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MEERKUTS LOVES CRAYONS

A Love Song

To hear an audio version of this song head here;
Ellipsey's Podcast

As you sit here before me sobbing and shaking

I worry about your tears getting my mixer wet.

I want to hear your pain through the crackle of vinyl,

I just don't know what chord to write it in yet.

Too many songs about heartbreak are saccharine and vain,

I want to hear the fabric of your love ripped apart.

A Phil Spector wall of sound playing your deepest pain,

I want to mic up the sound of your breaking heart.

I'm going to make an album of all your lovely hurt,

I want to play your fret-less, useless heart like Flea.

I want to compress your crying and pleading,

Into a 4/4 drum pattern that rises to sorrowful cacophony.

You walked out on me and I had no power to change your mind,

I wanted to tear the soul from your emotionless chest.

Now I've got this recording of the pain he caused you,

I'll let Itunes and the general public do the rest.

x

Anderson Council

To hear an audio version of this poem & others visit here;

Ellipsey's Podcast

It all started with a tea-set.

Life is a mirror of those games I used to play with my dolls, bears and demons,

The cups were full of invisible liquid and the conversation was one-sided at best.

Not much has changed.

I found a note I posted to myself when I was 5,

It simply read, 'Who's listening?'

It all started with a tea-set or did I already feel that way?

My friends and family are just silent playthings as before; dolls, bears and demons.

One battered Gollywog and two ambiguous, porcelain husks of rosy cheeked Americana.

Golly, Winsome and June.

Days spent sipping on pot brewed imagination giving no credence to adult gazes,

Sustenance granted through unmoving lips and lifeless eyes but sustenance nonetheless.

Parents strip away fantasies with raised voices.

I found my dolls, bears and demons the other day, they were in an old satchel under the bed,

I sat them on the edge of our bed and heard our children playing outside.

Everything has changed.

I looked into the glass eyes and buttons and remembered the sounds of my childhood,

I felt my hand become smaller like a child's as the mnemonics did their work.

Relics of a forgotten afternoon.

My children can't understand why I left them, my wife thinks I am immature,

I pour the invisible tea and wait for my old friends to talk to me.

It all started with a tea set.

That Day You Walked Into My Room & I Was Naked & You Said You Didn't Really Mind But Now It's 20 Years Later & You Say That Actually You Find My Lack of Body Hair Unnerving & The Tattoo On My Back Has Dispirited Your Clitoris

I was a fastidious otter without a towel, prey.
You were a judgmental eagle, predator.
Two decades of gestating revulsion and two children later,
You are finally about to make a meal of me.

I have fair hair, I am not a "bald, freakish twat"!
I got the tattoo when Lighthouse Family were cool!
You could have said something.

I was completely exposed in my towel, I was moisturising.
My back rippled as Tunde Baiyewu mouthed Ocean Drive.
You should have said something.

You got the kids and the house, clever fox.
I got the CD collection and diagnosed with 'Adonis Complex', forlorn rabbit.
Twenty years gone and two copies of 'Falling Into You' later,
I have been consumed.

Look At Your Thumbs

I remember learning from Paul Simon, not the one with the carpet shop.
I remember him teaching us about the ways of the world.
Syncopated ruminations on daily toil and plebeian graft,
He was Atlas holding up the sky with chords.

I learnt about The Myth of Fingerprints and the former talk show host,
Every finger or thumbprint is distinct.
Individuality incarnate and humanity humbled,
Rhyming Simon say topographical swirls define our lives.

A small, Italian plumber has worn away my uniqueness,
A swift, blue hedgehog has erased my identity.
Digits enslaved to a Phrygian cap wearing swordsman,
Appendages transformed to tools for weaponised karts.

Up Up Down Down Left Right Left Right B A Start,
I've managed to land the monkey right on the 100!
Seven hundred and forty six hours spent attaining virtual glory,
We heroes painted the city blue and saved the Graydians.

Look at your thumbs,
Can you see the spirals that make you who you are?
Look at your fingers,
A lifetime of collecting valueless coins has left us ghosts.

Over the mountain down in the valley lives a former human being,
Abandoned now just like the high score.
There is no doubt about it, it was The Myth of Fingerprints,
I've seen them all and now mine are no more.

Using Fingerprints to Describe Schrodinger's Cat

Woke up and found a drawing of a dockyard on my neck,

I could still feel the pressure where someone had etched it onto my skin.

I craned and strained and cricked and hiked my neck in front of the mirror,

I could just make out the lobster pots.

