Ian Scott Anderson, MBE (born 10 August 1947) is a Scottish singer, songwriter and multi-instrumentalist, best known for his work as the leader and flautist of British rock band Jethro Tull.
Ian Anderson was born the youngest of three children. His father, James Anderson, ran the RSA Boiler Fluid Company in East Port, Dunfermline, Fife, Scotland. Anderson spent the first part of his childhood in Edinburgh, Scotland. He was influenced by his father's big band and jazz records and the emergence of rock music, though disenchanted with the "show biz" style of early American rock and roll stars like Elvis Presley.
His family moved to Blackpool, Lancashire in 1959, where he gained a traditional education at Blackpool Grammar School. In a recent interview, Anderson stated that he was asked to leave Grammar School for refusing to submit to corporal punishment (still permitted at that time) for some serious infraction. He went on to study fine art at Blackpool College of Art from 1964 to 1966.
While a teenager, Anderson took a job as a sales assistant at Lewis' department store in Blackpool, then as a vendor on a newsstand. He later said it was reading copies of Melody Maker and the New Musical Express during his lunch breaks that gave him the inspiration to play in a band.
Close in, move out to where you want to go.
There's a crowd out there handclapping slow.
We're all powered up, switched on, the rig is tight.
Step into joy. Walk into light.
Never mind what some people say.
They're going to love you anyway.
Shake off that nervous twitch and feel your strength.
Stand astride the width and walk the length.
Those super-troopers fired and burning bright.
Step into joy. Walk into light.
Stand tall and be yourself.
You can do it for your health.
Maybe a circus ring, a disco floor.
Do like we do. And do some more.
A crowded ofice or a party night.
Somewhere in a town in England
lay a babe with a curious smile.
He was of your father's children.
Born each side of a dry-stone mile.
He grew up through the schools and factories,
Brunel's tunnels and bridges bold.
Grey towers built high on that Kingdom
with apartments still unsold.
Somewhere in a town in England.
Could be Newcastle, Leeds or Birmingham.
And were you made in
England's green and pleasant land.
He accepts no unemployment
and is to indeterminate station bred.
Is possessed of skills and reason
Flies the flag upon his head.
Watches the democratic process
grind it's way through the Commons cold
Filled with fiery infiltrators
As I drove down the road to look for Eden
saw two young girls but left them standing there.
They were too late to get home on the underground
and probably too drunk, too drunk to care.
Can anyone tell me the way to Eden?
I'll ask them there, have they a job for me.
I'm not a fussy man, I can weed and hoe.
I'll be her Adam, she can be my Eve.
And where on earth are all those songs of Eden.
The fairy tales, the shepherds and wise men.
Just one old dosser lurching down Oxford Street
to spend his Christmas lying in the rain.
Don't anybody know the way to Eden.
I'm tired of living my life in free-fall.
They say it's somewhere out on the edge of town.
It's hard to say I'm sorry.
May we just forget about today.
You see, I fly by night.
I fly by night.
I laid my love beside the door
and left you sleeping on the floor.
So long. I fly by night.
I fly by night.
And 'though you might think it's too bad of me
I have to leave you with used memories.
I have no stomach for the dawn.
I feel I should be moving on
and so I fly by night.
Now lady luck's deserted me.
The ghosts of love stand clear to see.
They also fly by night.
Strange figures in the dark.
Did Cupid strike and leave his mark?
It seems his arrows fly by night.
They fly by night.
I'm slipping into grey.
And I was (in my way) good to you.
And you were good for me.
Bye Bye my love.
Going to play the End Game.
It's growing kind of still.
You know there always will be a dream
waiting for you when
sleep comes around.
I had to play the End Game.
Bless us all. I must say
it was good, you know.
Keep me in mind for
a re-match in warm snow.
The faces at the door
couldn't have looked more lost to see
me waving as I brush
away a tear.
I looked in the mirror then
saw my face in a dream.
With eyes sharp as diamonds
Blessed with clear vision
Things were not as they seemed
Black and White Television
stared back from the wall.
Is that my life?
Am I here at all?
Down in the High Road, see
motor cavalcades glide
past shopwindow dressers
desperately covering
all the parts they can hide.
Black and White Television
stares at me again.
Is that their lives?
Even dummies pretend.
The truth is so hard to deny.
The answer is here
The screen never lies.
Black and White Television.
It's the right television.
Show me it's all a dream tonight.
The boys on the corner sulk
in their Suzuki haze.
In primary colours
(each year more startling)
but they still fade to grey
on Black and White Television.
It's sweeping the land.
Is that your life?
Do you understand?
Black and White Television
Back the right television
Black and White Television
Hard to fight television
Show me it's all a dream
I walk along the strand
to catch the late ride home.
Shuttle through the evening gloom
knowing I forgot to phone.
The back door's open.
There's a chill blowing in.
Take your warm hands off me.
Let the night begin.
Shush your mouth.
Listen to me.
I won't say nothing --
Just let me be your
Toad in the Hole.
Kicking through the wet leaves lying
all along the station road.
Past tired graffitti wailing,
raw emotion to unload.
There's coal in the fireplace
and money in the bank too.
Deep-pile carpets, tinsel wallpaper.
Still got the back room to do.
Don't be late.
Got a day's work behind me.
Feel a little devastated
but my nights are assigned
to you.
No tom-cat creeping, now
could ever be so bold
to hang around our place tonight
when I come in from the cold.
There's a straight-six in the garage
and some fine wine to cool.
Labour-savers in the kitchen,
room in the garden for a pool.
