ANON SONGS FOR LUKE B

BY ANON

HAIRVENT

I love my mum sometimes.

I love her always actually.

Sometimes we get frustrated

but today was a special day.

She said “Nirvana would

do one called ‘Hairvent.’”

I absolutely cannot wait.

To listen to it, or to fuck it up,

that is the question. To

listen to it, or to fuck it up,

that is the question. Over

and out, testing testing 123.

Over and out, testing testing

123. Welcome to my presence

and its intensity. I need

to let some pressure out.

ANON INTERLUDE

I’m doing it because I want to give back. It’s not legal to make a man go Anon with his work, to usurp it, to try and own it, when he is paying for it to be published and has written it himself. So I thought I should determine what is Anon and what isn’t for a while. I am just going to have some beans. Do you want cheese on yours as well? I would deem it that that is Tarot. So it could be about chance.

COLLARED DOVE

I see a collared dove fly

and it lifts up my heart.

Into the filament of bird

I travel on. Birds

are for flying, not

for special perception.

It rises from right to left, fluttering

its wings in a frenzy, furiously flapping,

leaving the ground, ascending

an echelon of fresh, fell air, taking

flight in a flurry of feathers

and disappears behind

the yew tree. A bird

could be a portal of discovery.

It could lead to light

even if descended

from the pterodactyls

whose dawn chorus out-shone

the colours of the vowels.

ANON INTERLUDE 2

To be honest I don’t mind going Anon, as long as there is something that is mine. I was promised by a man I trust, a good man, a hard-working man with strong moral fibre, that unless I wrote an Anon book, they would make all my books Anon, against my wishes, even though it is against the law. It’s a threat but I’m sure one made with the best intentions, even for myself. The problem becomes one of separating something from what’s already gone on.

ALL THIS CAN CHANGE

The earliest source I can find still in print

is Binaural Songbook.

Then we have things like

57 Paintings For Art Therapy

The Field of Rock N Roll Science

John Tucker’s Schooldays: A Spreadsheet Poem

Another 57 Paintings for Art Therapy

The New Beat

The Effect of Global Warming On The Unicorn

Word For Stained Glass Windows

154 Shakespearean Sonnets

Then we have some Chipmunka books for example:

Soundcloud Raid

The Sunset Child

Breath Trapped In Heaven

Brave New Tense

Transition To Philosophy (by Johannes Bergfors)

Yes You May

There’s more on his blog.

Poems superimposed on photos.

And there are 36 poems with a magazine…

he would rather forget some of those.

Then you realise

he’s also done the music…

he has ten albums or long E. P’s.

They are only demo standard.

All this can change.

ANON INTERLUDE 3

They are getting me to do this so that I die a hero. Pen wine fate and all that. Actually I would say only a broken country needs a hero – reiterate what I told Mark Velarde’s stunning blonde gf at the gig on the roof in London – “I don’t have heroes I only have friends.” It seemed like an intelligent thing to say at the time. And I think that was the last gig of that period before I disappeared up north to Lancaster University.

FLUVIENT COINAGE

Sonnest abraddio grample and bricken

gontocker blonky and wellity white

postico flostico flipstick and fleving

fluvient coinage has gone againe

driptheria drearier than a tree-drum

do-lang and blang-gast gustopong coo

sloo flicking flostico flostico flagrant

masticko mecklebot plastic and plee

flestico follerdong farmerly fillegist

fillegist farmerly follerdong flunk

collerdon gollerdon gumian grey

ollerpoller sollerdoller follycog nonk.

ANON INTERLUDE 4

I actually agree with John Stuart Mill who says a progressive country can quickly become backwards if there is a decrease in Individuality… I think with a CV like mine going Anon would represent that exact decrease in Individuality. Still I am urged to be Anon here and there, in ways that I wouldn’t choose to be Anon myself. I find with my mental illness I can’t defend myself.

REMEMBERING SPRING

Barnes has scored a chicken.

But every time I confute it,

it grows back, like a tree into which

you have carved your name, healing.