I asked my girlfriend to tell me more about it,

She told me it was dull and looked like shit.

I reminded her of the butterfly tattooed on her ankle,

She gave our relationship a month.

Ageing tyres dressed in slimy green gowns,

Prevent my prow from hitting the sides.

Rusty ladders with far too few rungs,

Allow me to clamber up into the dry.

Is this dockyard in my mind? Is it Ramsgate in August?

Was it sketched on my neck as a sign?

I can't read all of it yet but I know there's a dry dock,

I wonder if that's where timber is allowed to dream?

Woke up and found a drawing of a playground on my neck...

Got arrested.

I wish I'd danced with the girl in the picture.

Her arms bend at an angle I've never seen in waking life,

Her sinews are taught as if she holds the whole world aloft.

She's looking at the camera like it's a window to my soul,

Her legs will never move in time with mine.

Swirling on the dance-floor we could have found reality,

Entwined in music I may have been able to make her happy.

Feet tripping and slipping in our own astral orbits,

Shadows of our children appear as we cavort through space.

Bodies pressed gently to each other in awkward anticipation,

Our arms raised to a slightly uncomfortable height as we spin.

Breasts and chest melting into each other like appetent butter,

Eyes transfixed by each others swirling pools of optical jelly.

Hypnotic rhythm and tribal fever erupt as the tune breaks,

Lusty legato love and a desirous dance duet.

I spin slowly in my bedroom tracing imaginary steps,

She is frozen mid swing with her impossibly bent arms.

I wish I'd danced with the girl in the picture.

It looks like she's doing the Macarena.

What Is Utopia?

To hear an audio version of this poem click here;

Ellipsey's Podcast

The Coal Merchant

‘Here have some coal?’

The need to blink was gone,

Residual black dust caked his jaded tear ducts.

The ability to cry was gone.

Carbon based rheumatism racked his body with pain,

Sedimentary relationships litter the strata of his life.

Three decades of inhaling his own sulphurous wares,

Each cancerous breath he takes warms the lives of others.

Thirty years of lonely streets result in a coal-faced existence.

One day a black cat followed him, providing feline assistance.

His bleak days were spent a’ peddling fuel to light their fires,

His name was never known until he heard the holy choirs.

Graphite stained fingers stroke the fur between her useless ears,

Rudimentary relationships between man and beast are a means to and end.

Three decades of isolation built on the off cuts of a dying industry,

Each roaring fire he supplies masks the irony of his cold, bleak reality.

The need to breathe was gone,

Inflamed black lungs collapsed by fossilised body parts.

The ability to live was gone.

Every sound he utters is a question.

Apocalypton Ice Tea Or The Story of How You Cut Me

To hear an audio version of this poem head to http://ellipsey.podomatic.com/entry/2011-10-06T06_25_31-07_00

Where no men fear to tread sleep the Laser-Yaks,

Their hulking masses pitted against the earth's crust battle of wills.

Laser-Yaks are humongous.

Where the Menstrual Rivers run red breed the Laser-Yaks,

Their complicated mating rituals cause cities to fall & Kings to weep.

Laser-Yaks are lotharios.

Where the Lovejoy memorabilia lies wait the Laser-Yaks,

Their vacuous flanks & tangled manes await the coming conflict.

Laser-Yaks are shit scary.

Since the far off days since man first heard a scratchy noise,

The Laser-Yaks waited patiently. Ready to fight. Poised.

Their seething shapes have never had desire to be seen,

In misty clods of air and smoke their kind has always been.

They live within vibrations, they manifest in waves,

They move like ripples on a lake or crotchets on a stave.

With silent maws and molar teeth they graze upon our tales,

Killer laser beams augment, each time that we're regaled.

When a village burns and children lay dead it's the Laser-Yaks,

Their movement alone causes hearts to fail & bones to dissolve to sand.

Laser-Yaks are seismic.

When the sea explodes and tsunamis wreck a continent it's the Laser-Yaks,

Their murderous herds would shatter the bones of the grim reaper himself.

Laser-Yaks are tectonic.

When you see shadows in the distance of a foul mountain range it's the Laser-Yaks,

Their very senses trained upon just you, waiting for their moment to cease existence.

Laser-Yaks are shit scary.

Big, shaggy yaks with lasers for their eyes,

If the ground is shaking, kiss your loved ones all goodbye.

The creatures make no sound despite their massive size,

Feel your bones dissolve to dust, kiss your baby as she dies.

Huge, snorting yaks with their killer death-ray eyes,

Watch as London disappears whilst their bodies block the sky.