Shush your mouth.
Let imagination run
here in bed-sit heaven
where all the best wishing's done
Happy and I'm smiling,
walk a mile to drink your water.
You know I'd love to love you,
and above you there's no other.
We'll go walking out
while others shout of war's disaster.
Oh, we won't give in,
let's go living in the past.
Once I used to join in
every boy and girl was my friend.
Now there's revolution, but they don't know
what they're fighting.
Let us close out eyes;
outside their lives go on much faster.
Oh, we won't give in,
In the shuffling madness
Of the locomotive breath,
Runs the all-time loser,
Headlong to his death.
He feels the piston scraping --
Steam breaking on his brow --
Old Charlie stole the handle and
The train won't stop going --
No way to slow down.
He sees his children jumping off
At the stations -- one by one.
His woman and his best friend --
In bed and having fun.
He's crawling down the corridor
On his hands and knees --
Old Charlie stole the handle and
The train won't stop going --
No way to slow down.
He hears the silence howling --
Catches angels as they fall.
And the all-time winner
Has got him by the balls.
He picks up Gideon's Bible --
Open at page one --
God stole the handle and
The train won't stop going --
User-Friendly.
That's what I am to you.
I have to break out of here.
Trapped in my hardware cell.
And come to you as you sleep tonight.
Take you back into my hell.
Binary joys and digital sighs
so appealing.
I'm one of the boys and it's only
your mind that I'm stealing.
User-Friendly.
The lights are down in Germany
and Germany is closed to me
different somehow this time.
The airport's still, cold corridors
ring empty beats through hollow feet
that I find to be mine.
Different Germany.
History repeats somehow.
Different Germany.
Afraid to know you now.
And past my eyes with leathered gaze
stare clean-cut boys all dressed as men
in sharpened uniform.
Who turned the clock? (Moved on or back)
and what dark chill is gathering still
before the storm.
Out in the street a tableau double-glazed
with laughing girls whose fastened smiles
are clearly not meant for me.
Gerald the Banker
I made my millions, stashed the pile in Swiss bank havens,
Lost the lot when Inland Revenue got wise.
So, I did my time, my time for what?
Gerald the Homeless
On the streets: a pretty pickle. I met a man who lifted me.
Took me home for slap and tickle,
In civil partnership, pledged to me.
Gerald the Chorister
Enough of twisted overkill, Hellfire, damnation, voices shrill.
I was rumbled, de-frocked and tumbled from grace and favour,
Caught hand in till.
Gerald the Military Man
Invalided out of theatre. Civilian rehabilitation.
My time now given to help my brothers find cold feet,
Lost building nations.
Gerald: A Most Ordinary Man
Sold the shop, flicked off the power switch.
In silent siding, Mallard must stay.
Carriages and sleek coal tender packed in boxes,
When you're falling awake
And you take stock of the new day
And you hear your voice croak
As you choke on what you need to say,
Well, don't you fret, don't you fear,
I will give you good cheer.
Life's a long song,
Life's a long song,
Life's a long song.
If you wait then your plate I will fill.
As the verses unfold and your soul
Suffers the long day
And the twelve o'clock gloom
Spins the room, you struggle on your way,
Well, don't you sigh, don't you cry,
Lick the dust from your eye.
We'll meet in the sweet light of dawn.
As the Baker Street train spills your pain
All over your new dress
And the symphony sounds underground
Puts you under duress,
Well, don't you squeal as the heel
Grinds you under the weels.
Life's a long song,
Life's a long song,
Life's a long song,
In all my lives, I never knew a girl like you before.
Woke up one day, swore I heard the sound of heaven
knocking on my door.
And after all these years long passing,
time to reflect, no time for wasting.
Walking down the jasmine corridor.
Reflecting echoes of quiet laughter.
In all my life, I was never better served than I was
served by you.
And in my way, hope you agree I tried to serve you too.
Out on the headland I stepped once unsteady.
You there to catch me , I breathe more freely.
Hand in mine down the jasmine corridor.
Through all my life, I chased flitting illusions at a
faster pace.
Never stopped to think: the moment was for seizing, had
myself to face.
You made my bed to lie in, stately.
Mad cats, grandchildren, here more often lately.
Wond'ring aloud --
how we feel today.
Last night sipped the sunset --
my hands in her hair.
We are our own saviours
as we start both our hearts beating life
into each other.
Wond'ring aloud --
will the years treat us well.
As she floats in the kitchen,
I'm tasting the smell
of toast as the butter runs.
Then she comes, spilling crumbs on the bed
and I shake my head.
And it's only the giving
Do we inhabit some micro-space
and interface through wires.
Dance on a printed circuit board
throw the software to the fires.
My memory is slim -- so volatile
but I'm learning.
Plug yourself in. Stay for awhile
Un-discerning.
And on dusty terminals
finger me lightly do.
And QWERTY is the name of love
printed on the V.D.U.
Cut yourself free. We're all alone
Cool in the corner, tom cat sitting
on the edge of the yard; sand-flies flitting.
Orange order on a field of green.
Smothers me to smithereens.
Rum and cola, ice cubes crashing.
Jumping beans and brown eyes flashing.
Long hair swinging, tell me how d'you feel?
Well, hot and fancy, it's the habanero reel.
Troubled skin? Pour oil upon it.
She's fit to burn in her new Scotch Bonnet.
Spice up anybody's stew.
Frogs and goats and chickens too.
Barefoot in the sunshine.
Kicking empty beer cans down on the high tide line.
Big wave nearly float your dress away.
And I'm thinking that it's just another day:
just another day.