It wasn’t Barnes, wasn’t a chicken

and wasn’t a goal. So Barnes

hasn’t really scored a chicken.

But then you need a proposition.

And “Barnes has scored a chicken”

grows back. Because it is about spring,

renewal, rebirth, growth. So

you have to prove it wrong again.

It could be that the proposition

is right in terms of recourse

to euphemism and wrong

in terms of factual data. Every time

I prove it wrong it grows back,

but that may have all changed now.

This might’ve been an epitaph.

ANON INTERLUDE 5

Well what can I say? I hear that soon they may be taking things away from me that I already published and paid to publish too under my own name. I imagine what it would be like not being able to sing a song I had written myself because it was Anon. Or rather, what it would be like if all my songs were Anon. I can’t imagine anything more sinister. As my dad used to say a writer has a right to a name otherwise an Exclusion of the Individual Machine can close ranks against you. Still, here I am with some new found notion of freedom, equality and fairness. I would say this work is the first one I have done that really is Anon and that all other claims to my being Anon are false.

PETRA HYDRA DEUTEMOL

As you may know by now,

O some one foot wedge of air away man,

Dear, gentle reader,

I took an O. D. the likes of which

it was said to be genius to survive

but coming back down

had lost the ability to ejaculate.

Never again will I know a woman,

her containing elasticity

and texture, her granular wear -

and I am as yet to properly cry…

there followed another

O. D. attempt where I

got even closer to death

and I think damaged my brain.

I don’t want to sound like Sylvia Plath

who was an egoist, so unlikely

to last as a major poet,

so I keep my misery literature

heaped up in a separate file,

ready for when the day comes -

but I just thought you

should know all the same.

I used to be against poets on medication

because a poet is a translator

of feelings and the feelings

you get on chemicals

are fake – but now

I have no other option

except to join in with them.

Cannabis was exempt

in the old creed because

I thought Jesus would smoke it

if he were alive today – and

then other drugs started to be allowed -

like ecstasy for example.

Before I knew it I was a chemical factory

full of messages being sent,

signals and the like, overflowing,

overloaded, all through the night.

Each chemical enacts

a physical poem on the body.

Truth is one is made of drugs.

And to call all drugs “drugs”

represents a dangerous

narcotisation of the truth…

but I was so wrecked I dreamed up

Strictly Free as a drug. It is

the narcotisation of air

in-between spliffs.

Naturally, I don’t do that

any more; but there was

e’ en relatively recently

a time of communion

with someone that knows magic,

which I can’t claim to know myself.

And then, if you can get sorted out

with noxious toxins of

deleterious self-derision,

if you know the right person,

as in have a friend, and

are signed off work, and

on benefits with mental illness,

The Lakes becomes Paradise

just for a little glimpse

before it all caves in on you.

Like not knowing a woman,

I might not know chemical heaven ever again.

We were fiends, my friend

and I, but killing ourselves really.

When my mother passes away,

I wonder what I am to do, whether

I move in with my friend, or

head down south to Londinium.

My mother keeps saying

when she dies this house

is going to be sold…

I might need to have a few drinks.

And I wonder if beer

enacts its own

physical poem

on the body, and

I wonder of coffee too.

Beer is a depressant,

that numbs the pain

but at least coffee

is said to be a drug.

I was going to say mother’s

homegrown tomatoes also

enact a physical poem

and they might but then

I also remembered

even water leaves its own

indelible stain on the hypothalamus.

So everything chemical

conducts a physical poem.

And acid (which is flung

from the sun) is fungal.

That’s the one where poetry

is most evident. Or I suppose

you could say ecstasy too,

which is not psychoactive

but emotional. So

you could say they are

but different types of poet.

Here I search for correlation

between drugs taken

and poets read but find nothing.

I think maybe Milton is smack,

but that’s just rubbish.

The open freedom of this

game shrinks back down

to a narrowing of possibilities.

I suppose we’re looking at

a words as drugs analogy.

Have you ever ingurgitated, say,

the word “infradiegetic?”

It’s not actually a nice word.