The beasts destroy all living things that make the slightest cries,

For though they're made of waves and sound it's noise that they despise!

Awesome, deadly yaks with their eyes of reddish beams,

Quick! They're lumbering toward you and they're burning through your dreams,

The fiends can't stand the din we make, our songs, our words, our screams,

Our speakers, drums and music are our only hope it seems.

So with music we have hope, we can quash their optic ray

We can drum, scratch, sing & dance, we can beat them as we play.

Listen well young children for they must be kept at bay,

It's music that will save us and let us live another day.

-

The Adventures of Crack Dragon

To Be Continued....

Metro Man

I kept looking for her in crowds.

She was a slim lady with puce eyes and a smile that reminded me of politics.

Suffice to say she ex-hued power.

I wrote into one of those Metro columns called "Love on the Tracks" or "High Speed Link to Love".

There's never been a reply.

I wrote into one of those Metro columns saying, "I saw you on July 22nd at East Croydon. I was the guy reading Dan Brown and I let you go before me in the coffee queue and when entering the train. You smiled at me as if i was courteous and my actions pleased you. You changed my life"

I read it the day it was published, it made my heart smile.

The week after that I was a giddy little schoolboy scanning every face, nonchalantly walking through every carriage of the 7:15 to Victoria. 

I never found my perfect seat. 

I would crave one of those 4 seaters with the little plastic table jutting from the window, empty apart from me. I'd sit facing forwards so as not to get travel sickness with my Karrimoor rucksack on the seat beside me and a cardboard cup of coffee resting in my palms. She would sit on the seat opposite me. Not directly but opposite my bag as if it was too soon to be that familiar with a person but not a problem to care for an inanimate object. My inanimate object. Our eyes would meet as we both stared out of the plexiglass window at Battersea Power Station and I would see inflatable pigs tethered in her eyes. I imagined where she would lunch, she had far too much grace to touch Pret or Benjiis & would probably just eat something from home. I wanted to see her at Speakers Corner. I wanted to stand up and say "Here yea Here yea! I am yours." 

I wanted everyone to hear me. I wanted her to hear me.

I kept looking for her in crowds.

She was the love of my life and the memory of her smile reminded me of needles.

Suffice to say she ex-hued power over me.

I wrote a letter to try and find her despite only meeting her once.

There's never been a reply. 

Cut Me, I'm Bleeding

TO HEAR AN AUDIO VERSION OF THIS POEM CLICK HERE...

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Ellipsey/162509237142431

                        -----------------------------

I fell upon the Huff Huff house in a state of disarray,

My bendy beams all slavish making clump clump all the way.

The Laser Yaks with eyes & ears were not so far behind,

The snarling Gifflecut, and Dad were spitting spit & rinds.

I hollered out “Ooh Let us in” I screamed “For Fuck Us Sake”,

I knew my Mardi gras was near, I could see my own fair wake.

The beasts and men and jive fauna surrounded my chalk spot,

I felt alone in that circle, my Caucasian limestone plot.

The porch light burst bright into flame, I thought at last I’m saved,

I darted through the wire mesh, my thanks I raved and raved.

Then Jesus turned and sat me down, he smiled his winning smile,

He told me I was on my own but could rest in here a while.

I thought now hold on Sonny Jim, a lark you must be havin?

I said my prayers, I loved your Dad and I lived without much sin.

Yet now you leave me to this fate with all the MustNotMentions;

To face Supperutts, Laser Yaks & Dad with no God intervention!

So now my bendy beams did shake & my leg elbows did knock

I threw my Bible on the fire, good riddance  to that croc!

I puffed my heart's prison fully out and settled my grey matter,

I opened up the door ajar & heard the Poinglings natter.

The Laser Yaks stood furthest back, each one 12 foot high,

Their sonic lowing rumbled deep, the neon in their eyes.

The Supperutts skittered around the porch making whistling sounds,

Their scalpel toes scuffed the wood, their thoughts burnt through the ground.

The gnashing Gittleguts whooshed a lot, my hair did stand on end,

One got caught in my minds eye an attack I can't defend.

But what should end this frightful night, which beast was most depraved,

The Mensaclumps & Grownup Shoes were at least all well behaved.

No, the one who stirred this nightmarish clan and snuffed out all my light,

Was none other than the seed giver, the one who I can't fight.

So just like Jesus I'm all things to all men, a counterpoint to the bad,

I can fend off all the nightmares but get killed by my own Dad.

(Just an aside, i was never abused by my father or suffered any mistreatment at his hands. This is a work of fiction apart from the bit about the Laser Yaks which is so real it's scary. Ok, see you when you get out the joint Dad!)