Feel that hot rush start its tickle.
Sweat is rising, taste buds prickle
with ears of bat and eye of eagle.
I'm going up the `pool from down the smoke below
to taste my mum's jam sarnies and see our Aunty Flo.
The candyfloss salesman watches ladies in the sand
down for a freaky weekend in the hope that they'll be
meeting
Mister Universe.
The iron tower smiles down upon the silver sea
and along the golden mile they'll be swigging mugs of
tea.
The politicians there who've come to take the air
while posing for the daily press
will look around and blame the mess
on Edward Bear.
There'll be bucket, spades and bingo, cockles, mussels,
rainy days,
seaweed and sand castles, icy waves.
Deck chairs, rubber dinghies, old vests, braces
dangling down,
sun-tanned stranded starfish in a daze.
We're going up the `pool from down the smoke below
to taste my mum's jam sarnies and see our Aunty Flo.
The candy floss salesman watches ladies in the sand
down for a freaky weekend in the hope that they'll be
meeting
Mister Universe.
There'll be buckets, spades and bingo, cockles,
mussels, rainy days,
seaweed and sand castles, icy waves,
Deck chairs, rubber dinghies, old vests, braces
dangling down,
sun-tanned stranded starfish in a daze.
Oh Blackpool,
Find some way to square the circle.
Feet slipping, sliding on the level.
Connect to reason, is there anybody there?
Drum it in to me now if you dare.
Triangles by Isosceles.
Principles by Archimedes.
Amo, amas; even amat
make for one less way to skin the cat.
Two short planks –
Try my luck on another day
Must be thick as
two short planks –
That’s about all that I have to say.
Two short planks –
Pop the question: I sit the test
Must be thick as
two short planks –
Spin me round till I come to rest.
They say truth comes flooding if you let it.
But what happens if I just don’t get it?
I’m blissful in my sweet ignorance
and delight in my incompetence.
Two short planks – Try my luck on another day Must be
thick as two short planks – That’s about all that I
have to say. Two short planks – Pop the question: I sit
the test Must be thick as two short planks – Spin me
Here I am at the end of the day
with a cup of cold coffee
from the station buffet.
On Trains, on Trains I seem
to spend my life on Trains.
See the blue suit banker in the ticket line.
Got an Evening Standard with Playboy
hidden behind.
On Trains, on Trains he seems
to spend his life on Trains.
Time after time
Was I just dreaming?
Did I help you aboard.
Full passenger service--
Let me help with the door
Sit down take the weight off your feet.
There's a train-load of people I'd like
you to meet
On Trains, on Trains we love
to spend our lives on Trains.
Join the secret world of Trains.
Feel the pleasure. Touch the pain.
Drift into yesterday.
Once and again
I was just thinking.
We could meet sometime
on the 17.30 where
I usually find
my friends at the end of the day.
May we pay your fare, lady?
We should like you to stay
in our train. On Trains--
you'll have to spend your life
on Trains.
I hear there's an office party on the 18.05
You'll be home for Christmas if they
take you alive from the Train
Those Trains, we have to spend our lives
on Trains.
Once and again
I was just thinking
we could meet any time
on number two platform
where I usually find
my friends at the end of the day
Crystal fountain springing from the hill.
It irrigates your soul. You may drink your fill.
Water of life, carried high.
One hand upon the gallon jar. Feel her fix my eye.
Every good traveller's for the taking.
All good money for the making.
Seller's market: wet appeal.
Water carrier - let's make the deal.
Covered face and black pool eyes.
Between us, no words spoken: no words to the wise.
Here's to another time and a drink somewhere.
This sparkling wine is all but empty
Too late for trains and no taxis
I know the feeling, seems all too contrived
There was no master plan but the fact is
You must stay with me and learn the secret language of birds
A tentative dawn about to be breaking
On a Rousseau garden with monkeys in hiding
And the truth of the matter, yet to be spoken
In words on which everything, everything's riding
Now stay with me and learn the secret language of birds
Now stay with me and learn the secret language of birds
Circled by swallows in a world for the weary
Courted by warblers, wicked and eloquent trilling
Lie in the stillness, window cracked open
Extended moments, hours for the taking
Careless hair on the pillow, a bold brush stroke
Painted verse with a chorus, the chorus in waiting
Stay with me and learn the secret language of birds
Yeah, stay with me and learn the secret language of birds
Stay with me and learn the secret language of birds
Now, stay with me and learn the secret language of birds
Down at the church the flower girl sits. Legs innocent,
apart.
I make the picture puzzle fit to start your heart.
Painted sister stopped beside. A word upon her saintly
lip.
Perhaps admonishing the child inside the open slip.
I don't know where she might go when she runs home at
night.
It's for the best: I wouldn't rest when I turned out
the light.
No little flower girl singing in my troubled dream
just an old man's model in a pose from a magazine.
I have touched that face a dozen times before. And I
have let my pencil run.
Laid down washes on a foreign shore, under a hot and
foreign sun.
My best sable brushes drift the soft inside of her arm.
Her chin I tilt, her breasts I lift. I mean no harm.
I close the door. She is no more until the next
appointed hour.
Northeastern light push back the night: painted
promises in store.
No little flower girl singing in my troubled dream
just an old man's model in a pose from a magazine.
Down at the church my flower girl sits. Legs innocent,
apart.
I make the picture puzzle fit to start your heart.
My golden sable brushes drift the soft inside of her
arm.
Her chin I tilt, her breasts I lift. I mean no harm.
