Day Thirty One: Not Quite A Day to Remember

Since I’ve been busy with uni work today, I had no time to formulate a blog post but FEAR NOT, for I have a solution!

(Stolen from Wikipedia)

I attended a gig this evening (against my better judgement) in order to review it for Daily Dischord. I happen to think it’s a mildly entertaining piece of journalism, and you’re free to disagree with that but you can ONLY do so if you click on the image above. Yes, I know it’s another cross-post but screw it. It’s all writing, right?

The show was by a band called A Day to Remember, supported by Bayside, Pierce the Veil and local lads Yashin. So off you pop. Check out the link.

I have more musings from the gig and those will form the blog post tomorrow. TALLY ho.

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Day Thirty: Habits – A Review

Another post through today. This time it’s a review for Neon Trees debut record ‘Habits’ which you can see if you click on the image above.

Sunday is a lazy day, you see, and I’ve already written this today so I figured I’d cross post. These guys sound a lot like The Killers. Worryingly so in some places. Anyway, if that tickles yer fancy then check out ‘Sins of My Youth’ on youtube. Nice.

Day Twenty Nine: Faceless

Laptop on train. Image by Pennington

Faceless

We pass each other en route to nowhere
waiting on the platform for nothing at all.
We travel past so many in our lives,
Feigning interest should an acquaintance fall.

So many faceless bodies brush up against the wind,
Like the motion of a train as it speeds along the line.
And akin to the whirling noise of its great machinations, voices are lost in the din.
For like all the other things we acquire in life, their aging features fade into the distance.

All of the faces merge together; voices are heard as one great cry.
We collect them like digital luggage,
But when we lose interest, we are frightened to toss them into the digital sea.
Instead we just take on ever more passengers, and decide to stand when we’d rather sit.

Except, the vainest measure the journey in popularity, not miles,
because the amount of passengers that they can carry has no limit.
Unaware that in the real world, real people with real feelings are so very hard to come by,
and like the man who runs the lost and found back at the station
they keep few so close to their heart.

With obdurate pride, we refuse to let others disembark,
Only to be affronted when they do first,
They take their bags, grab their jacket and question the “friendship” they demerit.

Still we click away.
Stopping in the terminus to speak to others that we haven’t seen in years, yet we commit,
we commit on command to “connect!” with those whom we always clashed styles,
Waiting, once again, to see just what we can see.
Perhaps to see if they lumber on this virtual train with more baggage than us.

Can we feel superior at all their excess baggage?
Will we let out a cry of joy as we realise that their life, which was once an empty seat, is now a full carriage? That their life is a dead end job – arid and dry?!

No. Instead we make small talk as they sit beside us on the train;
A few words here, the odd comment there, a smile at their new born children,
And a marriage to a person with whom they wouldn’t have shared a playground with just eight years before.

It’s just a revolving door:
Workmates from long ago, school friends from our old haunts, temporary friends we’ve met in a variety of places, from our old warren.
Yes, in the grand scheme it’s all just small talk in the rain.

Yet in their millions people come, people flock; leaving their engine running without a worry,
because deep down we know that it’s all in vain, that the train of life is always in a hurry.

Day Twenty Eight: The Bold Wee Moose

A bold wee mouse.

The Bold Wee Moose

A seen it scurry, so a did,
Oot frae beneath the skirting board,
Bombin’ it across the room fur a snack.
In the deid o’ a overcast night, so it wiz,
When the bold moose showed its tail.

It was wee, so it wiz,
A could barely see it wi ma ain eyes,
Shooting aboot, like starts atween clouds.
Saw it in the moonlit, so a did,
The bold wee moose aw braw and effulgent.

Heard it’s paws, aye a did,
Scratching oan the cold flair.
Chewin’ oan ma socks, nibblin’ oan crumbs,
An it’s fur was aw matted, so it wiz,
The bold wee moose came oot tae play.

It wiz a crafty wee ‘hing, so it wiz.
An’ when a turned oan the light, it froze, so it did,
A heard it squeak, an’ it gie’d me a bold eye,
Then it darted aff, aw full a fright.
The bold wee moose was bold nae mair.

A never seen it again.

Day Twenty Seven: The Clockwork Orange

The Clockwork Orange

Packed in. Standing room only.
Surrounded by people, half of them lonely.
Standing together, ignoring each other
For fifteen minutes, encased in thunder.
And into the dim rollercoaster we go,
Shooting through the dark circle, writhing to and fro.
The Clockwork Orange* rushes through
To another station and another slew
of people who rotate on and off this dull ferris wheel,
coloured in Strathclyde PTE Red, these garish tubes of steel.
I catch a flash out the corner of my eye,
of tourists taking photos (much to my surprise).
The announcer announces “Next stop St George’s Cross”,
Where a Subcrawl climbs on with sobriety at a loss
And takes a seat next to me, illuminating this carnival ride.

N.B. I’ve never actually heard anyone call it that.

Day Twenty Six: The Octopuses Garden

Ok, so doing such things as cross posting work from other sites is probably deplorable, but screw it. I’m rather happy with the words I wrote here so I’m going to do it anyway. Any problems? No. Good.

Click on the image above to go to my review of Amplifiers new album The Octopus.

I was quite shocked about this, actually. It’s not generally the kind of thing I listen too but after sticking with it I found it to be pretty mind blowingly epic. Yeah. So if you dig Pink Floyd, Gabriel era Genesis, King Crimson or space rock style stuff then check it out.

Day Twenty Five: Home

Home

There is so much of you and me invested in this place
In the four walls where we built a home,
Now an empty space.
The windows jammed open, the paint peeling off,
As the sun beats down through the oriels
It casts shadows of accidents and arguments on the walls.

Metaphysical pieces of myself are left in this space
Nothing of real substance remains (Ha! What a joke)
The walls are tall illuminated by ribbons of the sun
But bare and blinding and white
They seem taller than I’d ever known
Now that all of our possessions are split
And run into two separate homes

Once again I wish I could
Touch and see and smell the flurry of wonderful things
You and I brought to this place
I can fairly remember that day
When we were snowed in
In a hurry you rushed outside to build a snowman
I helped carve its crystal ears
And features
Using nothing but rocks
And sticks

Then it melted three days later
(The seasons changed)
And brought with it some fear

A storm was approaching thick and fast
Carrying with it an awful din
The postman never came
The TV went dead
A deluge of screaming at the top of our lungs
Torrents of words left unsaid
A disagreement turned into an argument
Resentment thundered and flooded over
The storm raged outside
But never washed the slates clean
The wind died down
And our voices rang clear for the first time that night
Like the beating of hail stones on the roof
Then a shower of plates shattered against the wall
I can’t remember who threw them

They hold a lot of memories, these walls,
And once held a lot of fear.
In the end, that storm broke.
The sun crept through the clouds
It was too late.
The rain forged a dam between me and you.

(This was kind of inspired by yesterdays post, thinking that perhaps what kind of people would have discarded furniture into the street?)