Getting OnI wasn’t an ‘unresponsive on his bathroom floor’ case, Or even a mysteriously ‘Paris apartment bathtub’ scrubbing waste. Despite the certain uncontrollable tragedy, ‘Bullets in the back four times – New York’ it was not. .
So Zaccheus sat in that sycamore tree, With prior knowledge about the exodus of ’73. And with a bang of the gong, As a charged up warrior, I was gone. .
Her Purple Mini wasn’t quite a Cadilac. G-L-O-R-I-A wasn’t quite Patti Boyd. She ended the marriage, ended the band and her driving ended me. But no one mentions her, She was no Yoko.
But this is what I am, Square Peg Sam, not the main man. Jimi, Jim, Jones & Janis – they all hit the spot, Two weeks off thirty has a certain ring to it, But I’m not in the club. .
What’s more I tried religion, Just like Dad told me to, Long before I was a child of the Marcsist revolution,
I sat looking up into his Soviet stubble, As we tripped round London bends in lofty lorries, He told me,
“Zion’s home for you son, But don’t tell Ma.”
But I did, She squeezed it out of me,
She didn’t want Jerusalem, Cos she sold grapes And pears in Berwick Street. So I sat in a gentile’s grave.
“People are unfair with Sky plus in their hair-spray, No longer content, with Star Wars in their browsers. They want an Acorah-approved sighting.”
So said the master of the ghoulish game – Tiger Memphis-Flash. He says he makes an appearance at least once every six months, To please true fans. .
So at the turn of the 21st century, Boy I tried it out, But once again Feld failed, I stuck around, I like it here,
By the might of a tragical noon I sit. .
So, come by Great Darkgate Street in Aber. We sell beauty, household goods and medicines, alongside a range of fine fragrances here; Glam products, if you like.
You’ll recognise me,
I’m still all Absolom in Barnet, But it’s getting a bit thin at the back. Debbie the store manager insists on the polo neck uniform, So my ‘faux gay space alien’ image is slightly dampened, But I wear face glitter on casual Fridays. .
Come on in and read my name tag, No one bats an eyelid, They just assume it’s the Welsh spelling. .
For those of you who didn’t see it on my Dad’s blog:
(Apologies for the weird music.)
I got second place! Which is better than third and would’ve been embarrassing if I came first, as those who beat me were a group of three people who’d worked together to create a video and looked like they’d worked hard whereas I’d thrown my poem together in the space of twenty minutes.
We are devising a piece called ‘The Singable Remains’, which is to be a site specific performance at a place called ‘Yr Hen Eglwys’ in Ysbyty Ystwyth. The performance is tomorrow night and I’m looking forward to it. The videos below should be a little bit of a taster for you of what it’s like.
This is how we warm up our voices:
This is an interesting exploration we devised early on to explore the idea of work within a community. The first bits a bit rubbish, but the singing at the end’s rather good.
This is a song we do during a sad bit in the play.
Apparently he was discovered to have married his 13-year-old cousin in December 1957 – and to have been in prison twice before he turned 21!
He was a bigamist too, and shot his bass player, lost two wives to drowning and overdosing and his son dies in a car crash.
Oh and he was also jailed again after brandishing a gun outside Graceland and demanding to see Elvis.
It’s been a good couple of months since I’ve put anything up here. I guess I’ve been busy and have filled my time with other joys such as reading, writing and playing our new Nintendo Wii.
Hopefully over the next few days, I’ll seek to post some updates on stuff that’s been going down in the Brady household.
It’s a while ago now, but here’s a taster of Christmas in Aberystwyth with our family. It’s an annual tradition.