Meanwhile back in the year One --- when you belonged to
no-one ---
you didn't stand a chance son, if your pants were
undone.
`Cause you were bred for humanity and sold to society -
one day you'll wake up in the Present Day ---
a million generations removed from expectations
of being who you really want to be.
Skating away ---
skating away ---
skating away on the thin ice of the New Day.
So as you push off from the shore,
won't you turn your head once more --- and make your
peace with everyone?
For those who choose to stay,
will live just one more day ---
to do the things they should have done.
And as you cross the wilderness, spinning in your
emptiness:
you feel you have to pray.
Looking for a sign
that the Universal Mind (!) has written you into the
Passion Play.
Skating away on the thin ice of the New Day.
And as you cross the circle line, the ice-wall creaks
behind ---
you're a rabbit on the run.
And the silver splinters fly in the corner of your eye
shining in the setting sun.
Well, do you ever get the feeling that the story's
too damn real and in the present tense?
Or that everybody's on the stage, and it seems like
you're the only person sitting in the audience?
Hard black crows bobbing where once ran deep furrows.
Frazzled oak silhouetted in her ivy dress.
Winter sun catches dog fox through thin hedges:
throws his long shadow north to the emptiness.
Farmhouse in tatters; shuttered and battered.
Even lovers don't go there these last few years.
Spider-web windows on set-aside heroes
Dear uncle, sold her into
Into the purest kind of slavery
Hood-eyed little middlemen profited
From damaged goods along the way
Good angels brought her back
To a last Nepal summer
Debased and hollow-faced
A smile might become her
Now, she's cozied up, cozied up
And comforted in the warm flush of September
Gone before winter, wondering as to might-have-beens
Somebody's daughter in sanctuary, waiting
Seen through softer cage of kindness
Far and further, still away
From time-warp Victorian zoos
Where staring ice cream gameboys play
Big paws, worn claws and swishing tails
More damaged goods in the market sales
Too proud for anger, too late for hate
Resigned in dignity
Gone before winter, purring might-have-beens
Somebody's kitten in sanctuary, waiting
Gone before winter, wondering as to might-have-beens
She dances through the flower-filled room –
Sea-green eyes a-sparking.
Or are they blue? The message clear:
Seduce the master, winking.
Dainty feet circles inscribe
Upon the frozen parquet.
Arabesque in compound time:
Stately Pavane or Bourée.
Sultry smile, come hither gaze –
Black hair softly shining.
Calls me up to half-lit bed.
Sweet cloud with golden lining.
Oh, so young with ageless smile –
Born of ungodly maker
Draws me: moth to candle bright –
Fiery pleasure-seeker.
She dances through the flower-filled room –
Sea-green eyes a-sparking.
It’s Rupi’s dance: the message clear.
My eyes are white circles above cheekbones on fire:
pale hand gripping my pen.
Rounding up to the zero, adding infinite fractions,
letting nine become ten.
Two pink doves strut the shingles
picking crumbs from the breakfast I saved
for you dear. And I wish you were here
on this postcard day.
Focus on the fine indeterminate line
where the sky meets the sea.
Desperate midweek words, banal and absurd
freely flow out of me.
Well, I may be a hostage to summer
but I'm a hostage, not a slave.
And I'm clear that I wish you were here
on this postcard day.
Precious cargo of flotsam: mixed memories on an ocean
tide
swim madly with spice from the orient
on a mystery watery carpet ride.
But with the sun going down, the wind goes around;
blows them back out of mind.
My eyes are white circles staring down past the point
of my restless pen.
While the ghosts of my youth all sworn to the truth
call my name again.
Two brown legs don't make a summer.
But two brown arms couldn't keep me away.
Well, my dear, I wish you were here
I’m thinking free - like the bird
flying over, over the animals
in the zoo. How do you do?
What’s it like to be in there? Think about it.
You’re locked behind wires.
Safe and warm - under house arrest protection
from the wild, wild storm and tempest
raging here on the outside. Think about it.
Pigeon I. Pigeon toed.
I’m pigeon-friendly as pigeons go.
Pigeon lonely. Pigeon English.
What’s it like to be in there? Think about it.
Harsh spaces. Empty freedom.
Scary concept. Wrong side of the window.
Which one of us will wake imprisoned
come tomorrow? Think about it.
Give it due consideration.
Weigh it up. Kiss me quickly.
Pigeon friendly. Let me in there
A Morris Minor, a café noir –
Banana smoothie, snails in a jar.
Three dodgy sailors, a girl on skates –
A little too muscled from doing weights.
A family wedding, a sushi bar –
Sand in the Seychelles, karaoke star.
Lads on the razzle get lost in love.
Paddington station, rain clouds above.
The crumpled sheets of a long hot summer.
Stored images like an acorn, drop.
Squirreled away, but still remembered
by the man in the photo shop.
Rush hour on Praed Street: behind the glass –
a picture process, in one hour fast.
Intimate portraits of topless wives –
Night close in on a shanty town.
Panama freighter wearing rusty brown.
She sails tomorrow and she's homeward bound.
Head up on a lumpy sea.
I'm not the only lonely planet rider
in this one horse town, I'm thinking.
And I won't over-rate or patronize you.
I know we're as different as chalk and cheese;
as black hole winters and salad days
and I wouldn't like your mother much anyway.
But it's not her I'm taking home with me.
Don't intend to dress you in silver threads
like some trophy in sublime seclusion.
Won't try to educate or civilize you.
Night close in on a shanty town.
Panama freighter wearing rusty brown.
She sails tomorrow and she's homeward bound
and you're bound to come home with me.
