1. |
Alfred J
05:53
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Why don't we go out tonight when the stars are smashed against the sky
like a windscreen smithereened across a city pavement.
Let us stroll through ginnel creeks and cobbled streets
where black rain beats on manhole covers and oily pools
reflecting derelict Victorian schools.
Streets that stream and slope past these gritstone curbs
to a Saturday night-bright city centre.
Do not ask me if you are dreaming.
Your hands are warm, your heart is beating.
In the street the people come and go, surfing the Pinot Grigio
In the street the people ebb and flow, caught in the high street undertow.
For I have known it already, known it all,
trawled the skies on low-cost long-haul flights;
I calibrate my life in gigabytes.
Is it the pattern on your dress
That makes me talk like this?
Don't get old, don't get old.
Skin wears thin and your lips get cold.
Don't get old, don't get old.
Mind cuts loose and your house is sold.
For I have heard it already, seen it all,
seen the world on high-res wall-mount screens.
I have plotted out my life in pixel dreams.
Is it the glitter on your throat
That makes my senses float?
In the street the people come and go...
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2. |
Six O'Clock
03:23
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Lyn walks Chalkie in the park,
a chilly rain comes drifting down.
Six o'clock,
Autumn night in Chapeltown.
Lamplight gleams on red brick walls,
at Asap Stores Amina stops for
pick and mix
and checks the ad for PayDay Loans.
Della kicks an empty can down Hilton Road.
And at the corner by the church
at the back of Shepherd's Lane
Levi nods and high-faves Shane.
Six o'clock.
The terraced city shelves and stacks
its schools and banks and back-to-backs.
Della checks her phone.
Lyn calls Chalky, heads for home.
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3. |
Gramophone
03:15
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The sushi were delicious, he pronounces.
Drains his Amstel as he pays the bill.
Guides her to the exit where he announces
He owns a street of houses in Fearnville.
Back of the taxicab, he strokes her hand,
Talks about his trip to South Korea.
She gazes at the inlay on his ring.
Hears him shout the driver, 'You can drop us here'.
When Lynsey Bonham hits the bottom
back in her basement on her own,
she pours a glass of Californian White
and puts a record on the
Gramophone.
Lynsey brings her weary eyes to rest
on Daniel's vintage vinyl collection.
He never took them with him when he left.
Donna Summer. T-Connection.
Lynsey Bonham in her basement
dancing on the parquet on her own.
Drains a glass of Californian White
and puts a record on the
Gramophone.
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4. |
Rag
03:39
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Love is a many-splendored thing, she said,
Sitting in a corner at The Duchess, now she's dead.
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
OOO that cerulean blue
OOO that cerulean blue
Of the Shlachtensee.
We were there, you see. OOO that serendipitous blue
I am not well tonight, not well.
I am falling down a well. Well, I am falling.
It is so very dark, you see, so dark.
I cannot see, let me out of here, catch me.
What is my address? Count backwards from twenty.
Is that the wind again? Who is the reigning monarch?
Why are you asking me? Why is a lion like a wolf?
OOO that cerulean blue
OOO love was right, love was true
On the Wannsee.
Berlin, nineteen-twenty.
OOO that cerulean blue
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5. |
All Shall Be Well
02:17
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Briefly, in a dream or memory,
in a winter that is tired and grey,
the dying sun will find the mountain
setting the snow on fire.
All shall be well, all shall be well.
And all manner of thing shall be well.
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6. |
The Creel
03:05
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Lyrics by kind permission of Kathleen Jamie, from The Tree House (Picador Poetry)
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7. |
Bones
03:35
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Lyrics drawn from Carl Sandburg's poem "Bones" (Harcourt)
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8. |
The Dipper
03:20
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9. |
Slow Cooker
04:18
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Put the good things you got - in the pot.
Turn on the heat. Low.
Herbs and spices. All things nices.
Put on the lid. So.
Salt and pepper, bubble and simmer,
now just turn and go
Oh Oh Oh I'm a slow o o cooker
No need to fret, stir me a bit.
Then let me sit – all day.
Go for a run, when you return,
Mmm smells so good! You say.
No excuses, for all these juices.
And they're all for you.
Oh Oh Oh I'm a slow o o cooker
Oh Oh Oh I'm a slow o o cooker
I got tired of the clock
Clock's not where I'm looking
Time's gonna go. So?
I'm fine I'm slow cooking
Toss all your griefs into the feast
Dreams and disasters. Dare.
False positions, failed ambitions
Great loves and lost loves. Yeah.
Wanna savour life's deep flavours?
There's time to taste them all.
Oh Oh Oh I'm a slow o o cooker
Oh Oh Oh I'm a slow o o cooker
Oh Oh Oh I'm a slow o o cooker
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10. |
Bliss (for Stevie Smith)
03:13
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When you pass me by at the grocer,
I'm the batty old girl in the queue,
How could you know when I go home
The things I get up to.
Oh the touch of my skin on the paper
More electric than any man's kiss.
When the poem comes and the hot ink runs
There is no bliss like this.
No bliss like this.
No bliss like this.
Poem comes and the hot ink runs
There is no bliss like this.
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11. |
Happiness
04:43
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I go out bare-footed holding a parasol,
to see the children singing as they tread the water-wheel.
Ah, is this not happiness?
To cut with a knife a bright green water-melon
on a summer's afternoon.
Ah, is this not happiness?
To discover accidentally in an unexpected place
a letter from an old friend. It makes you laugh.
Ah, is this not happiness?
I am drinking on a winter's night and note it's turning cold.
I open a window. Snowflakes are drifting down.
Ah, is this not happiness?
To return from a foreign journey, come through the towngate
To hear familiar voices speaking your dialect.
Ah, is this not happiness?
I lie in bed in the morning after one whole month of rain.
Today the birds are singing. A change in the air.
Ah, is this not happiness?
A friend I haven't seen for years turns up at sunset.
We repair to the inner chamber with a gallon of wine.
Ah, is this not happiness?
It's a hot day in June, not a whiff of breeze in the air.
Suddenly a rumble of thunder. Cool rain comes down.
Ah, is this not happiness?
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Schwa Leeds, UK
Welcome in Schwa: Peter Spafford writes poetry and plays the piano; Richard Ormrod plays other instruments and arranges tunes. More recently, Jacqui Wicks sings and plays the ukulele.
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