Daniel

It is a hideous privilege

to read all the posts and

to know that the love is real.

I think when love has

nowhere left to land

it hugs to the blood and congeals.

But all these memories

and photos and songs

are alive in their own moment.

And each moment remains.

It is the future

and all that was to come

that now will not come

which overwhelms.

Nobody has discovered

why and how life began

on the earth, not really:

we look at the stars

whose carbon we once were

and know our carbon will go back.

There in the brilliant ancient past

We are not yet born;

The clearer the night sky

The more time we will have again.

The Sticky Man

I had a quite intense digital training course last week so obviously rather than implement all I'd learned I wrote a sort of gothy song.

Verses: picked Am7 – Fmin then Gmin6 (3^rd fret D string, and wobbly)

Chorus: C-F-Gmin6 or whatever it is

Middle 8 has a bluesy lick based round 3^rd fret on G and B strings (then open strings), and 3^rd fret on D string/open D

______________________

There was a boy called Johnny

who was feeling alone.

He had nobody with him

He was all on his own.

He had a lot to give

but nothing to share.

He looked for friends to love him

But there was nobody there.

He prayed to God and Buddah

and all of the saints.

His prayers were never answered.

For him there was no grace.

One night poor lonely Johnny

met the Devil in a dream.

The goat said, “Oh my boy

I can help you, believe me:

wherever you go from this day on

you’ll never be walking the path alone.”

Johnny woke up smiling.

Could it be true?

Would he meet a somebody,

at last be one of two?

He met a Sticky Man who followed him home.

A Sticky Man ten steps back on the road.

Sticky Man standing guard as he slept;

Sticky Man looming at the end of his bed.

He was a Sticky Man.

Johnny went to work

with a spring in his step.

Johnny had a friend

who would never escape.

But still no-one saw Johnny,

nor his new Sticky Man.

They all walked straight on past him

and nothing had changed.

But he had a Sticky Man following him in the dark.

A Sticky Man watching him taking a bath.

And Sticky Man never uttered a word.

He never talked to Johnny or looked at him straight.

He was a Sticky Man.

Time passed and Johnny became mad.

His Sticky Man wouldn’t give him a glance.

A useless golem, footsteps plodding always.

Just within his eyeline for the rest of his days.

Johnny couldn’t take it

his life shrank and faded.

Little Johnny, the lonely boy

Could not shake off the shameful, clayful Sticky Man.

At the end of his tether

Johnny cried on the cliffs.

Stared down, a hundred metres

to the rocks on the shore.

He took ten steps back

and he started to run.

And half a pace behind him

Sticky Man did the same

Johnny jumped and so did Sticky Man

And one landed in mortal pain,

impaled on the harsh rocks

blood swirling in the spray.

And with his final breath

the Sticky Man said:

“You tricked me, my Johnny,

I thought we were friends.”

But Johnny just floated down

with the parachute he’d disguised

in his rucksack. Maybe now

he could reclaim his life.

Sticky Man, dying there on the sharp rocks.

Sticky Man, who had finally spoke.

Sticky Man rode on the wash of the waves.

As Johnny glided down he saw it fade away:

No more Sticky Man.

So Johnny lived his life

in his own company.

Didn’t bother no-one.

Didn’t want nobody.

He worked, he retired,

nothing of consequence

til his own death day came

and he lay in his bed.

He was ready to go.

He was sick of his life.

He yearned to be free

of the world he despised.

His eyes, old and rheumy,

with flickering light

were ready to close for ever.

But just before he died

he heard

a voice:

“I’m the Sticky Man and I’ve come back for you.

The Sticky Man always sees every job through.

Johnny-Man, now you’re reaching the end,

Sticky Man’s come back to help you ascend.”

Johnny looked up

with his last ebb of strength

and saw the Sticky Man

standing, smiling at him.

Johnny died. But he died with a happy heart.

His life was worthwhile if just one soul was sad.

The Sticky Man

held Johnny’s warm hand

Til it was cold.

And went back to the Devil

with Johnny's sold soul.

He was the Sticky Man.

Always the Sticky Man.

So near, the Sticky Man.

Beware the Sticky Man.

A Night On The Pizz

Forgive me if I’m a bit crotchety – I was at a bar last night drinking with the staff and you know their measures are largo – more like a treble. 

Allegro Adagio, the Italian head clef, came out with some home-made quavers with his special home-made presto and thyme signature, and they repeated on me all night. I had terrible wood wind although I'd never have the brass to tell him. Can you imagine the repercussions? He's something of a sex cymbal round here, though he shares childcare duties with his Irish ex-husband so is also a great coda.

You’ll have to give me a minim; I’ll try to be breve. And, yes, there were a few lines too, I have to confess, so don't give me that chorus of disapproval. 

The conductor on the bus home was really interesting; he used to be an architect for football clubs’ chapels of rest. He was instrumental in the building of Man U’s crypt, or so he said. By that time I was pretty pizzed and he might well have been stringing me along. He did snare me with it though, fair play, with his smattering of dim innuendos.

When I got to the hotel I realised I had no way of getting in my room, but luckily the concierge Tom-Tom had a spare set for which I gladly gave my key signature. 

And the rest, as they say, is history.

The Story of Breakfast