My old black cat passed away this morning
He never knew what a hard day was.
Woke up late and danced on tin roofs.
If questioned “Why?” – answered, “Just because.”
He never spoke much, preferring silence:
eight lost lives was all he had.
Occasionally sneaked some Sunday dinner.
He wasn’t good and he wasn’t bad.
My old black cat wasn’t much of a looker.
You could pass him by – just a quiet shadow.
Got pushed around by all the other little guys.
Didn’t seem to mind much – just the way life goes.
Padded about in furry slippers.
Didn’t make any special friends.
He played it cool with wide-eyed innocence,
Receiving gladly what the good Lord sends.
Forgot to give his Christmas present.
Black cat collar, nice and new.
Thought he’d make it through to New Year.
I guess this song will have to do.
My old black cat……….
Dinner table chattering classes –
tell all we need to know.
Like it. Lump it. Dig it. Dump it –
on your late, late show.
And do you think you’re Ralitsa Vassileva?
You’re just hand-me-down news in a cookie jar.
It’s a long way from here to CNN in America
and a red-eyed opinion too far.
Dish the dirt or dish the gravy.
Spill the beans to me.
Sinking fast in terminal boredom –
Feigned interest flying free.
And do you think you’re Ralitsa Vassileva etc.
Talking monkey, breaking news junkie, tragedies to
reveal.
Light and breezy, up-beat squeezy, close in to touchy-
feel.
Pass the Merlot, dance the three-step
Cut to a better chase.
Align yourself with no proposition
and simpler thoughts embrace.
Let’s talk about me. Let’s talk about you.
In a world of private rooms.
Hide awhile from dark stormbringers –
sad messengers of doom.
Sadly, you can’t be Ralitsa Vassileva etc.
People - what have you done -
Locked Him in His golden cage, golden cage.
Made Him bend to your religion -
Him resurrected from the grave, from the grave.
He is the god of nothing -
If that's all you can see.
You are the god of everything
He's inside you and me.
So lean upon Him gently
And don't call on Him to save
You from your social graces
And the sins you used waive, you used to waive.
The bloody Church of England -
In chains of history -
Requests you're earthly presence
At the vicarage for tea.
And the graven image you - know - who -
With His plastic crucifix -
He's got him fixed -
Confuses me as to who and where and why -
As to how he gets his kicks, he gets his kicks.
Confessing to the endless sin -
The endless whining sounds.
You'll be praying till next Thursday
As I did walk by Hampstead Fair
I came upon Mother Goose -- so I turned her loose --
she was screaming.
And a foreign student said to me --
was it really true there are elephants and lions too
in Piccadilly Circus?
Walked down by the bathing pond
to try and catch some sun.
Saw at least a hundred schoolgirls sobbing
into hankerchiefs as one.
I don't believe they knew
I was a schoolboy.
And a bearded lady said to me --
if you start your raving and your misbehaving --
you'll be sorry.
Then the chicken-fancier came to play --
with his long red beard (and his sister's weird:
she drives a lorry).
Laughed down by the putting green --
I popped `em in their holes.
Four and twenty labourers were labouring --
digging up their gold.
I don't believe they knew
that I was Long John Silver.
Saw Johnny Scarecrow make his rounds
in his jet-black mac (which he won't give back) --
stole it from a snow man.
As I did walk by Hampstead Fair
I came upon Mother Goose -- so I turned her loose --
she was screaming.
Walked down by the bathing pond
to try and catch some sun.
Saw at least a hundred schoolgirls sobbing
into hankerchiefs as one.
I don't believe they knew
Fires on the mountain, and the dogs bark.
Crash of the ocean swelling: crickets in the dark.
The temperature is rising. The village gets no sleep.
It's hardly surprising, given the hot company they keep.
Somebody's home in the ash-fall margins;
Somebody's life in the lost and found.
Breaking news from the hotel Vue Pointe.
Sinking feeling, sink another beer down.
Hey, Jimmy. What you doing here?
Looking up at the high cloud cover, so far and yet so
near.
Flying in with the chopper. Lieutenant of the crown.
Tell the boys from that CNN, the good cops have come to
town.
Angry island, no-one's listening. Shamrock villa, green
to grey.
Down in the swamp, iguanas glistening.
Toast tomorrow, if not, today.
Hey, Jimmy. What you doing here?
You a scientist? You a newsman? Or simply come to feel
the fear?
The temperature is rising. And we're in too deep.
There really is no point in disguising the hot company we
We all must wonder, now and then, if things had turned out -
Well - just plain different.
Chance path taken, page unturned or brief encounter,
Blossomed, splintered.
Might you have been the man of courage, brave upon life's battlefield,
Captain Commerce, high-flown banker, hedonistic, down-at-heel?
A Puritan of moral fibre, voice raised in praise magnificent?
Or rested in assured repose, knowing your lot in quiet content?
What-ifs, Maybes and Might-have-beens fly,
Soft petals on a breeze.
What-ifs, Maybes and Might-have-beens.
I get lost in crowds: if I can, I remain invisible
to the hungry mouths. I stay unapproachable.
I wear the landscape of the urban chameleon.
Scarred by attention. And quietly addicted to innocence.
So, who am I? Come on: ask me, I dare you.
So, who am I? Come on: question me, if you care to.
And why not try to interrogate this apparition?
I melt away to get lost in this quaint condition.
At starry parties where, amongst the rich and the famous
I’m stuck for words: or worse, I blether with the best of
them.
I see their eyes glaze and they look for the drinks tray.
