Category Archives: Longer Projects

Leaving Me Is Easy

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This is certainly one of the more stupid poems I’ve written recently. This evolved from a jokey conversation with my girlfriend in which I said that the one downside of never having broken up with someone is that I’ll never fully understand Phil Collins. I asked if we could try a temporary, messy breakup. She declined.

This poem is about an obsession for understanding gone wrong. It is a spoken word interlude in my ongoing epic work ‘The Phil Collins Saga’. Other poems in this story can be found in the ‘Longer Projects’ category. I have placed links to the songs referenced in this poem at the bottom of this post.

Leaving Me Is Easy

Words

Words are little more than ordered sound
And yet, they touch

Reach deep inside
And wrench out tears
That you knew should have been shed
But never knew what you were saving them for

See words are little more than ordered sound
But so is music
And one man’s words and music
Reach deeper
Wrench harder
Rapidly dismantled
I can only whisper his name

…Phil Collins
…Phil Collins
…Phil Collins

Just a word
Little more than ordered sound
But so is music
And oh what music

I put a record on
Because I’m trendy
And the end catches the needle
So the record spins
And I am at the centre
And a song begins
And I am at the centre
And another record
Sound surrounds me
And I am at the centre
And another

Until

I’ve forgotten everything about you
Til someone says your name
…ur name …ur name …ur name
Words I know catch in my throat

These words are little more than ordered sound

Words I know but do not feel
Words I will not, cannot understand
Unknown pain
The first world problems
Of a man who’s never had a breakup
Let alone a messy one

I’ve forgotten all the reasons
I loved you
Little more than ordered sound and so
A phone call
Would you mind dumping me?
What? Why?
Just to try it
I need to know, I need to feel
I need to make these words real
Just for a while
A trial
A temporary mess
Dump me, make it bad
She says that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard

And those words? Now they hurt
They hurt bad and so
There’s no way out of this dark place
No hope, no future

Nah but really
Nobody’s that absurd
And words are little more than ordered sounds
But so is music
And they needn’t be owned to be known
And so I
Put another record on
Put another record on
Put another record on
Put another record on

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Even Phil thinks I’m an idiot

Songs:
If Leaving Me Is Easy
I’ve Forgotten Everything
No Way Out
Another Record (Genesis)

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Invisible Touch

Invisible Touch

Phil Collins recently announced the exciting news that he is coming out of retirement! He’s promising a new album and even a tour! Needless to say, I was overwhelmed by this news, so I thought it was time to post another poem from the Phil Collins Saga. You can find some others under the ‘Longer Projects’ category. An assassin has been hired by the forces of light who have been forced to resort to cruel methods to end Collins’ reign of terror. However it may seem, this poem is not the end of the story.

Invisible Touch

His feet were silent
Light as air
The river running dark and brown
He crept along
The narrow bank
His task; to take Phil Collins down

So many ways
To do the deed
Shoot, smother, poison, stab, or drown
He slipped into
An alleyway
At dusk to take Phil Collins down

His blue robe trailing
Whispers soft
This figure haunts the old Swiss town
Two velvet gloves
Upon the hands
He’ll use to take Phil Collins down

The house now breached
Phil Collins found
Resplendent in his dressing gown
A shadow looming
Rush of air
He’s here to take Phil Collins down

The job done swiftly
Scarce a scream
The blue assassin stops to frown
For life’s one purpose
All his days
Had been to take Phil Collins down

But now returning
Bringing death
His handiwork of some renown
With vigour now
A righteous goal
His task; take Eric Clapton down

He suspects nothing

He suspects nothing

Bring Me Phil Collins

Bring Me Phil Collins

‘Bring Me Phil Collins’ began life as a silly stand alone poem about nothing in particular. However, it is the seed from which the idea for the Phil Collins Saga grew. I explained it briefly in the introduction for another poem from the cycle that I posted here. ‘Bring Me Phil Collins’ is the introduction to the cycle of poems in which Death calls for Phil Collins to be brought to him.

Bring Me Phil Collins

Bring me Phil Collins he cried
Place him at my feet
With saucy tales his talent is belied
This is a man I would meet

Yes, bring me Phil Collins he cried
Throw him to the ground
Forgotten now by popular tide
When once he was renowned

So, bring me Phil Collins he cried
Bear him to my throne
Too long has my patience been tried
Too long have I sat here alone

Now, bring me Phil Collins he cried
Stand him in the court
For this is the place he’ll forever reside
As a bean of burden ought

It's no good trying to hide Phil. Everyone can see you.

It’s no good trying to hide, Phil. Everyone can see you.

Avalarch Part 1: First Mud

Avalarch

I’ve always found great enjoyment in films that take the disaster movie idea and turn it into a ludicrous joke. Films like Megashark vs Giant Octopus, Sharknado, and 2012 are hilarious. I wanted to pay tribute to this very special type of film. My idea rapidly became the concept for an epic poem which I am currently working on. This is a story about the Avalarch; Part Avalanche, part Larch. It grows in secrecy in the heart of London, then breaks free to wreak havoc. Eventually, it is defeated but, like all good ridiculous disaster stories, it is soon back to face other monstrous beings.

