Tweet
So please, turn on your literacy caps and have a read.
I pull inspiration from many things, from events, other songs and writing to the very people around me and I see all the time to even something as menial as a conversation said in passing.
Many of my work is set to a tune only to help myself write them and to keep everything in a specific rhythm. Also, everything I write is constantly changing and evolving, either to help with the flow of the piece or to simply rearrange it into something I am actually happy with. Some of you may recognize some of the songs/pieces as I have posted them before, but some have changed dramatically since then.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy.
This is a more recent piece, drawing inspiration from a particular firearm I own...
1893
I wish I could tell stories that grasp ones attention
But my words get lost in a confounding intervention
There is one marvelous piece of history that I possess
One whose stories will never cease to impress
A firearm manufactured over a hundred years to date
Not far from my home in nineteen hundred and eight
Every piece inspected and meticulously hand fit
The gunsmith’s unique fingerprint
Over the years the finish has been slowly fading
Wood soaked in oil and slowly disintegrating
It still locks up tight and goes right to the shoulder
Light as a feather and as staunch as a boulder
When I hold it myself, I wonder and adore
The many other souls that have used it before
Not as a prize, a trophy, or treated like a fool
It was, to many before, nothing more than a tool
Nothing more than an object to harvest the meat
Small game and the like in the forests of wheat
A history unspoken; assumed with its complexion
Though to it, I am without that sort of connection
It’s such a grand firearm with a lavish history
And on this day it starts a new Era with me
My very own Marlin Model Eighteen Hundred and Ninety Three
While exploring some of upstate New York, we came across a piece of machinery hidden away from view and I worked on this piece on and off for a little while, describing the condition that we all found it in.
The Engine that Forever Sleeps
Built to last to the end of days
It was born in a shallow grave
Men toiled to complete
Something rendered obsolete
Within time, nothing lasts
Rusted metal, growing grass
From between the piston rods
Rotting since the engine stopped
Entombed in its own Catacomb
Its place of birth, it’s only home
Built to last to the end of days
An Engine born in a Shallow Grave
Polished metal, oiled and greased
Now filthy rust and decaying trees
Concrete Pipes Rustic Stanchions
A cold, refined Cobblestone Mansion
The Pinnacle of Technology
Rushing water to electricity
Now the moss slowly creeps
On the Engine that Forever Sleeps
This is one of the few pieces that was inspired by a simple conversation with someone else about a girl who loves to write down everything in her diary.
Sealed
A sealed book wrapped in leather
A scribe so fine and as light as a feather
Many pages blossom with happiness of years
While some are burdened with the stains of your tears
But in those dark hours, riddled with strife
Or in those bright days; the best of your life
Always remember to inscribe in those pages
Words and memories worthy of the ages
Your first taste of a dessert or your very first kiss
Tell the pages of your sorrows and of your bliss
And when the pages become black with ink
Be taken aback, please stop and think
Your life was worth every written word
Every adjective, every subject and every verb
Cherish your life and never regret
Keep that book close to your heart and never forget.
One of my first works from many years ago, it has remained unchanged now for almost 5 years.
Sunshine Lane
A brisk bright day on a street corner there
Stands a twelve-foot high street sign, cold steel and bare
Next to it, the flower shop surrounded by angels and flowers
The street sparkles with life in the bright daylight hours
Sunshine Lane is the name, no one would ever forget
It never gets too hot and when it rains, it never gets wet
Such a perfect place to live, a dream of the heavens
A magical place between Bellevue and West Devon
Sadly, that is not the case nor has been for years
Sunshine Lane is now the street that everyone fears
Drug dealers run rampant, pollution overloaded
Dead animals in the streets and all the signs corroded.
Black hats and trench coats is the only attire
Nothing there is friendly, nothing there to inspire
Burning cars on the sidewalks and down electric wires
The central swimming stream is now nothing but a mire.
And on a cold heartless day on a street corner there
Stands a twelve-foot high street sign, cold rust and bare
Next to it, the flower shop, boarded up and abandoned
It isn’t even worth looking at, not even a glance while standin’.
This song is a joint collaboration between my mother an I, painting a picture with words the House my grandparent's used to own when they were alive and living in Bridgeport, CT and the neighbors they had.
