of the hips
as she lovingly drips herself selfishly
cradled like wealth as she
sinks him contentedly
down in the well of her care
Never to share
for the world isn’t fair
and a vow is a lie
when a life gives it time and mind to be
why’s it a crime to be
rescued like jewels from the sky?
“Pour me a whisky”,
he says to her briskly,
her tights in a twist as she hoists them…
The end of the night then?
Did something afright him?
Happy one moment then suddenly
flickers of faraway fear in his eyes
Eager to rise
Shifting his mood
from relaxed into rude
and a hoarding of space
and a crag-chisel face
As he grumbles
Apology mumbled
He stands and he stumbles
Tying the johnny like knotting a promise he’s nothing but eager to break.
He leaves and she waits
With the moon and the chill in the room.
“Can’t you stand me?”
She shouts to the landing,
A plea for the key to a
shred of the least understanding
Twice in fortnight he’d left her forlorn like this;
Where was the romance they’d shared but a moment ago?
The man was a child.
But it wasn’t enough that she’d let him inside
for years he had lived in her mind.
The decades of signs and the tokens of care
That he’d left her the moment her man weren’t aware
and the guilt in her heart and the warring with dreams
of her publican prince laying down by a stream
and the strongest of hands and the deepest of eyes
and for one lonely winter, her deepest surprise
as he caught her alone as she lit up a fag
with her misapplied face and her faux-leather bag
and he told her he cared and he said she should stay
on the every odd Friday his wife was away.
And the weight of her want and the terror to plunge
And avoiding him constantly month-upon-month
But then calling him suddenly, buoyed by the booze
And the promise of loving a something to lose
As she tied up her coat and her sexiest shoes
“Why’re you mardy?”
he said to her calmly.
Him back in the room as he
takes her like gold by the waist
then he kisses her sweetly
toffee-like bending her back on the sheets,
she with brows of surprise presses nails to his nape
as she asks “why you leave me then, shitting-fuck’s sake?”
And he says “mind your language, I’m kissing that gob,
I’d just shitting remembered I’d left on the hob”.
All is quiet in the city of snowflakes
Fakery covered by slumber
As the Humber flows.
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Joshua Ward London, UK
Voice of Bath. Hygiene of Bristol. Josh is the songwriter, actor, teacher and poet your parents will, at least initially,
approve of.
"Middle class traitor".
"Cracked genius" "Thoughtful fool."
Channelling folk, a choirboy past and his unique lyricism, Josh has finally got off his prodigious backside to, at last, conquer the world.
Songs will be sung.
Hearts will be won.
Cities will fall.
... more
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