1. |
Fiddle Wood.
04:42
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Oh How sweetly
It comes in the late May spring.
The rain comes in
And it sits all the birds stil to sing
For the joy and the dreams of their coming broods.
In a Ryburn Valley
All in a kingdom to call my own
When I climb up to Cottonstones
Its like I'd sneaked and I peeped
Into a secret garden.
Up through Fiddle Wood
And the crucible valley floor
I'm listening to sound of a summer song
Singing 'I will love you, I will love you my whole life long.
So starts my Dream, my dream of you
Oh to be the one who is in your bedroom
And is unbuttoning you.
So starts my dream of you
Oh to be one who is your bedroom
And is unbuttoning you
I would love to do.
One look upon high
I see a coming crisis up there in the clouds
Oh this valley soon in full spate
Of a wind and it abated for nobody.
And all lemon scents
Becoming thunder in the blink of an eye
Drenching through
And surprising your summer whites
Oh run on home run on home
And we will shelter it through.
So starts my dream of you
To be the one who is your bedroom
And is unbuttoning you..........
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2. |
The Basin Stone.
07:17
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Only the heather would flower, where the earth it is sour
But the rivers they all did turn
Like machines in our valleys and our cloughs
Under the moors you'd see all the black roots of trees
And it is evidence enough
Of why farm walls got left to crumble and to fall
How soon we were tied to the loom
A drone lost in the factory boom
Because the summers came slow
And the yields were poor
And the movement of men from the famine and wars
All in the wake these exiles..
Who were tied up in slavery to textile
Here in this England.
Because of the 'operative ease' of the Ginny machines
Well a mother and her child soon toiled
On the factory floor
And with 'operative ease' a new ritual of Thieves
Gave an eighty hour week
A two shillings and sixpence reward.
So there are twenty thousand on the moor
All to march against The Bill Of The Poor.
Seeds of Chartism sown up at the basin Stone
Had them pulling out the Plugs down in Todmorden.
All in the wake these exiles..
Who were tied up in slavery to textile
Here in this England.
They cried the time it will come when this Weavers band
Will hunger no more down here
In our own Fathers land
When the factory child will sleep on until day
And he smile as he dreams
Of his sports and of his friendships and his play
Until justice and love holds jubilee
We march until our Charter reigns free.
All against crushing up bones in a workhouse yard
Leaving a poor man and family to starve.
All in the wake these exiles..
Who were tied up in slavery to textile
Here in this England.
All summer long
Those Factories rolled on.
All wintertime long those factories rolled on
Through springtime long, those factories rolled on.
Once thes towns they rang with such a clatter and bang
But the looms they turn no more
Down here, in our valleys and or cloughs
And all the townships that thrived they're all gentrified
And mortgaged of away to serve of commuter community
Once the Mills they rolled all the nights in the hills
Theres just the gates left and a hardstanding
Because the ritual of thieves moved the labour on
To have them turning the loom in a foreign land
For the sub-poverty rates they can pay them
To tie them up in a bonded wage slavery
Where all overtime is mandatory
All on top of a ninety hour week.
And in conditions so wretched and poor they burn 112 Tazreen
Buried 1200 more in Savar.. burn 112 in Tazreen
With our ritual incentivising
Of the sweatshops there in China
Of the sweatshops there in Haiti
Its just a race to the bottom we see....
All summer long- those sweatshops roll on
All sumnmtertime long, those sweatshops roll on
All in a nine storey, Maquiliadora
Those sweatshops roll on....
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3. |
Two Magicians.
06:06
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4. |
Death and the Lady.
05:06
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5. |
Violetta.
05:07
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A fire burns beneath her skin
My Violetta lays dying, under angels wings
Slow, slowly turns the brain tonight
In a perfect fixation of exhausted plight
Well I feed you and send you straight up to bed.
Tell you tomorrows another day and I need you there..
Slow, slowly turns the brain tonight
In a perfect fixation, of exhausted plight
Well that was a week so very hard spent
Where compassion took such a blow
There was none left to lend.
Well I feed you and send you straight up to bed
And say tomorrows another day..
And I need you there..
You, were always a champion collector fo bruises
With your brashness you bashed up confusion
With a lazer guided sight you cut down to size..
with the edge of your hand.
It just took some explaining for others to understand,
A catch up game that we all played
to realise that what you said yesterday
Or indeed, several yesterdays ago
Was becoming now as you said so
So, I sit, in the sump, of a waiting room think
And I watch the spoiled pushed around the Salford Royal
In the constant air-condtioned blow
With the old chaps, chatting to themselves
Watching weary staff, Catching a once in eight hours ten minute cigarette break and a yoghurt pot perhaps..
Oh it makes it more murderous to know
Oh it makes it more murderous to think
Things become a din
Oh a dense brain mass
Till it becomes a blank
This weighing up and measuring of scars
An assumption here, an obvious accident there
All sitting with the self prescribing the withering and the dying.
Not too much time to write these words before Ali pushes you back across the floor
You're both bored
Intolerably so..
