The sixth in my series of anthologies contains three more collections: Moving Again, Four Floors Up, and Two Cities. Beginning in Paris towards the end of 2005, the sixty or so titles to be found here cover around the next six months, the time in which I finally called it quits in Europe and basically just trolled about a bit trying to figure out what to do next. It was obvious I needed something new, but what?
From Paris to Ostend, Brighton to Barton, London to Lincoln to Leeds, ON THE ROAD AGAIN is not so much a road trip as a series of destinations, with massive lessons learned at every stop, and each one of them leading me ever-closer to my next big leap...
From Paris to Ostend, Brighton to Barton, London to Lincoln to Leeds, ON THE ROAD AGAIN is not so much a road trip as a series of destinations, with massive lessons learned at every stop, and each one of them leading me ever-closer to my next big leap...
ONE BAD APPLE
Sitting in a cafe staring up onto le Sacré Cœur
The coolest folk from 318 are not there any more
Instead the beer-heads have arrived, oh my god what a bore
To listen to them prattle on is really quite a chore
It's lit up, the Basilica - looks like the Taj Mahal
There's absolutely nothing I can think to rhyme with that
"All By Myself," playing on the radio
That brings out a melancholy smile
The waiter whistling all the time is getting on my nerves
But just why that should be the case is really quite absurd
At the end of the day though he's French
And the World knows all about French waiters
So here I am encore, enjoying a bowl of soup
It's not as good as last night, but perhaps it's in the atmosphere
There's more bread, but the herbs are gone
As has the good company
Perhaps that's harsh, but I don't think so
There's a beacon right on top of the spire
Just one monster's all it took
To send my mood to hell…
Not really that bad, but you know
Having had such a good night hier soir
It's a shame they had to go,
The Intellectual and the Mountain Man
Sitting in a cafe staring up onto le Sacré Cœur
The coolest folk from 318 are not there any more
Instead the beer-heads have arrived, oh my god what a bore
To listen to them prattle on is really quite a chore
It's lit up, the Basilica - looks like the Taj Mahal
There's absolutely nothing I can think to rhyme with that
"All By Myself," playing on the radio
That brings out a melancholy smile
The waiter whistling all the time is getting on my nerves
But just why that should be the case is really quite absurd
At the end of the day though he's French
And the World knows all about French waiters
So here I am encore, enjoying a bowl of soup
It's not as good as last night, but perhaps it's in the atmosphere
There's more bread, but the herbs are gone
As has the good company
Perhaps that's harsh, but I don't think so
There's a beacon right on top of the spire
Just one monster's all it took
To send my mood to hell…
Not really that bad, but you know
Having had such a good night hier soir
It's a shame they had to go,
The Intellectual and the Mountain Man
THE SUGAR MAN
I've become the Sugar Man
The Sugar Man
The Sugar Man
I've also become Woody Pan
On the streets of Gay Paris
So many things to see and do
Louvre, d'Orsay, Pompidou
Montmatre, Picasso too
Pigalle and Moulin Rouge
Notre Dame and Tour Eiffel
2am the Curfew's bell
The price of things - oh bloody hell!
And what about that Woodstock smell…?
(Blocked drains, says Ed)
An Umbrella shop, a ballet troupe
Creme brulé, French onion soup
Les cloches, les cloches, with Ozzie Paul
A Beetle coming through the wall
I am the Man, the Sugar Man
The Sugar Man
The Sugar Man
I'm also known as Woody Pan
On the streets of Gay Paris
I've walked the streets and boulevards
To find a melon - that was hard!
Bought un carnet for the tube
Tabasco on a sugar cube
A rock from distant Canada
Kyra singing, Matt's guitar
Basement parties, heavy dub
Open mike at the One Way club
I am the Man, the Sugar Man
The Sugar Man
The Sugar Man
I'm also known as Woody Pan
On the streets of Gay Paris
I am the Man, the Sugar Man
The Sugar Man
The Sugar Man
A green-haired, English Peter Pan
Amongst good company
It's Maté time - Chuppaaaaa…
I've become the Sugar Man
The Sugar Man
The Sugar Man
I've also become Woody Pan
On the streets of Gay Paris
So many things to see and do
Louvre, d'Orsay, Pompidou
Montmatre, Picasso too
Pigalle and Moulin Rouge
Notre Dame and Tour Eiffel
2am the Curfew's bell
The price of things - oh bloody hell!