It’s a posh, technical term

from the corner of the library.

Here I would like to mindfully

consume another, like

words are astronauts

entering the ear’s orbit,

and one delicious one

is the word “noetic.”

Another is “abeyance.”

Another is “propitious.”

And all along, you find

I am under the chemical cosh -

am consuming meds at a rate of knots -

and trying not to write

merely empty medicine packets.

ANON INTERLUDE 6

I suppose I don’t mind it, as long as I choose it myself. It should be up to the individual to choose whether or not his or her writing is Anon, and I think it is like that in law, but you get some absolute tyrants trying to make everything a nameless collective, do away with Individuality. This is the first work I have done where I have chosen anonymity myself. As I say, I agree to it in this instance.

ERASING THE DEBT

(for Simon Pomery)

My father told us he was a fine art dealer,

smuggled fine art o’ er the Berlin Wall,

sold his business when the Berlin Wall fell,

was codenamed “Blue” and donned a faux

Australian accent for the job; but I found out

it was pollen that he really smuggled, that

art was recourse to euphemism for pollen,

that he had a pollen farm up in the Moroccan mountains

and shipped tonnes and tonnes of it to the States,

a kind of stuff that crumbles under

the thumb, replete with mascara bruise,

peacock feather, butterfly-wing and velvet flare;

that that was how our schooling was funded;

for all the schooling of his four children was

“the only thing worth spending money on”

or so he said; and so a minor footnote in history

became a front we learned to see through.

ANON INTERLUDE 7

Love is the answer but what is the question? It’s actually my old mate from University that got me to write an Anon one. He was very firm about it happening. I’m not sure these people understand how difficult it is to say goodbye to everything you hold dear. Writing isn’t just some amateurish Hobbyism for me. It’s been a vocation in the sense of a calling since I was about 4 – a dream.

VOICES ON THE INTERCOM

“To what do we owe our win?

Gather round brothers and listen in.

The blue cars have gone…

they work for us now. I mean

we may have become part

of the new government. I hope

we all get on. I mean it might be time

to let those that curse and hypnotise us

off the hook. If you think

they’ll put you in prison

after all you’ve done, you need

a wash. We won’t let it happen.”

APOLOGIA FOR THE ANON SONGS

Hello, my name is Joe and I don’t know if I am on the Right or the Left. I have been allowed to do a book that is Anon. I’ve never done an Anon book before as such but figure if I keep it buoyant and songful people won’t mind. I am a voice-hearing writer, diversified by voices, and they can be absolutely maddening, but without them, where would my mental illness go? As the lead singer of Bush sang, “lonely without my impediments.” I’ve probably written approaching thousands of songs in my time (not to mention poems as well) and figure it could be time to give back. The Anon songs are mostly true and quite and neutral or rather low-risk.

THE PROTECTOR

You used to play for England

but now you play for me

when all I find is words unkind

you protect my sanity

You used to be a winger

but now you play anywhere

to get between myself and the scene

when people are in the air

You used to score for nothing

but now you score for peace

when screaming eyes are in the skies

demanding a swift release

You used to be left footed

but still could use your right

emblazon my soul with your England goal

I think they should make you a Knight

LOVE SONG

I left my comfort zone,

travelling by mobile phone,

through the six inch gap,

to make the stranger clap,

sitting on my seat,

thinking on my feet,

eating crisps and drinking tea.

I said goodbye to things,

surrendered angel wings,

underneath a rock

found a pretty frock,

proved the face of stars

with my old guitars

and took a drug called Strictly Free.

Then it came to pass

the moment was made of glass,

that shattered on the floor

and left you wanting more,

and everyone could see

the sheer insanity

of the world afloat in space.

At least I sent a text,

feeling rather vexed,

to have my message sent,

despite it being Lent,

and have it bounce around

and come back to the ground,

trying to send my love to Trace.

FIELD OBSERVATIONS

Already Radiohead is a field

with a river down the way

where mad children splash and play

unaware of the guilt and the shame

unaware of the praise and the blame

unaware of the end of the game.

