Solitude's Sounds

This is solitude.
This is its miserable little sound.
The sound of creaking walls and windows
And next door’s squeaking bed.

Its almost silent.
I can hear my mind tick over.
I can hear my cig smoke curling,
And curving through the air.

I hear the light,
Seeping in from stars outside.
And it’s been night,
For as long as I recall.
I hear the whisky in my gullet
Slipping into my insides,
Past my chest
Where your head
Used to rest.

This room used to be
Something else.
Something more.
Something sweet.
I know no one would believe it,
But it used to have a soul...
Until it went from something magic
Into something rank instead.

And it's cold.
All the heaters in the land
Couldn’t warm up my hands.
Its so cold.

We share the house.
Nothing else.
Separate food.
Separate rooms.
You seem to keep away from me
On pain of death or something worse.
It’s so lonely.

I watch as moonlit bits of dust
Dressed in silver cross the room.
Past the mirror.
Past my face.
Past the glass.

These are the marks.
And the signs,
The unremarkable sights.

This is the sound
Of solitude.

Jiminy Cricket

I am the wind that whistles through your hollow bones.
I am the chill that hunts you down when you’re at home.
I am the shiver searching for a spine to climb.
You know I’m everything you feel when you’re alone.

I’m in the smoke that curls around your cigarettes.
I’m in the creases in the sheets upon your bed.
I’m in the places you forget that dirt collects
I’m in the part of you your mirror cant reflect

...................Jiminy Cricket.................
He’s not in at the minute.......................
Never has been.
..........That’s why I’ve.........................
..................Got you now.....................

Every time the curtains move you hear my name.
Every time you hear the wind you fear the same.
I am the image in the corner of your eye,
That’s always hidden by the time you double take.

I am the wind you’re pissing into.
I am the piss on your parade.
I am the shadow hanging over,
Lengthening as you get older.

..........You know it's over........................
....................You know I own ya..............

Monseiur Voyeur

From my window I rule.
The whole world is my opera.
It’s the stage I dictate
Any play that I want.
Every scene I can think of,
Every scene that I seen,
Every act that I’ve dreamt up
Is acted and mapped out
Just for me.

In the palm of my hand
Are the churches, the play parks,
The shopping centres, houses.
I’ve got eyes in every window
Of every pub and every home.
I can see every pint that’s drunk.
I witness every act of love.
That I
Direct.

I’m directing everything From here to where I stand,
I’m directing everything That happens in this land,
For as far as I can see
This place,
Belongs to me:
Monsieur Voyeur.


From the first light at dawn
That creeps up slowly on the sleeping,
To the last light at night
That puts your body back to bed,
Everything
In between
I direct.

So wake up.
Shake your sleep, do your hair,
Brush your teeth, drink some tea,
Grab your keys
And leave the house.

Catch the bus.
Read the daily metro that someone left on the bus seat before you
A missing kid, cosmetic ads,
And another pointless casualty
In a war fought out of sight.
Or you can skip it all,
To the football scores
You decide….
Oh no.
I Decide.

I’m directing everything From here to where I stand,
I’m directing everything That happens in this land,
For as far as I can see
This place,
Belongs to me:
Monsieur Voyeur.


Using Marlborough lights and coffee
I’ll let you break the working day,
Until later on when you can swap
The designated smoking areas
For a newly built beer gardens.
It’s a habit hard to keep,
When its pissing it with rain,
But you’ll manage.
I’ll Make you manage.

And after that,
When you go home,
Where I’ve got eyes
Inside your wardrobes,
In all the cracks in all your doors,
Then I’ll make you take your lovers
And throw them on their backs
So I can watch
What I
Direct.

I’m directing everything From here to where I stand,
I’m directing everything That happens in this land,
For as far as I can see
This place,
Belongs to me:

. . . . . . . . . . . Monsieur Voyeur.

Sorry

I know you could strangle me
Happily
But listen
Please listen

I know you could murder me
Cheerfully
But listen
Please Listen

I’m sorry

Mallard

Keep your Nietzsche stuff your
Socrates between your cheeks
I’ve had enough of philosophical
Debates and niceties
I’ve been coming here for weeks now
For what feels like centuries
Trying to get between your legs
Or get my tongue between your teeth

I’ve used up all my witticisms
All the opinions I prepared
And all the quips and great quotations
That I leaned to say are said
Another night like this you’ll realise
I’m as stupid as a mule
But even then I’ll keep on coming
Because I’m just as stubborn too

And I’m running out of patience
And I am running out of tact
And even though I love to sit around
And chew your puppy fat
I’m running low on conversation
Running out of things to say
We’ve discussed every book I’ve read
(that hardly took up half a day)

“So how about we scrap that coffee
And we head into the sack”
I whisper to her sweetly
And she answers with a slap
It’s like water off a mallard
I smile and she smiles back
Just to let me know there’s hope still
That it’s all part of the act