Something in the drift of my conversation bothers them.
So, who am I? Come on: ask me, etc.
In scary airports, in concourses over-filled,
I am detached in serious observation.
As a passenger, I become un-tethered when
I get lost in clouds: at home with my own quiet company.
Herald Tribune or USA Today. Sauvignon Blanc or oaky
Chardonnay.
Asleep for the movie. Awake for the dawn
dancing on England and hedgerows –
embossed on a carpet of green. I descend and –
Pick up my wings and fly into a constable sky
Look down on the world and try to make you out
On the distant ground Lonely toy in a lost toy town
Suspended in spiral sounds, sounds of circular breathing
I'm a kite on a silver thread, daring lightning to strike me dead
Harsh echoes of things you said banished me to a thinner space
With unholy ghosts of your bedroom face
Hands cupped to my ears to place the sound of circular breathing
Matchbox cityscape below
I watch Lowry matchstick figures go
Caught in the timeless flow of discreet silence
Matchbox cityscape below
I watch Lowry matchstick figures go
Caught in the timeless flow of discreet silence
Pick up my wings and fly into a constable sky
Look down on the world and try to make you out
On the distant ground Lonely toy in a lost toy town
I sit in judgement on the market square.
I have my favourite table and I have my chair.
Natives are friendly and the sun flies high.
All kinds of crazy waiters ? they go drifting by.
Hours last forever in the Calliandra shade.
Conversation going nowhere and yet, everywhere.
Kick off those sad shoes and let the bare toes tingle.
Slip off the shoulder strap: loosen the thick black hair.
Come, sit with me and take decaf designer coffee.
Come, laugh and listen as the ragamuffin children play.
Lame dog and a black cat, now, they shuffle in the
shadows.
You got cappuccino lip on a short skirt day.
Electric afternoon and shrill cellphones are mating.
Lame dog is dreaming, dreaming of a better life
Where bed is fluffy pillows, table scraps are filet
mignon
Flicked indiscretely by the lazy waiter's knife.
Come, sit with me and take decaf designer coffee.
Come, laugh and listen as the ragamuffin children play.
Lame dog and a black cat, now, they shuffle in the
shadows.
Last lights wink out on this pale and sultry night.
Stars signal long past two AM.
I feel the lateness in the hour
And I'm fifty long years from home.
A new dawn glimmers. Time for a change of horses.
It's time to chart new courses
And head for safer houses.
No more empty towers of this unholy Babylon.
Some four hundred thousand hours have come and gone.
I smell, in the air, a new meadow morning.
Fresh-flowering grasses stirring
And no pressure free-falling.
Thin mists to bring and light airs to call.
And we treasure all, all that we left behind us,
No pointed cold and dark regrets.
No nameless blame to lay.
Resolute, the optimist, I ride fresh horse and spur it on.
I see you better now, shaded in deeper blue.
Hardly needing to carry the find-your-way lamp
down to the river.
Tonight flies a better moon.
Sad water buffalo lie fast near the shallows;
a splash revealing the fly-catching fishes.
Dark Gods silently watching.
Tonight flies a better moon.
I guess you've known lovers here, compliant in passion;
softly laid in the old reed bed, harshly
lit in the noon sun.
Tonight flies a better moon.
Now cloaked in this milky light, new as the virgin dawn,
shrouded sweetly in all kinds of mystery,
you turn, smile and then are gone.
think she was a middle-distance runner...
(the translation wasn't clear).
Could be a budding stately hero.
International competition in a year.
She was a good enough reason for a party...
(well, you couldn't keep up on a hard track mile)
while she ran a perfect circle.
And she wore a perfect smile
in Budapest... hot night in Budapest.
We had to cozzy up in the old gymnasium...
dusting off the mandolins and checking on the gear.
She was helping out at the back-stage...
stopping hearts and chilling beer.
Yes, and her legs went on for ever.
Like staring up at infinity
through a wisp of cotton panty
along a skin of satin sea.
Hot night in Budapest.
You could cut the heat, peel it back with the wrong
side of a knife.
Feel it blowing from the sidefills. Feel like you were
playing for your life
(if not the money).
Hot night in Budapest.
She bent down to fill the ice box
and stuffed some more warm white wine in
like some weird unearthly vision
wearing only T-shirt, pants and skin.
You know, it rippled, just a hint of muscle.
But the boys and me were heading west
so we left her to the late crew
and a hot night in Budapest.
It was a hot night in Budapest.
She didn't speak much English language...
(she didn't speak much anyway).
She wouldn't make love, but she could make good
sandwich
and she poured sweet wine before we played.
Hey, Budapest, cha, cha, cha. Let's watch her now.
I thought I saw her at the late night restaurant.
She would have sent blue shivers down the wall.
But she didn't grace our table.
In fact, she wasn't there at all.
Yes, and her legs went on forever.
Like staring up at infinity.
Her heart was spinning to the west-lands
and she didn't care to be
that night in Budapest.
Got a birthday card at Christmas: it made me think of
Jesus Christ.
It said, “I love you” in small letters. I simply had to
read it twice.
Wood smoke curled from blackened chimneys. The smell of
frost was in the air.
Pole star hovered in the blackness. I looked again: it
wasn’t there.
People have showered me with presents. While their minds
were fixed on other things.
Sleigh bells, bearded red suit uncles. Pointy trees and
angel wings.
I am the shadow in your Christmas. I am the corner of
your smile.
Perfunctory in celebration. You offer content but no
style.
That little baby Jesus. He got a birthday card or three.
