'A slave to freedom'

We watched you sail; take to the sea in a rubber boat.
Take to troubled waters; and do your best to stay afloat.
So many lost souls, in the deep blue Aegean Sea.
The waters gently whisper, come and stay with me.

And as you slip below the waves; we wave goodbye;
It’s money verses conscience and so goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!
Then every eye watched you struggle to the shore,
We watched you knock, and knock, and knock, upon closed doors.

Another immigrant “a slave to freedom”
A nations money verses conscience; except on Sundays!
We may offer prays as an act of sympathetic generosity,
But won’t shoulder the burden like Simon!
So Back! Back! Let's not rock the boat!

From Alan Lomax to the commercial art and now the money machine.

At the turn of the century; when sound recording 1st became available to the masses, recording a song was an opportunity for folk to reach out; and tell the world something up front and personal.
It meant that people were able to put themselves on “The record” A way of leaving a permanent audio statement, an epitaph, an audio sound bite immortalising ~ life, mood, emotion captured and bottled for all eternity.
(A medium that conveyed messages from artists and storytellers of all kinds)

A recording was also a great addition to "The family album" something more tangible, a window to a real person, with a real life, a message and a point of view; a legacy, a blast from the past.
Few people expected sound prints to be re-designed, homogenised, formulated, copied, repackaged and that art and the message would be played over and over again by new artists in the form of "cover music" or that the style of the messages would become secularized, seperated into distinctive groups, or constrained by an elite clique or commercial genre.
Labelling and streamlining art & music mostly benefits the commercial art & music industry; and no longer the artists and creators.

I've no problem with good business, or the multi-billion pound industrys that have gained commercial success.

However the process of mass homogenisation, product synthesis, marketing, streamlining and then packaging fashion, sound and synthetic culture to sell a product, leaves very little room for creative people to just be creative.

A medium originally open to many for self expression, a historical record, an archive, a voice, a personal message;
Is now just a vehicle for advertising and perpetuating a genre of nonsense, so much so that there is now more white noise immortalised than messages.

To re-cap ~ I Think that creativity and expressionism; like story telling conveys moods and messages from the present and past!
Artists and musicians should have the opportunity to create and produce more information than they copy; thus creating a richer more colourful tapestry, whilst not devaluing the message of their predecessors!

Purcy Flaherty.

The cruelty of loves sting, penetrating the hearts of the deep and doubtful; longing to be whole both in love and in life.

You’re the gin in my tonic,
The taste in my mouth,
The fire in my belly,
The north in my south.

The wind in my sails,
The silk in my thread,
The tear in my eye,
The sheets on my bed.

You’re the sun in my day,
The days of the week,
The D in desire,
The tongue in my cheek.

The space on my page,
The gold in my dust,
You know who you are!
The love in my lust…

And together we would scheme and we'd, walk and we'd play.
We'd talk and we'd pack all life's troubles away.
Then we would gaze at the stars and you'd say.
I love the bones of you love.
I love the bones of you love.


Song link: https://youtu.be/gOovsOv7Yq0

Hydron accelerator

Dreamers harness air, water, earth and fire in search of more missing elements.
The gravity of the question; the small mater of the multiverse; will continue to reveal nothing solid.

So save your energy! and simply sit within the gas, the liquid and the plasma, for the answer to our universe has always echoed from within, it's just be kind to everything!

I was just in the closet July 1988
Not a word was said; 'sept a couple of whispers and an obvious desire to ****!
Mop buckets, the heat, and the stink of her *****,
Petulant hands and harsh fingers as staggered breaths tell a tale;
knickers and pants half pulled down,
Hard truths pushing through,
I had to **** her from behind,
Very confined, quick, clumsy, ******, release.
We both staggered out;  her mate was much older and waiting outside, bold as brass, she looks me up and down all tough and barks assertively "i'm next!" and **** I was back in the closet 1988

Your eyes sparkle,
Your lips smooth like silk,
Pink peaks,
Your body speaks,
Anticipation swells,
Delicate to the touch.

The pulse quickens,
You smell so good
Little sounds,
Our hearts pound
Fold me in your arms,
It’s not just a poem.

It’s love.