Their tender playfulness extends forever

as they splash and play in the water,

moving stones to change its pitch,

not quite minding which is which,

free to do just as they wish,

and on the river bank languish.

THE ISLAND OF PENGUINS

The island of penguins was a Holy night,

if we don’t take flight

then we’ll seem quite bright.

It doesn’t matter about the plot,

for the plot is grot

and can go to rot.

What matters most in life is love,

if it comes from above

then that is your dove.

We were three gathered in the name,

if you find it a shame

I can take the blame.

ON A RENEGADE FLIGHT

My head is burnt

I fried my brain

as if prefigured

in James’s stain

I do say James’s

but it’s mine as well

as if the rest

can go to Hell

so don’t take drugs

they only lead

to bad outcomes

where dreams can bleed

I’ve bored myself

with my own tale

the bread is dead

the past is stale

when all at once

I get some tea

and that’s enough

for this new me

whom it would seem

stays up all night

as if to escape

on a renegade flight

SONG IN THE WEE HOURS IN THE KITCHEN

The voices won’t stop

oh why oh why

I am not a shop

that sells them pie

I think at the top

they have to lie

down here I flop

as time goes by

what shall we pretend

to fill this hole

and shall we ascend

a telegraph pole

and will metal bend

to greet your soul

with ears that lend

and a mine of coal?

I’m under the old

chemical cosh

and feeling cold

and in need of a wash

and being bold

splash the dosh

before I can fold

on this bunch of tosh.

I’m guided by voices

just like the doors

and make silly choices

without good cause

they are not James Joyce’s

nor are they yours

as the dawn rejoices

in the great outdoors.

I AM A TROLL

I’m so groovy,

they’re making me a movie,

I’m so cool

they’re closing down my school,

but something you don’t know,

don’t know if I should show,

your little mind might blow…

I am a troll!

I am a troll!

I am a troll!

I am a troll!

I am a troll!

I am a troll!

I am a troll!

I’m so sorry,

they made me say a lorry,

I’m so smooth,

they’re getting me a booth,

but something you don’t know,

don’t know if I should show,

your little mind might blow…

I am a troll!

I am a troll!

I am a troll!

I am a troll!

I am a troll!

I am a troll!

I am a troll!

FLUOXETINE LADY

Fluoxetine lady you shine so bright

in the dungeons of the night

what immortal band or lie

dare frame thy fearful telemetry

I crashed on your sofa last night

as all the world was in unmanned flight

and sensed a disturbance in the Force

then saw at once a winged horse

it was going past outside

in the world we sleep to hide

but that was just my imagination

as I looked through a Sony Playstation

Fluoxetine lady I love your curves

and see the way your mirror swerves

to keep you but cannot contain

the beauty bursting in my brain

WOMAN IN WHITE

Agonising woman, dancing in white,

your short dress hugs your figure tight.

It’s only a photo, only a still,

but still how you’re dressed to kill.

I’ve never seen love from this angle before,

totally useless, but the thing we adore.

I see you among the adverts there

online, tossing your blonde hair

in a leonine way, and want to know

who you are and in what show.

Of course if I click on you I fall

for the adverts and so instead I stall

at you, the bait, to suck us all in,

with a promise of wanton-ness and sin.

I don’t wish to be re-directed

feeling as badly as if I am rejected,

I wish to know more of your eloquent shapes,

for in my mind your beauty shapes apes.

You dance in a sensuous graffiti of

blind white light, proving only love,

but all we can see is a split-second caught

on a camera whose lens can distort.

Distortion is clarity with a guitar

that stretches between star and star,

but not with your body, for it is clear

that I would love to hold you near.

I’ve seen you in yellow and in red,

but white is best, like words unsaid.

Come closer, please do, for I am alone

without any use for my mobile phone.

JUST ANOTHER LET DOWN

(Am/ G/ F/ C/ Dm/ F/ Am/ G)

Hey bro – what do you know?

It’s always raining at the station.

Hey dude – it seems a bit crude

but is it time for medication?