Porches
A bland house from the street and not much to the passerby
Surrounded by ones just like it that wouldn’t catch your eye
The families didn’t mind as they would’ve rather gone sight unseen
And off that house great porches shaded by a massive Evergreen.
The porch on the first floor is where Frank and Peggy sat
Eating some fresh sandwiches and having themselves a chat
Peggy would twist needles and knit herself a sweater
And Frank would scan the papers, enjoying the warm weather
The rustic porch on the second floor was home to Eddie’s throne
A lawn chair had for many years and worn right to the bone
A quick drag on his cigarette and plume of smoke arose
And a gentle breeze would blow the ashes onto the drying cloths
Kathleen would comb her hair and pluck her eyebrows in the sun
The pot would be a screaming lettin’ ‘em know coffee was done
Then Eddie would try to reason with her and try to explain
Why the car shouldn’t be washed upon the morning of the rain
Good Ol’ Jack McGuire, he’d come tottering up the drive
Sipping at his whiskey and trying to stay alive
He’d come pissing vinegar and swinging the cane he had
‘Cause the Brits imposed that curfew when he was just a lad.
And even when November came and chilled the autumn breeze
The cousins would don their winter vests and critique who they please
They’d laugh and cheer and prod and sneer at all the poor fools below
As they walked unknowingly through the cold December snow
Soon the spring would come and whisk the dreariness away
And Eddie would tend to his garden and be there every day
Sometimes he would gaze upon the house in a peaceful way
For those would be the porches on which his grandkids would soon play
Great castles built of sweat and stone that towered above the trees
All had grand halls, massive rooms and endless libraries
Where one can sit and ponder all of life’s great mysteries
But all the castles of Ire never had porches quite like these.
This is where stuff starts to get fun. This song has evolved so many different times it is hard for me to tell what brought the first glisten of inspiration.
Assault on the Senses
Pound the ground or bring the pain
We leave your Dead behind and reign
Raze the buildings and raise the rocks
To the roar of thunder and lightning shocks
Through your Darkness we Preserver
We are the Light you where Born to Fear
Artillery blasts burn the hollow sky
A disheartening symphony to our Battle Cry
And with the Drums blaring from behind
You will cower to our Anger, divine and refined
War Chants, Death Hymns; Never Disappear
We are the bellow you’re Afraid to Hear
Our soldiers stand ready waiting for the Assault
While the magma erupts from under the Black Basalt
Destroying the unruly evil blocking their way
And they’ll slay the wounded set in disarray
Constantly Advancing, We shall Never Yield
We are the Death you will Never Feel
The Air becomes thick and much harder to breathe
The poisonous gases make your feeble mind Seethe
Rotting corpses add to the scent of disgust
And the caustic vapors turn your Soul into Dust
Don’t Breathe in - the air’s already Stale
We Lay the Fumes you’re Afraid to Inhale
Upon the Horizon the Blood Sun Fades
Hiding our Forces in the Mountain’s Shade
With the Darkness our Force is fully Released
There’s no way to stop our Nocturnal Beasts
The Tenebrous Colossuses Rampage at Night
We are the Shadows Burned in your Sight
Our Ruthless Campaign will Toil for Years
Assaulting your Senses and Enhancing your Fears
We won’t stop until your Army is Erased
We Claim the Victory that you’ll Never Taste.
I tinkered with the old Irish saying May we be in heaven for a half an hour before the devil knows we're dead and it eventually became this.
The Guns of Killarney
In City of Killarney, just east of Dingle Bay
A tyrant came a walking, and settled here one day
He brought along his minions, a legion of despair
We tried to get him to leave, but wouldn’t go no where
Corruption ran rampant, and nothing could be done
But it had to end when the mothers would lose their sons
So a band of us young rebels, and armed to teeth were we
Set off to save the people and the city of Killarney.
So may God look down and recognize we tried
And may the devil burn in hell and never know we died
All of us good Catholics, all loyal to the Green
As we loaded forty fives, into the magazines!
We asked for his forgiveness, the prayer was no mistake
We hoped that He’d forgive us for the lives that we would take
We all dressed up in solid black and left our humble abodes
And took ourselves and the guns onto the cobble roads
As we lined up at his door, the tyrant began to run
That’s when we turned night to day with flash of Thompson guns!