And what about that Woodstock smell…?
(Blocked drains, says Ed)
An Umbrella shop, a ballet troupe
Creme brulé, French onion soup
Les cloches, les cloches, with Ozzie Paul
A Beetle coming through the wall
I am the Man, the Sugar Man
The Sugar Man
The Sugar Man
I'm also known as Woody Pan
On the streets of Gay Paris
I've walked the streets and boulevards
To find a melon - that was hard!
Bought un carnet for the tube
Tabasco on a sugar cube
A rock from distant Canada
Kyra singing, Matt's guitar
Basement parties, heavy dub
Open mike at the One Way club
I am the Man, the Sugar Man
The Sugar Man
The Sugar Man
I'm also known as Woody Pan
On the streets of Gay Paris
I am the Man, the Sugar Man
The Sugar Man
The Sugar Man
A green-haired, English Peter Pan
Amongst good company
It's Maté time - Chuppaaaaa…
BEYOND TWO GENERATIONS
Let's talk about eggs and art
The children of a master
When you've a creative urge
The eggs are laid much faster
D'you think you could call times like these 'egg rolls?'
Corridors are Bullfights?
Whatever do you mean?
It goes to show
That Picasso
Wasn't always what he seemed
Faces at all funny angles
Cubism and Blue and Rose
And always women
Muses, lovers
What else drove him? I don't know
But inspiration and creation
Added to curiosity
Have given this old Spanish Frenchman
An ever-lasting legacy
It's brought him immortality
And what else is there once you're dead?
How long will you be remembered?
Let's talk about eggs and art
The children of a master
When you've a creative urge
The eggs are laid much faster
D'you think you could call times like these 'egg rolls?'
Corridors are Bullfights?
Whatever do you mean?
It goes to show
That Picasso
Wasn't always what he seemed
Faces at all funny angles
Cubism and Blue and Rose
And always women
Muses, lovers
What else drove him? I don't know
But inspiration and creation
Added to curiosity
Have given this old Spanish Frenchman
An ever-lasting legacy
It's brought him immortality
And what else is there once you're dead?
How long will you be remembered?
FOUR FLOORS UP
The mood seems right/ So I am able/ To have a little write/ About something on the table/ A photograph there/ Made me stop and stare/ It's Claire from long ago/ Does anybody care/ Or know/ What she's up to now? And how/ It is suddenly so long ago?
My eyes drift away/ To on the wall, where/ There's a little piece of paper/ A liberating prayer/ A plea to the Buddha for a guiding light/ To give a little bit of clarity/ Bring day to the night/ To show wrong from right/ And tell me how I might/ Learn a thing or two from your wise, wise words
But what would Buddha say/ If he were here today? "Don't ask me, find your own way"/ And that's the whole point! Well it is to me/ The central theme of my philosophy/ There's so many influences open to us all/ More than ever before/ Whether large or small/ So take the pieces that you want/ From where you want to get them/ 'Cos only you yourself can find your own redemption/ Only you can guide your own ascension
The mood seems right/ So I am able/ To have a little write/ About something on the table/ A photograph there/ Made me stop and stare/ It's Claire from long ago/ Does anybody care/ Or know/ What she's up to now? And how/ It is suddenly so long ago?
My eyes drift away/ To on the wall, where/ There's a little piece of paper/ A liberating prayer/ A plea to the Buddha for a guiding light/ To give a little bit of clarity/ Bring day to the night/ To show wrong from right/ And tell me how I might/ Learn a thing or two from your wise, wise words
But what would Buddha say/ If he were here today? "Don't ask me, find your own way"/ And that's the whole point! Well it is to me/ The central theme of my philosophy/ There's so many influences open to us all/ More than ever before/ Whether large or small/ So take the pieces that you want/ From where you want to get them/ 'Cos only you yourself can find your own redemption/ Only you can guide your own ascension
LOST IN TIME - for the 500 Nations
The treachery that's been perpetrated
Down through the last five hundred years
Sand Creek and the Black Hills
Wounded Knee and the Trail of Tears
None of these are given thought
None are taught in school
And yet it makes my eyes well up
To think how we've been fooled
Osceola, Captain Jack
Tecumseh and Pontiac
Roman Nose and Crazy Horse
Chief Joseph, Red Cloud of course
Sitting Bull, Geronimo
Cochise - where did all these great men go?