Hey sis – if I give it a miss

they say bad things can happen.

Hey man – I do what I can

to help my mother in the garden…

(F/ C/ Em)

and dreams of love are over

but still something is distilled

and though I’m not too clever

with my brother I am chilled

and though I’m getting older

love is still my first ideal

and when I was much younger

I was more inclined to steal

(Am/ G/ F/ C/ Dm/ F/ Am/ G)

Hey friend – where does it end?

Is it with another let down?

Hey mate – what’s your fate?

Is it arriving at a new town?

Dear Sir – I hope you concur…

it took us all this way just to get down.

Dear Maam – you’re a cherry palm -

I hope you like your new night-gown...

(F/ C/ Em)

and dreams of love are over

but still something is distilled

and though I’m not too clever

with my brother I am chilled

and though I’m getting older

love is still my first ideal

and when I was much younger

I was more inclined to steal

(Am/ G/ F/ C/ Dm/ F/ Am/ G)

Hey dad – it makes me sad

to know we’ll never speak again.

Hey mum – it’s not that I’m dumb

it’s just that some things are in vain.

Hey ho - here we go -

trying to sing away the pain…

Oh yeah – I’ll meet you there,

where we discuss my brother’s stain...

(F/ C/ Em)

and dreams of love are over

but still something is distilled

and though I’m not too clever

with my brother I am chilled

and though I’m getting older

love is still my first ideal

and when I was much younger

I was more inclined to steal.

HERE COME THE WAVES

Here they come,

here come the waves,

let’s move our bodies

and dance a little bit

and when they come

in all shapes and sizes

that’s when we need

to average out the waves

here they come,

here come the waves,

let’s see through music,

let’s rule our kingdoms with song

don’t pave the wave,

unless you’re a slave,

unless you want

things to turn out wrong

here they come,

here come the waves,

let’s let the phet

be a little bet with the myriad mind

and when we lose

and have the blues

that’s when we choose

to not continue colour-blind

FOUNDSTEIN

(a new fingerpicking song)

How do you do Ryuken?

Ableton is broken,

like the first morning,

nothing left to decide.

The kids will want a garden,

spaces that are open,

I wish I had some pollen,

surrender to the tide.

The morning’s come to names,

we left our old flames

in the land of dreams

and now will play our games.

I’m not up for fighting,

witness in the lightning,

the winter wind is biting,

I dreamed of love and trust.

There has been a sighting

of something that is fleeting,

the job is a good one,

ending up in dust.

The morning’s come to names,

we left our old flames

in the land of dreams

and now will play our games.

Drake is in the wilderness,

suffer teeming emptiness,

nothing comes from Nothingness

except nothing at all.

Another day has begun,

and even though there is no sun,

it could be a good one,

where I remember Paul.

The morning’s come to names,

we left our old flames

in the land of dreams

and now will play our games.

HYPOTHALAMUS

She said her name was Freedom,

and love is born in chaos,

desirous for your whisper,

your hypothalamus

controls the universe,

the universe-hearse

is in your soul-hole…

but don’t break the Hollow Claw,

waving for the raven’s throne,

for it’s not against the law

just to always feel alone

alone as a stone

in the great unknown.

(2000)

FLOPS

It’s just another problem

for me to sort out,

intelligence is sadness,

intelligence is doubt,

the band aren’t with me,

the band have gone,

we still don’t know

if my first word is Anon,

the music I am writing

is meant for the book,

I’m still feeling empty

from the things that I took,

with Colgate toothpaste

you can’t go wrong,

I want to put a roundabout

in the middle of the song.

A WALLETY WALLETY WALTER

I was walking down the valley,

in search of Where’s Wally,

and I became a silly billy

and everything was willy nilly

and the squiggles on the page

were the corners of the room

and everything was in a cage

at the foot of Black Combe.

There were eight pills in the evening,

six pills in the morning,

three pills at lunch time,

while the new Age was dawning,

and there was an emotive charge

in the cables overhead

and the headlines were a splurge

and some things are best left unsaid.