Don't Fret My Love

Bottom E, that’s the first girl that you kissed

A harmonious little thing that you thought you needn’t miss

She never broke your heart or argued all night

She rings out the longest, though you left her out of sight.

-

Next up is A, the first real girlfriend you had

She just wasn’t special enough to meet Mum and Dad,

Courting was fun but she was just a stepping stone

A note within your love chord, left all alone

-

D came along like a storm of lust and fire

A note unto herself with no need for dull attire

Every song was passionate & you partied every night

But the chord was loved by everyone, say goodbye to the light

-

Gorgeous little G, a ripe chance for a rebound

A jolly little chord where solace always can be found

She warmed you in your bed and helped to ease the pain

But without a song to sing, sunshine quickly turned to rain.

-

B caught your eye and held your heart just like a vice

A cacophony of notes though you’d only met her twice.

Every minor little key left you crying out for more

But her ballad chequered past meant you shut her out the door

-

And now top E, the sweetest fragile sound

The easiest to break but the loveliest you’ve found.

Her place in every chord brings brightness to your song

Yet she’s identical to your first kiss and you’ve known her all along.

BURN IT DOWN

So I'm playing Glastonbury next week & this is the song I got the gig from!

Head to Ellipsey Facebook to hear the whole song & other diseased ditties from the Elliptical throat x

Simon Le BonBon - Musings on the culture of jazz and it's subsequent belittling by the myriads of those who choose not to understand it or something like that

Toe-tapping, coffee lapping jazz aficionados get beat,
The X generation & CBGB drop outs struggle to find a seat.
The fuggy Ian Fleming smoke permeates the the jazz which permeates the feet,
Then the brushes start to sizzle, the tightened snare is tight,
The groove is lightly drizzled and there's a raffle for the meat!

A cold, sharp man parts the curtain, his ego weighing him down like Atlas
He is the personification of the lead piping in the drawing room.
Dreadful, droning drumming dots his dramatic, droll deliveries
Mumbling, mouthy monologues mix his mambo music mysteries

"AVANT SPAZZ!" cry the crowd of young boys in the corner in their best brown baggies.
N'er a tap, click or strut from their platform soles
N'er a jump, skip or beat from their love-lorn souls
This ain't what they call rock and roll thank you very much.
The pianist depresses his feet in sporadic desire for hard or soft.
First stanza forté in a crashing, banging Ivory key coast,
Second verse pianissimo (cos the melody's been missing you) in a softly softly Ebony boast.

The cool, curt man utters, "Who wrote this stuff in Italian? I only know Persil adverts!"
He is not pianissimo despite the directions, he is loud and crass in his off-white shirt.
The musicians wince at the faux-pas but they play on... this is Jazz after all
Home of chameleons, watermelon men & 5/4 time signatures.

"MAPLE LEAF DRAG!" bemoan the old fuddies in their Zoot suits & brogues
N'er a crash, bang or fizzle from their pressed shirts
N'er a hop, swing or jive from their dough-eyed skirts
This ain't what they call jazz at all thank you very much.
The icy, blunt man muffles the drums... he mutes the horns... he closes the lid on the pianists fingers...
Silence
apart from a lone high hat  'Tsss     Tssss    Tsssss'
the crowd catch on ' Shhhh     Shhhhh   Shhhhhh'
Simon Le Bon Bon pops a Rowntree's Fruit Pastille in his mouth and begins to suck....

Twice Nightly.... C'est un stylo

The Meaning of Live

I wandered lonely as a froud. All warm and full of hope

I remember it like it was soon, afraid by Julian Cope.

Leapt-up, Jumped-up and sodded.... like a dog?

Chrimean War and shouting flouth edible, Mary Anne Hobbs.

We loved old guys like Tolstov and we hampered William Blake,

Showed off our prose and shit, In only just one take.

Well one take if you count missing the Gulf War

But if we’re including that then I reckon bout take fifty four.

Actually that’s an oversight we were probably only in the studio for a day

Maybe only couple of hours but that is by the way.

Technically we didn’t even write much of the prose, it was nicked from Stoppard, Tom,

If you think about it though, he can’t write that well so we’re the fucking bomb,

It’s not that I don’t like his plays but he’s just a bit of a dick,

I suppose that doesn’t mean he’s not any good it just means he’s a dick

But look at my legend BA he’s an absolute acrid fuck

But he rocks out with best, 18 til I Die was well truck

Not the Robin Hood song but his early stuff is awesome and shouldn’t be disregarded by rock fans, I mean everyone writes a few ballads and they’re mainly awful but Bryan has done some fucking good tracks, that one about being the only thing that looks good on him gets me strumming everytime. Fucking excellent. Rest.