So may God look down and recognize we tried
And may the devil burn in hell and never know we died
The tyrant laid a bleeding, gasping for a breath
And then came his minions, alarmed by his death
Their numbers grew immensely, but we wouldn’t have defeat
The guns went blazing, unto the city’s streets
The battle raged for hours, a sight no one should see
Bodies lay strewn upon the streets of Killarney
People tried to stop it, they would cry and they would plead
But all their voices drowned out by the machine gun symphony
So may God look down and recognize we tried
And may the devil burn in hell and never know we died
We stood and fought together, fighting in the fray
Sadly though we wouldn’t see the sun rise the next day
The band of us young rebels, immortal we shall be
Because we killed that Tyrant and saved the City of Killarney
Now there stands a statue, a block from where we died
To tell of the sacrifices to all those far and wide
And under that bronze statue a plaque that goes and reads
“Six men holding Thompsons, the Guns of Killarney”
So may God look down and recognize we tried!
And may the devil burn in hell and never know we died!
So may God look down and recognize we tried!
And may the devil burn in hell and never know we died!
Everyone knows that childish 'Yo Ho A Pirates life for me!' song, well, I thought I would take a few key words from that song and turn it into something more sinister and more demonic, painting a true portrait of who pirates really were.
Dead Pirates
Not many people can tell you the tale
Of blood thirsty bastards under a black sail
We made our home on the wide open blue
We would have done different but that’s all we knew
Marauders of our town and thieves of the Few
We hijacked a ship and assembled a crew
Our souls were as black as the far ocean’s deep
If one of us died, no one would weep
We made it our mantra to simply cause fear
As we lived off the sea and from pier to pier
We were no heroes, no saviors of souls
We searched for no treasure, we hunted no gold
We pillaged we plundered we raped and we killed
We burned every building the red coats had built
We had a good run and lived for a while
And that’s why I tell you we died with a smile!
We would land at each port and burn it to the ground
And let the whole world know when we were around
We’d storm the Grand Navy and fight for our lives
We’d fight to the death - but we never died!
We’d kill every man and tear the captain apart
We’d cut open his chest and hold up his heart
Drinking the blood as if it where Rum
Even the Devil had all of us Shunned
Well it took the Old Crown at least ten dozen men
To finally capture us and then that is when
Marching to the gallows we broke out in song
We told all those bastards what we had done wrong
“We pillaged we plundered we raped and we killed
We burned every building you bastards had built
Go ahead; please tell us our lives are a disgrace
But all of us will die with a Smile on our face!”
We garnered no sympathy for pirates were we
Blackening the pages of your history!
Well, that is what I feel like posting for now, maybe I'll post some more stuff tomorrow...
I pull inspiration from many things, from events, other songs and writing to the very people around me and I see all the time to even something as menial as a conversation said in passing.
Many of my work is set to a tune only to help myself write them and to keep everything in a specific rhythm. Also, everything I write is constantly changing and evolving, either to help with the flow of the piece or to simply rearrange it into something I am actually happy with. Some of you may recognize some of the songs/pieces as I have posted them before, but some have changed dramatically since then.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy.
This is a more recent piece, drawing inspiration from a particular firearm I own...
1893
I wish I could tell stories that grasp ones attention
But my words get lost in a confounding intervention
There is one marvelous piece of history that I possess
One whose stories will never cease to impress
A firearm manufactured over a hundred years to date
Not far from my home in nineteen hundred and eight
Every piece inspected and meticulously hand fit
The gunsmith’s unique fingerprint
Over the years the finish has been slowly fading
Wood soaked in oil and slowly disintegrating
It still locks up tight and goes right to the shoulder
Light as a feather and as staunch as a boulder
When I hold it myself, I wonder and adore
The many other souls that have used it before
Not as a prize, a trophy, or treated like a fool
It was, to many before, nothing more than a tool
Nothing more than an object to harvest the meat
Small game and the like in the forests of wheat
A history unspoken; assumed with its complexion
Though to it, I am without that sort of connection
It’s such a grand firearm with a lavish history
And on this day it starts a new Era with me
My very own Marlin Model Eighteen Hundred and Ninety Three
While exploring some of upstate New York, we came across a piece of machinery hidden away from view and I worked on this piece on and off for a little while, describing the condition that we all found it in.
