Speak Think

by Some Kind Of Poetry Thing

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about

An album of spoken word poems and oddities.

All proceeds from the download will go to Planet Frank on behalf of the Juvenile Diabetes Research Fund. www.justgiving.com/planetfrank

credits

released July 1, 2012

All tracks written by the performers.
Produced by Daniel Merrill.
Artwork by Tess Gardener.

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Some Kind Of Poetry Thing Colchester, UK

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Track Name: Piers Harrison-Reid - Little Boy Lost
He was lino floors and piss,
Battleship childhood: Hit and Miss
Mother never loved him or sis
But their bite only worsened that snakes hiss

His alarm was already set to 5 past pride,
As lucid darkness surrounds his sleeping tides.
Late -not never- can still smell that cigar,
And this day can open skylights: he can fly far.

He already got stoned now he wants sticks,
Wants to move from the time wasting, build, fix.
Now he’s matured, grown, started stacking up bricks.
Yearns to dwell in the mud that love inflicts.

Still all pride and anger; part fists and frowns.
Slowly drowns beneath the dusty dead of this town.
Just bumbling blindly through self-pity and lust.
Trying to futilely fuck out all the fear and disgust.

But those wet eyed wanderers just steamed open his heart,
exposed his insides to the air without tearing his world apart,
always left him singing-sore and lonely; giving guilt like a gift,
yet he hopes that somehow they’ll help his low life lift.

But that umbilical noose from his new born nights
hangs his heart from the highest tree,
without it how can he learn to love?
Without it can he be free?

‘Cause he’s just paddling wayward down her birth canal of hate,
unrelentingly coating everything he appreciates,
while the whirlpool of her maiming maternal memory still holds him from allhe can be.
‘Cause he’s tired of blaming mummy for the things he feels but cannot see,
He’s tired of dropping mad heartbeats over 2-tones alone,
And dragging from unused utility belts, jagged pieces of broken homes.

He sees old friends sporting the hair they used to hate on,
Wearing sad-satchels and skinnies. A few years back, would never don.
While waiting in lines, feet-found-fake dirty converse,
Spouting same old indie-chic shit: Well versed.
By now they know it like the back of a celeb’s hand,
Yet pretend to break from the system- New age Jeb Rand

And yet, after all the hypocrisy and change and time in this city,
And after boring through the shitty-nitty-gritty,
He still gives half-hearted shout-outs to his dogs,
(RUFF-RUFF-RUFF). But their slobber just drips from their hanging gobs,
Tin teeth tearing at the grip they forced him to get,
And dreaming about his walled in walkover tendencies before they even met.
As they pant with waiting, hungry eyes,
Running when they realise he has nothing left to give, besides
Where were they when he waded; deep shit: well above thighs,
And yet he still doesn’t discover time to dutifully despise,
And yes, he understands that we all must look after that important ‘self’
But should friendship not be friendship no matter what wealth,
Luck, time, or new mindset we possess?
A helping hand, supporting shoulder, freedom from stress,
Are surely priceless, which makes them precious,
So we should take pride in our auspiciousness.



But that is...Whatever,
Today we’re discussing, him.
He who finally found out that kissing mirrors isn’t truly a sin,
For self love is the first step to loving all in this world- our home.
Yes... today he is the winning end of a wishbone,
He whom now knows that though laziness is merely premature rest,
All can sleep when Grim strokes sweet scythes over chests.
He who has learnt to catch the eye of the slowest storm,
After that eye contact left others blinded and torn.
He shall ride this horseback to the stable of birth,
As he dances carefree over the country of mirth.
Track Name: Piers Harrison-Reid - Forgiving Love
There was a time when I stripped myself of your love, clawed heaped handfuls from myself wherever I saw the remnants of your name.
I mean, I just got way too tired of having to wear all those heartstring-hard-hats, to stop all those searching skill-shots you steady-aimed at my skull.
Until finally, clothed in my dignity, (the only truly worthy garment) I went my own way.

And now I stumble idly upon myself, writing love letters in the sand.
Tracing sad stories on the floors of this far too foreign land,
Which when read aloud ring with forgiveness,
But strike with honesty’s dull sting,
I watch my lungs fill with slow silence
To perhaps in victory, sing.
Inflate with timid hopes that after all these listless lifetimes, you’d still remember me,
For your hostage holding hyphae have never let my forget fly free.

