MEERKUTS LOVES CRAYONS HAS MOVED

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MEERKUTS LOVES CRAYONS

A Love Song

To hear an audio version of this song head here;
Ellipsey's Podcast

As you sit here before me sobbing and shaking

I worry about your tears getting my mixer wet.

I want to hear your pain through the crackle of vinyl,

I just don't know what chord to write it in yet.

Too many songs about heartbreak are saccharine and vain,

I want to hear the fabric of your love ripped apart.

A Phil Spector wall of sound playing your deepest pain,

I want to mic up the sound of your breaking heart.

I'm going to make an album of all your lovely hurt,

I want to play your fret-less, useless heart like Flea.

I want to compress your crying and pleading,

Into a 4/4 drum pattern that rises to sorrowful cacophony.

You walked out on me and I had no power to change your mind,

I wanted to tear the soul from your emotionless chest.

Now I've got this recording of the pain he caused you,

I'll let Itunes and the general public do the rest.

x

Anderson Council

To hear an audio version of this poem & others visit here;

Ellipsey's Podcast

It all started with a tea-set.

Life is a mirror of those games I used to play with my dolls, bears and demons,

The cups were full of invisible liquid and the conversation was one-sided at best.

Not much has changed.

I found a note I posted to myself when I was 5,

It simply read, 'Who's listening?'

It all started with a tea-set or did I already feel that way?

My friends and family are just silent playthings as before; dolls, bears and demons.

One battered Gollywog and two ambiguous, porcelain husks of rosy cheeked Americana.

Golly, Winsome and June.

Days spent sipping on pot brewed imagination giving no credence to adult gazes,

Sustenance granted through unmoving lips and lifeless eyes but sustenance nonetheless.

Parents strip away fantasies with raised voices.

I found my dolls, bears and demons the other day, they were in an old satchel under the bed,

I sat them on the edge of our bed and heard our children playing outside.

Everything has changed.

I looked into the glass eyes and buttons and remembered the sounds of my childhood,

I felt my hand become smaller like a child's as the mnemonics did their work.

Relics of a forgotten afternoon.

My children can't understand why I left them, my wife thinks I am immature,

I pour the invisible tea and wait for my old friends to talk to me.

It all started with a tea set.

That Day You Walked Into My Room & I Was Naked & You Said You Didn't Really Mind But Now It's 20 Years Later & You Say That Actually You Find My Lack of Body Hair Unnerving & The Tattoo On My Back Has Dispirited Your Clitoris

I was a fastidious otter without a towel, prey.
You were a judgmental eagle, predator.
Two decades of gestating revulsion and two children later,
You are finally about to make a meal of me.

I have fair hair, I am not a "bald, freakish twat"!
I got the tattoo when Lighthouse Family were cool!
You could have said something.

I was completely exposed in my towel, I was moisturising.
My back rippled as Tunde Baiyewu mouthed Ocean Drive.
You should have said something.

You got the kids and the house, clever fox.
I got the CD collection and diagnosed with 'Adonis Complex', forlorn rabbit.
Twenty years gone and two copies of 'Falling Into You' later,
I have been consumed.

Look At Your Thumbs

I remember learning from Paul Simon, not the one with the carpet shop.
I remember him teaching us about the ways of the world.
Syncopated ruminations on daily toil and plebeian graft,
He was Atlas holding up the sky with chords.

I learnt about The Myth of Fingerprints and the former talk show host,
Every finger or thumbprint is distinct.
Individuality incarnate and humanity humbled,
Rhyming Simon say topographical swirls define our lives.

A small, Italian plumber has worn away my uniqueness,
A swift, blue hedgehog has erased my identity.
Digits enslaved to a Phrygian cap wearing swordsman,
Appendages transformed to tools for weaponised karts.

Up Up Down Down Left Right Left Right B A Start,
I've managed to land the monkey right on the 100!
Seven hundred and forty six hours spent attaining virtual glory,
We heroes painted the city blue and saved the Graydians.

Look at your thumbs,
Can you see the spirals that make you who you are?
Look at your fingers,
A lifetime of collecting valueless coins has left us ghosts.

Over the mountain down in the valley lives a former human being,
Abandoned now just like the high score.
There is no doubt about it, it was The Myth of Fingerprints,
I've seen them all and now mine are no more.

Using Fingerprints to Describe Schrodinger's Cat

Woke up and found a drawing of a dockyard on my neck,

I could still feel the pressure where someone had etched it onto my skin.

I craned and strained and cricked and hiked my neck in front of the mirror,

I could just make out the lobster pots.

I asked my girlfriend to tell me more about it,

She told me it was dull and looked like shit.

I reminded her of the butterfly tattooed on her ankle,

She gave our relationship a month.

Ageing tyres dressed in slimy green gowns,

Prevent my prow from hitting the sides.

Rusty ladders with far too few rungs,

Allow me to clamber up into the dry.

Is this dockyard in my mind? Is it Ramsgate in August?

Was it sketched on my neck as a sign?

I can't read all of it yet but I know there's a dry dock,

I wonder if that's where timber is allowed to dream?

Woke up and found a drawing of a playground on my neck...

Got arrested.

I wish I'd danced with the girl in the picture.

Her arms bend at an angle I've never seen in waking life,

Her sinews are taught as if she holds the whole world aloft.

She's looking at the camera like it's a window to my soul,

Her legs will never move in time with mine.

Swirling on the dance-floor we could have found reality,

Entwined in music I may have been able to make her happy.

Feet tripping and slipping in our own astral orbits,

Shadows of our children appear as we cavort through space.

Bodies pressed gently to each other in awkward anticipation,

Our arms raised to a slightly uncomfortable height as we spin.

Breasts and chest melting into each other like appetent butter,

Eyes transfixed by each others swirling pools of optical jelly.

Hypnotic rhythm and tribal fever erupt as the tune breaks,

Lusty legato love and a desirous dance duet.

I spin slowly in my bedroom tracing imaginary steps,

She is frozen mid swing with her impossibly bent arms.

I wish I'd danced with the girl in the picture.

It looks like she's doing the Macarena.