On the Blue Road now they tread
While I've returned to walk the Red
But whatever I have come here for
I can't remember any more
So I call out to my Kin
Brothers, Sisters, fill me in!
Tell me what I'm here to do
Or else I'll be forgotten too
The treachery that's been perpetrated
Down through the last five hundred years
Sand Creek and the Black Hills
Wounded Knee and the Trail of Tears
None of these are given thought
None are taught in school
And yet it makes my eyes well up
To think how we've been fooled
Osceola, Captain Jack
Tecumseh and Pontiac
Roman Nose and Crazy Horse
Chief Joseph, Red Cloud of course
Sitting Bull, Geronimo
Cochise - where did all these great men go?
On the Blue Road now they tread
While I've returned to walk the Red
But whatever I have come here for
I can't remember any more
So I call out to my Kin
Brothers, Sisters, fill me in!
Tell me what I'm here to do
Or else I'll be forgotten too
MEDICINE HORSES
Yellow is the East
The South is Red
Black is in the West
Where the day is dead
In the North is wisdom's light
The Medicine Circle is complete
Purest knowledge shining bright
Step inside and take a seat
Ride around, come ride around
Feel the Power that surrounds
I wonder where these Horses take me
I wonder where I'm bound…
Yellow is the East
The South is Red
Black is in the West
Where the day is dead
In the North is wisdom's light
The Medicine Circle is complete
Purest knowledge shining bright
Step inside and take a seat
Ride around, come ride around
Feel the Power that surrounds
I wonder where these Horses take me
I wonder where I'm bound…
DOUBLE GLAZING
The smell of cut grass
The scent of the Spring
The flowers coming up
The colours they bring
I strum my guitar
A-ring ee-ting-ting
If only I'd had lessons
The stump of a tree
With small pieces of meat
A makeshift bird table
Where avians greet
And dance with each other
When they see what's to eat -
The scraps from the night before
Fluttering, flappering, fighting Pigeons
Battering each other to be King of the Heap
The cry of the Seagull, the area's Eagle
With hard, glaring eyes
And a cruelly hooked beak
Who'd poke out your eyes when you are asleep
If not for the double glazing
The smell of cut grass
The scent of the Spring
The flowers coming up
The colours they bring
I strum my guitar
A-ring ee-ting-ting
If only I'd had lessons
The stump of a tree
With small pieces of meat
A makeshift bird table
Where avians greet
And dance with each other
When they see what's to eat -
The scraps from the night before
Fluttering, flappering, fighting Pigeons
Battering each other to be King of the Heap
The cry of the Seagull, the area's Eagle
With hard, glaring eyes
And a cruelly hooked beak
Who'd poke out your eyes when you are asleep
If not for the double glazing
WAKING THOUGHTS
The joy of dipping biscuits, oh
It really is a treat!
My grand summation
Of this taste sensation:
It'll knock you off your feet
The pleasures of a curry
Home made and chilli-fied
With Sag Aloo
And Bhajis too
With Chick Peas and with Egg Plant fried
My taste buds are a-tingling
My senses running hot
Oh how I wish
For a tasty dish
But have I got one? No I've not
'Cos I'm still in bed
Well, it's early innit?
The joy of dipping biscuits, oh
It really is a treat!
My grand summation
Of this taste sensation:
It'll knock you off your feet
The pleasures of a curry
Home made and chilli-fied
With Sag Aloo
And Bhajis too
With Chick Peas and with Egg Plant fried
My taste buds are a-tingling
My senses running hot
Oh how I wish
For a tasty dish
But have I got one? No I've not
'Cos I'm still in bed
Well, it's early innit?
THE QUESTIONS SMELLS BRING TO MIND
Fish in the bedroom
Sick in the loo
Oh where do all these smells come from?
I really wish I knew
But do I?
Or are some things best unknown?
Like why you're at a loss for words
When you're stuck with the answer phone
Or what burns faster - incense sticks
Or those tiny little cones?
