Music I’ve Been Listening To…

I listen to music all the time. When I’m not playing, composing, songwriting or singing, I listen to it.
I honestly can’t imagine living in a world without music. I’ve had people tell me that they don’t really listen to music or don’t bother with it and that just astounds me. How can this be!?! How do these people get through their days?!?
We’re all different I suppose but music. Music is something that can stop you dead. Can make you laugh, can make you cry. It can take you back to an incredible memory that you’ll never forget. It can also take you back to a not so incredible memory you would quite like to forget. I still can’t listen to ‘Northern Sky’ by Nick Drake. The hurt I feel listening to that song is too much to bear. Even now.

Music I love you. You are my first true love and will always remain in my heart.

Anyway, anyway… Here’s what my lugholes have been immersing themselves in this week:

The Hope Six Demolition Project:

I’ve included a link to the album trailer here. It is, like everything she does, a work of art.
Polly Jean is my forever goddess. I once saw her in a Chemist shop in Dorset of all places and I nearly collapsed on the spot at seeing this woman I have on a pretty high pedestal, in such a humdrum normal place.

Grinderman:

This tune is just. I wish Nick Cave et al had made more Grinderman albums. SO good.

 

Jacqueline Du Pre:  I will never in my whole lifetime be able to play my Cello like this woman played hers and I’ve made my peace with that. I can still spend a lifetime trying though right?!

 

 

Richard Thompson: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HApy-Xoix-g

I got the chance to see Mr. Thompson play last year in my hometown. He played mostly his new music and played electric guitar. But towards the end… he picked up his acoustic and played Beeswing. I cannot tell you how emotional I felt. Beeswing is one of my all time favourite songs. It’s a song of incredible beauty, the lyrics are pure poetry. It has to be one of the most touching love songs ever created. He’s also one of the best guitarists to grace this planet. If you’ve never heard of him before, check him out, especially his early music with Fairport Convention.

So there you go. What I’ve been listening to. What have you been listening to?

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The Cemetery

Winter had come early again and Percy Merrybright had expected as much. He stood facing the cruel bitter wind, enjoying the pleasant smell of his pipe and the cherry shag tobacco smoke which rose from it. Percy gazed up into the blueness of the sky, he watched the birds flying from pillar to post and the clouds dancing softly to a silent tune.
From here he could see for miles around. It was the highest point of the cemetery.
Work weary hands encased in thick, grey fingerless gloves that had seen better days, tightly gripped the dozen white chrysanthemums he was holding. The tips of his fingers glowed pink from the ever plummeting temperatures and no amount of his blowing hot air on to them would lessen that. Percy collected his sombre thoughts and stoically plodded on.
It was a beautiful day to die.
The vastness of the cemetery only really became apparent when you realised that after a fair amount of time spent looking for the gravestone of a loved one, you were lost and to pay your respects you had to weave your way slowly back to the the imposing building of the church and start afresh. Labyrinthian by design, it would take you on many twists and turns before you finally found where you had intended to be.
No place to be after nightfall.
Percy had no such trouble. Once a week for the past four years he had come here. Come to see his dear, dear Betty.
He arrived at her resting place and gently stooped down. Stray debris from fellow graves had fallen there, dropped by the wind that had grown tired of playing with them. He brushed everything away with freezing hands and a saddened aching heart.
He read the headstones inscription:
‘Elizabeth May Merrybright 1938-2005
Beloved wife of Percy Merrybright
Much loved and never forgotten’

‘Dear, dear Betty’ he mumbled, blinking back tears that threatened to fall without knowing when to stop.
He still missed her every single day. A lifetime of togetherness had suddenly been snatched away when he realised he would never see her fair face again. He felt bereft of all feeling. The hollowness of losing her.
He had found himself taking lonely trips to places where firm memories shared with her would make him feel alive again.
And yet.
Back home, once more alone, the silence would all but consume him. Sometimes he thought he could hear her at the quietest of times, when he knew she would love to be a part of everything that was taking place. His lined and beautifully wrinkled face would light up and for an instant, just a moment, they were together again. He shook his head sadly and fumbled in his pockets. The light was beginning to fail and soon he wouldn’t be able to see. There would be a harsh frost tonight, Percy knew. Into the minus temperatures. Jack Frost would be coming to nip his tired old toes. He finally found the bottle of pills in the further most corner of his coat pocket and was grateful for the hip flask of whisky that he had bought with him.
The night before he looked for death, he waited in the darkness, the shadows enveloping him. He had felt her warm, tender breath on the back of his thickset neck and he had gasped. He wasn’t alone. He understood.
He tenderly kissed the headstone and then with heavy heart he leant against it, the pills would begin to take effect before long and the whisky was making him warm and drowsy.
He prepared himself for death as the cold grew colder and the wind began to howl savagely.
Darkness fell.
In the last recesses of Percy’s mind he thought he heard a voice.
‘Do not fear me’. A voice whispered gently to his heart. ‘For I am you and everything you have ever wanted’.
He let death take him without fuss or fight.
In the cold early morning, they found Percy Merrybright frozen like a statue.
One hand on his heart, the other on his hip flask and a smiles of beauty spread across his face.

On Being Impulsive…

Up at 5.30am .

I can conquer the world at this time of  day.
There isn’t a soul about. Just me and the songbirds, the rabbits and the field mice. If I’m lucky I might spot a deer.

