Categoriearchief: Text (EN)

Tour dogs

(Action Beat + G.W. Sok in the USA)

Special delivery straight from heavenly hell…
that is: New York, Philly, Washington DC,
Baltimore, Richmond, Charlotte, Winston-Salem,
Atlanta, Birmingham, New Orleans,
Houston, Austin, Dallas… that’s us, fellas…
traveling around in the Underground Scenery of
Anothermerica

One drummer missing, arrested in the UK,
tour hasn’t even started yet…
then sun blasts, heavy rains,
and a series of seriously troubled vans
long drives, short drives… and all the time
loading in, loading out, waiting, soundcheck, playtime…
yes food, no food, fast food, slow food…
yes sleep no sleep, roads roads roads and MORE roads…

One troubled van now unsurprisingly unsurrealistically
fucked up…
think fast, think not, burn rubber, on the double
one apartment, one floor, seven bodies, and dogbeds,
two sleeping-bags, and one family flee couch…
juice, water, beer, weed, coffee, “coffee”…
bagel, burger, donut, diner…

Smelly clothes, a stolen backpack,
occasional showers, a van-change, a smelly shirt change
one guitarist heading home, due to family illness…
and then there were six…
and too much change in the pocket, fuck it
a traffic jam? terrific man
and meanwhile trouble in the US of A
a certain kind of malice
in Atlanta, Baton Rouge, Dallas…
we’re just passing through, though, but we’re concerned,
and worried,
and so are the people we meet
and yes, this music IS bringing us together…
for worse, or better… rough, hypnotic, jagged
a noisy, chaotic, vital racket…
with sometimes even louder miles per hour…
who cares, hurray… hear! hear!… and we’re only HALFWAY here…
and so, what’s left?… right!
Kansas City, Chicago, Detroit, Cleveland,
Pittsburgh, Buffalo, Binghamton,
Portland, Boston, Providence…
unlock your ears, and hear it come,
for here it comes…
the amazing noise
of the Bletchley Boys…

Tour dogs!

(misprint, baby:
tour gods…)

—2016

> back to Some Lyrics

Osorio 1

It seems your name is light
you thought you knew your father
then one dark day you’d find
he might have been another

Meanwhile on the Plaza
the gathering of mothers
circling, searching, still, for
husbands, sons, and brothers

This past, a pack of dogs
it chased the future out of sight
shadowing the day, but hey
come what may, your name is light

—2015

> back to Some Lyrics

The bus is late again

The bus is late
I’m not surprised
the rain is wet
and supersized
the night is grey
I know the score
the rose is red
just like before

The wind is cold
the queue is slow
I’m still patient
but go go go
the door is jammed
my coat is stuck
the driver’s deaf
well, just my luck

The light is green
the light is red
the light is o . . .
oh no, too bad
the car’s been hit
I’m black and blue
the rose, it snapped
I think of you

I’m in the bus
it’s full of doubt
the road is where
the light’s gone out
the bus is late
and off you went —

The bus is late?
and off you went?
again I see
no happy end

—2015

> back to Some Lyrics

A free body

All we want
is that what makes
us less than free
should stop
now

Just because
that is what we
expect that a
free body
wants

We’ll never get used to the vultures
sitting on the roofs so impatiently
uhm, patiently?
we’ll never get used to the scavengers
scorching our souls so blatantly
disgracefully

It should stop right here
It should stop right there
it should stop right now
I don’t ask how
you can keep your claws
we need effective laws

Just because
when this, when that
when tit, when tat
when said, when done
when the mourning gone
when step, when stone
when we come home
when done the past
then free at last

Just because
that is what we
believe that a
free body
wants

All we want
is that what makes
us less than free
should stop
now

just because
that is what we
expect that a
free body
needs

—2014

> back to Some Lyrics

Listen to the painters

We need poets, we need painters
we need poets, we need painters
we need poetry and paintings . . .

We need poets, we need painters
we need poets, we need painters
we need poetry and paintings . . .

Narrow minds are weapons
made for mass destruction
file them under
giant ass seduction

Sheep with crazy leaders
heading for disaster
courting jesters
who take themselves for masters

We need poets, we need painters
we need poets, we need painters
we need poetry and paintings . . .

The shrub who took himself for a park
the squeak who took himself for a bark . . .
the shrub who took himself for a park
the squeak who took himself for a bark . . .

We need poets, we need painters
we need poets, we need painters
we need poetry and paintings . . .

We need
filmers
and writers
dancers
musicians . . .
actors
and sculptors
bakers
electricians . . .
thinkers
and doctors
cyclists
and builders . . .
lovers
friends
and neighbours
and others

—2003

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The quiet beach

The quiet beach, you will see
the quiet beach, that isn’t me

I am the sharp shells
I am their twisted shards
the ships gone astray
the fallen ice-creams
and melted mars-bars of the day
I am the crashed kites
the booming looming bellyfish
the bitchy bouncing volleyballs
the singalong-with-Mr-Sandman trolls

I am the sunburned suntan fan
the way too recent indecent exposure poser
I’m the football father
fodder mother
the peevish, pettish, paddling bother
I’m the soaking-wet-salt-sea rejector
I’m the hey-they’ve-dug-them-holes detector
I am the assholes
the clattering flagpoles

Now, as you can see
the quiet beach, that isn’t me
I am coffee with sugar and a little cloud of sand
I’m the smoggy fumes from a certain kind of restaurant
I am what’s left of nature in this land
some bare items which are getting out of hand
some bare items which I would not recommend:

Flotsam in sea purse
oil-slick-water
plastic in bird
disaster tourist theatre
and this spectacle even more sour to the core
when washed-out whales come washing ashore
but all I wanna hear is the rustle of the sea
so if I may choose put the volume down to three
hey are you deaf, I said:
one
two
three

—2014

> back to Some Lyrics