Like why do Swedes have monopolies
On snap-together homes?
Like why fry fish? What makes a dish
Much better than a plate?
Or is it?
Well, it is when you're using chopsticks
Fish in the bedroom
Sick in the loo
Oh where do all these smells come from?
I really wish I knew
But do I?
Or are some things best unknown?
Like why you're at a loss for words
When you're stuck with the answer phone
Or what burns faster - incense sticks
Or those tiny little cones?
Like why do Swedes have monopolies
On snap-together homes?
Like why fry fish? What makes a dish
Much better than a plate?
Or is it?
Well, it is when you're using chopsticks
THE COMPANY OF KINGS
It's beautiful here in this Bluebell Wood
There's not a soul to be seen
Just the Birdsong and the peacefulness
The Sun lights up metallic green
On a fly - I wonder why
Staring at the Sky makes me so serene…
Leaning up against a Tree
There's no one here, no one but me
And the matter of a thousand other things
There's Insects, Saplings, fresh new shoots
Clumps of Moss on twisted roots
Of Trees - oh please…
How can I think myself alone
With Life surrounding me in rings
How can I be majestic in the company of so many Kings?
It's beautiful here in this Bluebell Wood
There's not a soul to be seen
Just the Birdsong and the peacefulness
The Sun lights up metallic green
On a fly - I wonder why
Staring at the Sky makes me so serene…
Leaning up against a Tree
There's no one here, no one but me
And the matter of a thousand other things
There's Insects, Saplings, fresh new shoots
Clumps of Moss on twisted roots
Of Trees - oh please…
How can I think myself alone
With Life surrounding me in rings
How can I be majestic in the company of so many Kings?
DEEP SOUTH PREDICMENT
'Cos I'm a Blues man baby
But I ain't got the Blues
My life's come good, I'm happy
So what am I to do?
Yeah I'm a Blues man baby
But what the Hell am I to do?
'Cos I'm a Blues man baby
But I ain't got the Blues
'Cos I'm a Blues man baby
But I ain't got the Blues
My life's come good, I'm happy
So what am I to do?
Yeah I'm a Blues man baby
But what the Hell am I to do?
'Cos I'm a Blues man baby
But I ain't got the Blues
FACE PAINT
"Speaking with Becky on the phone once again
I am instantly drawn into her fabulousness, tee hee"
And Jenny Jenny Wood and Lincoln Cathedral
A black door now red - should that matter to me?
A slow drive along the M62 headed West
A surprise and a smile is what I do best
And old Michael Cardew and cricket and things
Reminds me the sadness that memories bring
An indelible pointer of time passing by
Things that can't be recaptured, however you try
But a quite useful signpost, all these things that are gone
Not so much where you're going, but where you've come from
There's the Past that is measured, recorded somewhere
Browns, Claytons, Ashcrofts, a Deemster of Man
A bastard of Atholl and who knows who else
Have all helped to make me the person I am
And also the places I've lived and I've been
The Cultures exposed to, things that I've seen
All the people I've met, they all give me yet more
But what of those forgotten lives lived before?
Vague, insubstantial, phantom memories
Dark Mayan temples, Frangipanis
Would unlocking these let me know things for sure
Or would they just serve to confuse me some more…
"Speaking with Becky on the phone once again
I am instantly drawn into her fabulousness, tee hee"
And Jenny Jenny Wood and Lincoln Cathedral
A black door now red - should that matter to me?
A slow drive along the M62 headed West
A surprise and a smile is what I do best
And old Michael Cardew and cricket and things
Reminds me the sadness that memories bring
An indelible pointer of time passing by
Things that can't be recaptured, however you try
But a quite useful signpost, all these things that are gone
Not so much where you're going, but where you've come from
There's the Past that is measured, recorded somewhere
Browns, Claytons, Ashcrofts, a Deemster of Man
A bastard of Atholl and who knows who else
Have all helped to make me the person I am
And also the places I've lived and I've been
The Cultures exposed to, things that I've seen
All the people I've met, they all give me yet more
But what of those forgotten lives lived before?
Vague, insubstantial, phantom memories
Dark Mayan temples, Frangipanis
Would unlocking these let me know things for sure
Or would they just serve to confuse me some more…