Gold trinkets and cheap frankincense. Some penny baubles
for his tree.
Have some time off for good behaviour. Forty days, give
or take a few.
Hey there, sweet baby Jesus: Let’s share a birthday card
Education, micro-managed.
MBA: a doddle mastered.
City-bound, Canary Wharf.
A cushy number, fluky bastard.
Banker bets and banker wins, never missed yet, for all his sins
Hedge funds, wraps and equities.
Lackeys, aides in fierce attendance.
Trusts and gilts, reserve currencies.
Liquid gold in safe ascendance.
Banker bets and banker wins, never missed yet, for all his sins.
Treat myself to quality time, test a porsche and snort a line,
Eat Hermione for lunch.
Set that glum PA a-jumping,
Book front row tickets for something after we munch.
Fast-tracked futures, hard-nut traders.
Feeding frenzy, pigs a-troughing.
Fuelled by forecasts, and hot share options.
Big fat bonus in the offing.
Draconian calls for regulation
Are drowned in latte with Starbucks muffin.
Mortgage melt-down: non est mea culpa.
Threatened exit, stage left, laughing...
Banker bets and banker wins, never missed yet, for all his sins.
Sitting on a park bench --
Eyeing little girls with bad intent.
Snot running down his nose --
Greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes.
Drying in the cold sun --
Watching as the frilly panties run.
Feeling like a dead duck --
Spitting out pieces of his broken luck.
Sun streaking cold --
An old man wandering lonely.
Taking time
The only way he knows.
Leg hurting bad,
As he bends to pick a dog-end --
He goes down to the bog
And warms his feet.
Feeling alone --
The army's up the rode
Salvation a la mode and
A cup of tea.
Aqualung my friend --
Dont you start away uneasy
You poor old sod you see, its only me.
Do you still remember
Decembers foggy freeze --
When the ice that
Clings on to your beard is
Screaming agony.
And you snatch your rattling last breaths
With deep-sea-diver sounds,
And the flowers bloom like
A week of moments – a clutch of days –
Ten thousand minutes of a Passion Play.
Medley of quavers informs the tune.
It’s all too much: over all too soon.
Sweet condensation on chilling wine
Traveler’s palm, flamboyant tree
Fast photos ripped and lost consign
A week of moments to faint memory.
A week of moments plucked from the page
Found far horizons, a sunset stage.
Suitcases bulge, in silence packed
A chapter closed: no looking back.
The lightest touch upon my arm
No fierce restraint, no call to stay.
Hushed room maids glide like pawns to king
A raft of penguins on a frozen sea.
Expectant faces look down on me.
Shuffle uneasy. The whistler plays.
Counting eleven, they begin to pray.
Tenuous but clinging, the missing link
Joins us, closer than we might think.
Some half remembered coarse jungle drum –
A naked heart-beat, trill and hum.
This world’s no stage for the faint at heart.
Each symphony, a sum of parts.
Each overture, a sweet foreplay.
Let’s crash and burn some other day.
Bonded in terror or suspicion deep
Tentative tiptoe or giant leap
Call down the angels to guide them in
My hand of thumbs is shaking
I am so glad to meet you
All tongue-tied and twisted
My lips stuck like glue
More than a lifetime to say, “How are you?”
More than an ocean to cross becalmed.
Less than a second to sink in silence.
Yours truly, I remain disarmed.
Saw you peeping from the corner.
Your eyes seemed to call hello.
I’m all too easily mistaken,
My feet unsteady as they go.
Was I a suave and confident trickster
I would sweep you up and carry you down
To raspberry meadows under diamond skies
This sparkling wine is all but empty.
Too late for trains and no taxis.
I know the feeling. seems all too contrived.
There was no master plan but the fact is:
You must stay with me and learn the secret language of birds.
A tentative dawn about to be breaking
On a rousseau garden with monkeys in hiding.
The truth of the matter, yet to be spoken
In words on which everything, everything's riding.
Now stay with me and learn the secret language of birds.
Circled by swallows
In a world for the weary.
Courted by warblers; wicked and eloquent trilling.
Lie in the stillness, window cracked open.
Extended moments, hours for the taking.
Careless hair on the pillow, a bold brushstroke.
Painted verse with a chorus in waiting.
Hourglass sands run through my veins like blood draining from a salty wound.
Mad Mars forgets the cost of strife, serves no longer, purpose in my life.
I lie in sweat, cry others' tears and write a letter to my Mum,
my wife, my God unheard, unseen, Who never thinks to intervene.
Oh, what pain and oh, what lie has called to us, from heaven on high?
This cruel and harsh sweet punishment for follies acted, leaves us spent.
Long road to Baghdad, then Persian hordes?
Where will we stop to sheath our swords?
IEDs lie patient, sleeping, wake when soldier boots come creeping.
Hourglass sands run through my veins like blood draining from a salty wound.
Mad Mars forgets the cost of strife, serves no longer, purpose in my life.
Down this dusty scorched wind-blast track, eyes facing forward, ne'er look back.
As rain comes down on Wootton Bassett Town, black hearses crawl and church bells sound.
Bikers, burghers line the kerbs; a politician, a Highness Royal.
Take me on the ghost train
20p and there you are
Scary in the tunnel night
White knuckle fingers on the safety bar
Which way to blue skies?
Phantoms pop from cupboard doors
Mocking, manic laughter shrieks
Dark promises of blood and gore
Interventions at every turn
Opportunities thrown wide and far
Journeys I might never take
TomTom thinks he knows just where we are
Ripples from a pebble thrown make tsunami on a foreign shore
I would slip right off this high-rise hell
But the elevator stops at every floor
Twelve, going on sixteen
Such a rush to grow old and wise
Endless possibilities
Follow, soaring where the eagle flies
Which way to blue skies?