And this is how they make you suffer
You are numbed down and told to go away
In their manner kindest for more tests
And a meeting planned for four months hence
No surprise upon your face.
Just another bruise collected.
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6. |
Pharaoh.
04:32
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7. |
In Fiddle Wood.
04:37
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Spring brings a Gladstone bag for your sorrows
An apothacary for your heart
A tincture of love for you all to swallow
To give you knowledge and the strength in arms
For all joy, for all joy, Oh joy for all.
So when you slumbered in your hibernation
Winter it captured a map of your scars
But in she runs with her preparations
For to soothe, and suffuse any champion collection of bruises
And for the first time in a centuary of days
Your feet they stamp and your hips they sway
In the cold herald that morning has raised up
In abyssful bliss to a tune that goes like this..
Come along and look in
And you'll see that love is the wonderful measure of all things
Come along and look in
And you will se that love is the wonderful measure of everything.
Of all things....
With one cold echo still winter did holler
Only hard truth is the equal to your sorrows
And if loss is a measure of love
Then without loss known we will be starving our souls
So for the first time in a centuary days
Your feet they stamp your hips they sway
In the cold herald that morning has raised up
All in Abyssful bliss.....
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8. |
Bluebird Conversations.
06:41
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Come in lad the outside now is frozen
I hold the door wide open for your walker
Inside the folks complain of cold
Of the door that I opened wide for Arthur
Well its such a cold day
Outside the Bluebird Cafe
Still the old boy is greeted now with laughter
And for a bit more taste upon your dinner plate
Each salt seller is emptied out and shaken
And all those pension day grumbles sweetened up with the crumbles
And the best of Peters home made baking.
In the window sits a teenage mother
Who sits there with her baby daughter
Not out of hospital three days
The bairn was a surprise she says,
And varifocalled eyes, all roll to the skies
As she explains her baby's name
Well it was a little game that I used to play, she says
As I lie in bed my belly growing
That names an anagram of an absentee mans name
Who left without his baby ever knowing.
Well I leaned that stirring up my coffee
I learned that staring at my food
And it took great guts that conversation
Because their inquisition it was rude!
And that girls answers were courageous
And I know that she never lied, no she never lied.. except maybe to herself.
Arthur Old boy you are late today
The lasses have gone up to town already
You shuffle on to find you usual place..
I cannot watch you eating your spaghetti
How could I understand? how that arthritic rheumy old man.. still figured on fancying all the ladies.
And all the windows drip steam from the stewing of tea
And the bubbling of a Burco boiler
Edie is eighty three and she has not ever been.. back home once to Connemara.
Well the folk here know each others business
And in this fish bowl there are no secrets
The route of all those Sowerby Fables
Are plotted charted at these tables
And I know they never lie, I know that they never lie... except maybe to themselves.
Ah, me too. I will be waiting at these tables
And shallow falls all the conversation
Ah, me too. I will be finishing my dinner breaking
With gravy chasing knives and that free advice.. None of which I ever will be taking.
Well these old boots they were made for working.
And that is what they are going to do.
You do it as a daily grind.
Till work it walks all over you, till work it walks all over you
I hardly ever lie, I hardly ever lie...... except maybe to myeslf, except to myself.
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9. |
The Bear Cafe Todmorden.
09:22
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Courage.
Bon courage...
Bon courage
Courage
Bon courage
Courage
Courage
Courage......... Bon courage.
Do you that? Do you know that....?
...That there is no such thing I have ever seen, as a simple tear.
That there is nothing so withering to belief, as final sincerities?
Sincerely.....
Well it was such a lovely and warm April day
But it was almost too much for you to bare
Yeah the air it was so hot and still
And you could not fill your lungs. It brought on a near panic attack
A statement that you later ask me to retract.. and draught after flushing daught of water.
SO, we go slow on the zebra crossing- yes the traffic can wait
And we make our way over to the Bear cafe where you push your fork around a plate
Trying hard to entertain, interest and engage your belly then to make-more than just those bubbling sounds
And brew up a reaction of good energy.
I am here, thankfull I say and blessed with your ever irridescent presence and company..
Though in truth today! It is no more that a blushed hibakusha or some dust from Pompeii
This is before the proposed american therapy,
Where One Hundreds it will defeat you and every staircase looks like K2.
Downstairs, in the organic food shop..
You finger every saviour elixir courgette.. and you turn to me and say ''its expensive isn't it? being good, oh what encouragement could it give?''
Then you lead me, in a slow turned dance around the store
Looking, looking, with a forgetful forceful scrutiny
For something to abate the mutiny in your body..
A distraction, a path, a lock, an answer..
In a slow turned dance around the store I see.. in a gardeners hand cream, in a lotion especially designed for dry ear skin, a haunting and a wanting, in all these potions for good health.. and as you kneel down to the bottom shelf
Well I look at you and I think, My god girl you've got so small.. you are almost a foetus.
Later, when the couch had reclaimed you once again
You drew your knees both up and in..
And you beaten by an irradiating tingling.
Why?
Is there no such, thing I've ever seen, as a simple tear?
Is there nothing- so withering to belief, as final sincerity...?
Sincerely.
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