Up at 5.30am.

I’m alone with my thoughts, which is often a dangerous pastime. I  think about how beautiful the sun looks coming up over the hills. I look at the wheat, I look at the barley and think that it will be cut sometime soon.

Up at 5.30am.

I think about you. I wonder if you ever think of me the way I think of you. You probably don’t because you’re not mad like I am. I realise how crazy it sounds to even contemplate it. I think about how ridiculous I am to feel the way I do about a stranger. I do not know you. Not really. But I like what I have happened upon. You are in my thoughts. I wonder most about your voice and whether your hair is soft to touch. I wonder what your fingertips would feel like upon my bare skin and I wonder what your face would feel like cupped in my hands. I think that I probably think of you too much. It has to stop.

Up at 5.30am.

I think about my impulsive nature. I am not one for sensible actions. I often act before I think, it gets me into trouble. I think about marrying somebody I barely knew and how it lasted one pathetic year. I am that kind of impulsive. I am reckless and I am wild. I am passion and desire. I will always be ruled by my heart and what it tells me. Because I am scared. I am scared that when I am old and beautifully wrinkled, I will  sit upon my chair and have nothing but regret. Regret that I didn’t feel, regret that I didn’t become all consumed, regret that I never took a chance to fall over and over and over again with the idea and promise of love. Regret that I didn’t try to get to know you. But I did. At least I tried to. And that will have to be enough. No more now.

Up at 5.30am.

I need to go back to my bed.

Green Eyes.

I don’t normally write quite as explicitly as this. But I’ve been wanting to try and come up with something akin to erotica for awhile now. It feels liberating to write words which, to me at least, are sexual and provocative. Something sparked a flame of desire within me and I felt compelled to write this in response. I think I like it… Might try and write more… We shall see. 

Green Eyes.

I imagine I am there.

In your bedroom.

Standing before you, beside your bed where you lie, studying me and my desire.

The early morning light spills brazenly through the picture window. Shining down upon your strong body as dust particles hypnotically dance in the silence.

Green eyes watch as I unbutton my dress, they watch as it drops to the floor. They watch as I let my hands fall to my sides.

I want you to put your mouth upon my tender place, to taste me and devour me.

Breathe me in and swallow me whole.

I have never desired anything as much.

I want to impale myself upon your hardness. I want your hands, which I have become so fond of to hold me there and never let me go.

I want you to forever stay inside of me.

Until, the little death,

Takes us.

Moon Sister.

Today, I am having a ‘low day’. Today is a day where I feel incredibly numb and empty. I feel incredibly sad. This is the first time I’ve ever been brave enough to try and write something about my friend, my soul star, my moon sister.
It’s just a hazy memory of a beautiful moment in our lives and then a not so beautiful memory of what was to come afterwards. It’s a ramble of thoughts really. I’m hoping it will prove cathartic.

Moon Sister.

We’d drink contraband bottles of red wine from your parents stash and smoke illegally bought cigarettes along hot country lanes in summer.
They were always the best times.
You and I, lobster pink with blistered heels, walking barefoot and holding hands.
We’d always sing Fleetwood Mac. You, quite rightly claiming ‘Sara’ as your own. Mine, Rhiannon. Moon sisters, dancing tipsily along before lying back in the long grass.
I wanted your freckles and your tiny nose. You wanted my eyes and the shape of my lips.
Things would turn sapphic. They always did. The heat, the sun, the blue of the sky.
Your mouth hot upon mine. The taste of red wine and cigarettes from your pink tongue. We’d kiss hungrily.

And always more.

When you left me, I already knew. I collapsed and howled at the moon. I am not ashamed.
I couldn’t watch when they put you in the ground. I had to turn away. I am not ashamed.
I have been to your grave. Once. I am not ashamed.

Moon sister, how did I not see?

Always. Yours.

Me.

Alabaster.

A porcelain wasteland that rarely sees the light of day,
A million golden soldiers lay softly in wait.

A landscape of freckles with rivers of green,
Run rapidly to the sea.

A thousand kisses long washed                        away.

And scars, long faded, hold memories.

Cut.

Deep.

Am I Wrong?

I found this very old poem I penned a couple of days back. It was a joy to read it again after all this time.

Am I Wrong?

Perhaps,
You are sat.
Laptop perched recklessly upon
The sofa edged precipice.
A gust of your heavy breath
Only needed
To tip over to its death.

Legs will be crossed on the right side,
Yet;
You never looked comfortable there.
Hairy toes no doubt splayed happily in the
Spilt milk,
Sunshine bearing through the picture windows that long to be cleaned,
Greying joggers dutifully warming ankles as you rest.

Your glasses will be on the window ledge,
And coffee cups will litter the floor around you.
Eternally vying for competition with the medusa like nest of wires,
That threaten to rear and spark at any moment.

By two you will have bathed;
Overzealous with bubbles and faded underwear tossed to
The deepest, darkest, cobwebbed corner of the bathroom.
The radio plays and you
Soap and sud and dry and dress.

She will beckon you back.

The green comforter.

Ready for endless repeats and the hard sell.
And you’ll sink and you’ll sink and you’ll sink.

Until moved,
Only by hunger, you will rise and rustle until sated.

You have work tomorrow.