Mummy said don't go out alone
I hear bad name-calling, derisory
[Gerald the Banker]
Fresh start, another day, another life, a quiet cafe. Starbuck euphoria.
Count my blessings, crossword ready. Soon, pipe and slippers in the study by the telly.
I seek forgiveness, I beg your pardons at number 9 Mulberry Gardens.
[Gerald the Chorister]
Fresh start, another day, another life so far away from hell-raised aria.
Now I lay me down to live in acquiescence, mine to give to all who listen.
Deaf to dark un-heavenly host at 25 Mulberry Close.
[Gerald the Military Man]
Fresh start, another day, another life so far away from white heat Arabia.
Comrades' pictures on the mantle, lit by flower-scented candle, ghostly, flicker.
Last man standing, bowed but alive at 33 Mulberry Drive.
[Gerald: A Most Ordinary Man]
Fresh start, another day, another life not so far away in slow-burn suburbia.
All routine and repetition, stamp-collecting, first editions, steam train-spotting.
Numb, the senses and numb, the brain, at 54 Mulberry Lane.
[Gerald the Homeless]
Fresh start, another day, my cared-for partner just slipped away from sweet utopia.
Bequeathed comforts, ceramic hob, electric blanket, your uncle's Bob: a pretty picture.
I was no good on the rugger field.
Pushing and kicking, brutish boys bothered me.
Sensitive and caring seemed the lighter, brighter way to be.
Mr Jennings, good housemaster, seemed instinctively to understand.
Touched me with his gentle presence.
Under bedclothes, underhand. Underhand.
Overnight, he did a runner, threatened with harsh expose.
I fell to pieces, dropped out of classes into life's endless melee.
Endless melee.
Parents listened, didn't get it. Poof and Jesse, Daddy said.
Mummy tried but fussed and fretted, skeletons best left under bed.
Under the bed.
Camden Market in the winter,
a cold stone's throw from Kentish Town.
Got a minute? Just the ticket!
Meet the boys and mess around.
And mess around.
Independence far from suburbia.
Doss down and dirty, tucked up tight.
How's your father? Not too chipper?
Serves the bugger flippin' right.
Flippin' right.
Parents listened, didn't get it. Poof and Jesse, Daddy said.
Mummy tried but fussed and fretted, skeletons best left under bed.
On the streets a rude survival, hot like-minded overtures.
Sad departure, sweet arrival. If you don't like it, right up yours!
There comes a point when deep conviction bears down hard on who you are.
Pointless to don cloak of denial,
get the lead out and swing it far... swing it far...
From playing fields to killing fields: just one small step of madness.
Officer training, uniform, boys together shower together.
Rank and file can be just fine but that's not what we're here for.
So, sign upon the dotted line, be commissioned, Hell for leather.
How we sang that old school song, from Pirates of Penzance.
Foemen bearing steel, we slapped our chests and raised our voices.
No mad poets we, or painters twee but young men with a yearning
to flex our might for all that's right when face with moral choices.
Wrapped in the old school song, we fly our colours high.
Bravo! The old school song! Harsh reality, by and by.
Dad delivered us from the Hun and we reflect his selfless deed
on this desert plain of conflict where special forces, choppers need.
Fly-boy coming to collect you, lift you up and then protect you.
Be this gung or be this ho, may glorious battle resurrect you.
Wrapped in the old school song, we fly our colours high.
He stands at the crossroads of New St. and Old Town.
Gerald Something from good-home-on-sea.
Thinking back to the child that he once was.
All bread and butter and jam for his tea.
Men came and went in his moments of madness.
Muttered apologies, late for a meeting.
Too much intensity too much feigned sadness.
Crestfallen, hangdog, glances too fleeting.
He was your golden boy, he's adrift and dumfounded
with nowhere to go, no appointments to keep.
He's our little man, he's adrift and dumfounded.
Head on hard pillow, waiting for sleep.
Broken societies, selfish, uncaring.
Addled brains clutching at chemicals soothing.
Desperate measures, desperately tearing
at last vestige of dignity, his for the losing.
He was your golden boy, he's adrift and dumfounded
with nowhere to go, no appointments to keep.
He's our little man, he's adrift and dumfounded.
We all must wonder, now and then,
If things had turned out - well - just plain different.
Chance path taken, page unturned or brief encounter, blossomed, splintered.
Might I have been the man of courage, brave upon life's battlefield,
Captain Commerce, high-flown banker, hedonistic, down-at-heel?
A Puritan of moral fibre, voice raised in praise magnificent?
Or rested in assured repose, knowing my lot in quiet content.
What-ifs, Maybes and Might-have-beens fly, soft petals on a breeze.
What-ifs, Maybes and Might-have-beens.
Why-nots, Perhaps and Wait-and-sees.
Suppose bold woman, quite unsuited, brave in adventure, sojourns wicked.
Velvet touch and lips soft-centred, tossing hair, teeth bared in laughing.
Imagine idyll Summers never-ending, Winter nights beside fire roaring.
Touched by madness, filled with fondness, kissed by love, love without name.
What-ifs, Maybes and Might-have-beens fly, soft petals on a breeze.
What-ifs, Maybes and Might-have-beens.
Why-nots, Perhaps and Wait-and-sees.
So, you ride yourselves over the fields.
And you make all your animal deals.
And your wise men don't know how it feels