This post contains part 1 of Avalarch. In this part of the epic poem, we watch strange and mysterious events unfold that lead to the creation of the greatest threat to London since the great fire.

Avalarch Part 1: First Mud

London doesn’t sleep, not quite
The light from every amber lamp
Reflects in fragments from the streets
That sheets of city rain made damp

The moon, half-hid by ashen clouds
Enshrouds the night in mystery
Illuminating hill and pit
A citadel of history

The Thames drifts by with murky grace
It’s face is grey with dirt and dark
A twisted trolley on the bank
Once thankless mule turned steel toothed shark

The ripples on the surface speak
Of bleak disturbances below
The wreckage of the city’s past
Lies fast beneath the undertow

The gentle trickle of the waves
That gravely stroke the crumbling wall
Heard only by the man in black
With sack and shovel as his haul

A crawl across the river muck
Legs stuck and sinking into mire
His hands and face with mud are packed
Though cracked, still like a mask entire

His body weary, aged, grey
A stray dog snuffles at his feet
It paws his leg, it starts to cry
Then finally accepts defeat

He drags himself up ladder rungs
And tongues of rust push through his hands
To taste his blood and slow his climb
From slime and mud and sucking sands

The top achieved, he stops to wheeze
His knees are trembling from the strain
Falls to the ground, his face is red
Then steadily he stands again

His eyes don’t speak so much as shout
A bout of coughing racks his chest
His job long done, he staggers home
To roam no more, at last to rest

A flutter from the traitor’s gate
A stately raven takes to flight
He rides the air with humble skill
A silhouette against the night

Big Ben chimes thrice his sonorous tone
A drone that gently shakes the sky
The bird drops to a window sill
And still the river slithers by

Swollen from the copious rain
It stains the bank with water lines
And laps the footprints in the clay
Erasing these, and other signs

A streak of bright fluorescent green
Here seen just momentarily
A tub of radioactive swill
Is spilling in the estuary

Through eddies, currents, ebb and flow
It slowly dissipates to spread
Some rises to the surface scum
And some sinks to the river bed

It seeps into the ground at last
Drawn past the banks and under soil
Into a garden, trickles through
The beauty bought by gardener’s toil

Exotic flowers, though lately bloomed
Consumed by filth, they wilt and die
But in the garden corner stand
The grand and glorious larches high

The trees succumb to waste and rot
But not the tallest, firm and wide
The dangerous drops through roots drawn in
Begin to change it from inside

This sole survivor drinking deep
While others die putrescently
For hours and days and months and years
It rears on up incessantly

And in due course, the others gone
Drawn on by time’s eternal march
It longs to rise from out the earth
The birth place of the Avalarch

No one would have believed in the first years of the twenty first century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greener than man's and yet as mortal as his own

No one would have believed in the first years of the twenty first century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greener than man’s and yet as mortal as his own

Something Happened On The Way To Heaven

Something Happened On The Way To Heaven

Following my recent semi-theme of poems about musical legends, I thought I’d share one concerning Phil Collins. Whatever jokes in my previous posts may suggest, I am a huge fan of Phil Collins’ work both in Genesis and as a solo artist. This poem is part of a project I’ve been working on for a couple of years now, which I am currently calling ‘The Phil Collins Saga’. The Phil Collins Saga features a fictionalised version of Phil Collins who is essentially a pathetic loser (please note ‘fictionalised version’. I don’t want to be sued.). He makes a deal with Death who promises him fame, wealth, and popularity. In return, Death is able to control the minds of billions of people worldwide through Phil’s music. It’s a story about greed, friendship, and the consequences of our actions. ‘Something Happened On The Way To Heaven’ finds Phil at the peak of his power and influence over the minds of his fans.

Something Happened On The Way To Heaven

We had a life
He starts the show
We had a love
The trumpets blow
But something happened…
Lights are low

Then suddenly grow brighter

The old bean gazes
At his crowd
The brass is blaring
High and loud
And Phil just sits there
Vain and proud

He’ll make it an all-nighter

The people scream
And bleat like sheep
The women shout
As grown men weep
Collapsing in
A sobbing heap

While others start undressing

The power of
The reaper’s deal:
They cease the roar
And start to kneel
Believing he’s
The power to heal

They clamour for his blessing

He strides upon
The upturned palms
Inducing tears
Inspiring psalms
Then others rush
To lick the arms

Of those on whom he trod

His face now glows
With holy light
His shining bonce
A wondrous sight
He bids them all
A blessed night

Then leaves the stage a God

It's very hard to sleep with you all watching me like that Phils

It’s very hard to sleep with you all watching me like that Phils