Imagine there’s no trout filters, it isn’t hard to do

A world of slitting shroud haters, and no Fergal Sharky too.

Where would you place someone with that name

In class they would probably get slutted upon….shame.

Imagine all the flouth shouters and the things that we missed

Rod Hull didn’t even know Maddy and he still makes my list.

God can you imagine not being aware of the trial of M. Mcann?

Hendrix never met her and Cobain might not have used that gun.

If he’d known about her plight would he have pulled the trigger?

If she’d done it earlier would Nirvana be any bigger.

My heart shaped box is coerced, a peripheral noun factory

His heart shaped face is on display on Cannery Row, don’t you know?

I know, you know but how does the message spread

If you knew the tale of Kurt Cobains head...

First it was examined and prenutped by Ms Love

Then the papers helped her career with a rape not a shove,

Meanwhile the head fell fell cold and resembled medium meat

Dave Grohl opened the doors to the pros and cons of jewish pleat.

I died, you died ….he die

This was Alexander Packard Bell's tutting dream.

On Grounds of Unreasonable Behaviour

Good Evening poetry! I'd like to start by saying;

1. I don't understand yawning

 2. 

I find your facial features odd

I find the way you smile unnerving.

Did you star as General Zod?

You grew up in Britain right? Was it Worthing?

Now hold up, STOP! Rewind a tick,

You were Zod in Donner's Superman flick?

But now you're voicing Kal-Els dad...

You must have a fucking rad agent. Rad.

Terence ______, Terence ________,

You're Britain's favourite white skinned champ.

Terence ______, Terence ________,

I watched you in the Limey....(spoken) and it was a big cinema screen yeah?

Terence ______, Terence ________,

In Priscilla you acted camp

Terence ______, Terence ________,

You weren't in Heroes though...(spoken) that was Malcom McDowell...you look like him though

I've written a movie just for you,

It's set in space and you're a Jew

There's allusions to the Holocaust

But with special effects and Sci-Fi and shit – it's like Starship Troopers but the shower scenes are a bit different...

Terence ______, Terence ________,

Your teenage wife you did lamp.

Terence ______, Terence ________,

You cradle snatcher you!

Terence ______, Terence ________,

The Madding Crowd was utter wank,

Terence ______, Terence ________,

Alien Jews in space...with explosions.....CALL ME.

The Tale of Chris Crink

A Play in Two Halves

Players:
Chris Crink - A Down & Out Voiceover Artist for Art Garfunkel (Blue)
Chris Crink's Conscience - The Conscience of a Down & Out Voiceover Artist for Art Garfunkel (Red)

Bartering became my life.


It was a quick day and my borrowed sow was opening all manner of doors for me. Am I ready thought Chris. Lunch ensconced itself to mid afternoon and I thought about ending it all but soon realised that in fact I felt quite remarkable and life was smashing. Give it time Chris wait for the right moment!
A brief mapping of my surrounding areas proved useful even going so far as to remind me of what orienteering was and how much I hated compasses. That's it Chris remember how shit they are. So we were making progress but still the blue skies smiled above me. I wandered about a bit checking out the similarities with myself and the daily routine of Clint Eastwood in the 80's. Clint Eastwood rhymes with your name Chris, don't you remember? If that's coincidence then we're all in a pickle.
So the man with no name and me. Blood brothers separated at birth hey? Now we're getting somewhere. I marveled at the warm postcards and the market stalls selling shoe wax and Red Edit. There was a time I'd have paid for all of it, money was no object. I still had loads of open cash and fresh credit, it would have been so simple. Put your money away Chris, you're a cowboy now. No saddle up show guy or dress down friday is going to help. You can get these things easier by offering lower prices. Go on give it a go...
10 quid for the wax you bastard! 10 quid is all i'll pay.
No Chris that's too forceful, you want him to barter. Say it meekly and try and pout your face.
Would you accept £10 sir. I wonder what price you had in mind?
Go Chris you little dream. You stand out like a sore index finger. You are the Superman. You can buy this whole market for whatever price you desire. This is how the Unforgiven climax. Show them all you've got Chris, be the waiting 'Yes' on their lips. Be the smattering of guys. Be the empty breathing. Be my run away globe.
One pound sir that's my final offer.


Bartering became my life. Tell him I hate him.