Yeah, the thyme that seasons this hearty meal:
Life
Will only bring bitterness and disdain if not used effectively.
And unless I wring that scrawny bird’s neck now,
From a cold dirty phone box,
Which wearily shines the only light onto the dark rolling road to discovery,
And indulge in a heated self evaluation with that plastic receiver...
And my own pride
I can see that our next meeting will be decidedly less than the Rom-Com climax it could have been...
And that that thyme was poured clumsily instead of sprinkled with steady efficiency.

I will find the man that was me, spitting tired-tenderness from the lines he reads from your forehead,
(After he left you forever ago, still ain’t had time to grow.)
He will find you suffering from cirrhosis of the figure:
Holding empty handfuls of your own self love.
And will watch as crow’s feet complete stumbling sprints through the old metaphors of youth.
No...
That scowl is face-paint that will never wash away: it’s deep in the skin and you will hurt too hard without it.
Olay max-regenerist just ain’t strong enough for that shit.

So, I will take my chance, while the thyme is still sweet.

And we will slow dance to the circadian rhythms that rock us into the presence of
Generic,
Mass-produced
Individuality,
As the floor convulses and the fires rage and this house,
Falls fast,
‘Round our feet.
Until there is a single wall in this wide open space between me you and...

Everything.

And hard darkness surrounds.

We will work... together.
You with your floodlight face and warm velvet words will guide the way and mend the shattered day.

And I...

I can fly.

Over these walls we put up to guard our hearts,
I was so blind without the light in your eyes,
When we still fooled thoughts to thinking we were better apart,
And those walls reached deep into these dead black skies.

They’re still coated with the worthless words we wrote,
While we will live to love another day, and forever.
So just turn on your smile, clear your throat,
And I’ll take off this hardhat and rub my wings together.
Track Name: Piers Harrison-Reid - Angels Drown at High Tide
I am the doe-eyed, dark-skinned, digger of dreams,
But you’re dying to drown under what you think that might mean,
Forgetting that wings can glide over seas,
That you jumped off the moon and soared over the trees.
So now you’ve lost your light heart and those wings that you found,
At war with yourself and confined to the ground.

So now with veins full of winter you’re dragging sandbags through the mud,
Chanting through clenched teeth, “After me comes the flood”,
Wall out those lost waves, hide behind opal hearts,
We’ll tell knights from knaves when these oceans fall apart.
And keep your Moscow lips pursed over all your fake thoughts,
‘Til your chariot’s a hearse, or you’re outlined in chalk.
But cracks form in dams. Give it time, it’s fate.
And you’ve got your fingers in all the pies so that levee’ll have to wait.

And I know I can be jealous, but you can go your own way,
As long as you come and find yourself before your dying day,
And I don’t want to preach, lord knows I ain’t no preacher,
And I don’t want to teach, lord knows I ain’t no teacher,
Cause to teach you’ve got to know and I know nowt.
But can’t we learn together? Can’t we figure ourselves out?

Actually hold up a minute, hold up a minute, sorry...
I’m pretty sure this piece ain’t even about you and me,
But we both know my past left me blind to truth and irony.

So why don’t we talk?
Why don’t we talk?
I don’t think we’ve ever just... talked.

See me, writing hundreds of these (fucking) poems about/to you/me,
Whilst you lock your heart behind those worthless words you speak so freely,
So let your levee loose onto these fertile fields forever,
to keep calm in the city, and keep calm together.

And though I can’t be your dam, I’ll strain to help you stop,
But that pressure you put me under made my (fucking) ears pop!
So why don’t we go back to the way things we’re,
When we we’re all chewed pen lids, and Jesus without the myrrh.
Sitting cross-legged and carefree,
Bright-eyed and barely
aware of the glare of any feelings but glee.

Yeah, we took it for granted. Until time came
That smiles only arrived wet-eyed, and wine stained.
So now we lose the best of us in alcohol and lies,
But I’m yearning, relearning to lose myself in conversation and your eyes.
Hoping to holiday in childhood, smiling just to smile,
Learning to live for a living like before sadness was our style,
And rehearsed indifference tripped our tongues too soon,
as we passively pot-shot each other’s wrongs under streetlights and the moon.

So I guess what I’m trying to say is...
We both miss who you used to be,
Miss your sweet sober smile, and seeing you flying free.
So I’ll keep your wings in my back pocket, with this old broken notebook,
So that when you remember what an angel is, you’ll know where to look.