The Engine that Forever Sleeps
Built to last to the end of days
It was born in a shallow grave
Men toiled to complete
Something rendered obsolete
Within time, nothing lasts
Rusted metal, growing grass
From between the piston rods
Rotting since the engine stopped
Entombed in its own Catacomb
Its place of birth, it’s only home
Built to last to the end of days
An Engine born in a Shallow Grave
Polished metal, oiled and greased
Now filthy rust and decaying trees
Concrete Pipes Rustic Stanchions
A cold, refined Cobblestone Mansion
The Pinnacle of Technology
Rushing water to electricity
Now the moss slowly creeps
On the Engine that Forever Sleeps
This is one of the few pieces that was inspired by a simple conversation with someone else about a girl who loves to write down everything in her diary.
Sealed
A sealed book wrapped in leather
A scribe so fine and as light as a feather
Many pages blossom with happiness of years
While some are burdened with the stains of your tears
But in those dark hours, riddled with strife
Or in those bright days; the best of your life
Always remember to inscribe in those pages
Words and memories worthy of the ages
Your first taste of a dessert or your very first kiss
Tell the pages of your sorrows and of your bliss
And when the pages become black with ink
Be taken aback, please stop and think
Your life was worth every written word
Every adjective, every subject and every verb
Cherish your life and never regret
Keep that book close to your heart and never forget.
One of my first works from many years ago, it has remained unchanged now for almost 5 years.
Sunshine Lane
A brisk bright day on a street corner there
Stands a twelve-foot high street sign, cold steel and bare
Next to it, the flower shop surrounded by angels and flowers
The street sparkles with life in the bright daylight hours
Sunshine Lane is the name, no one would ever forget
It never gets too hot and when it rains, it never gets wet
Such a perfect place to live, a dream of the heavens
A magical place between Bellevue and West Devon
Sadly, that is not the case nor has been for years
Sunshine Lane is now the street that everyone fears
Drug dealers run rampant, pollution overloaded
Dead animals in the streets and all the signs corroded.
Black hats and trench coats is the only attire
Nothing there is friendly, nothing there to inspire
Burning cars on the sidewalks and down electric wires
The central swimming stream is now nothing but a mire.
And on a cold heartless day on a street corner there
Stands a twelve-foot high street sign, cold rust and bare
Next to it, the flower shop, boarded up and abandoned
It isn’t even worth looking at, not even a glance while standin’.
This song is a joint collaboration between my mother an I, painting a picture with words the House my grandparent's used to own when they were alive and living in Bridgeport, CT and the neighbors they had.
Porches
A bland house from the street and not much to the passerby
Surrounded by ones just like it that wouldn’t catch your eye
The families didn’t mind as they would’ve rather gone sight unseen
And off that house great porches shaded by a massive Evergreen.
The porch on the first floor is where Frank and Peggy sat
Eating some fresh sandwiches and having themselves a chat
Peggy would twist needles and knit herself a sweater
And Frank would scan the papers, enjoying the warm weather
The rustic porch on the second floor was home to Eddie’s throne
A lawn chair had for many years and worn right to the bone
A quick drag on his cigarette and plume of smoke arose
And a gentle breeze would blow the ashes onto the drying cloths
Kathleen would comb her hair and pluck her eyebrows in the sun
The pot would be a screaming lettin’ ‘em know coffee was done
Then Eddie would try to reason with her and try to explain
Why the car shouldn’t be washed upon the morning of the rain
Good Ol’ Jack McGuire, he’d come tottering up the drive
Sipping at his whiskey and trying to stay alive
He’d come pissing vinegar and swinging the cane he had
‘Cause the Brits imposed that curfew when he was just a lad.
And even when November came and chilled the autumn breeze
The cousins would don their winter vests and critique who they please
They’d laugh and cheer and prod and sneer at all the poor fools below
As they walked unknowingly through the cold December snow
Soon the spring would come and whisk the dreariness away
And Eddie would tend to his garden and be there every day
Sometimes he would gaze upon the house in a peaceful way
For those would be the porches on which his grandkids would soon play
Great castles built of sweat and stone that towered above the trees
All had grand halls, massive rooms and endless libraries
Where one can sit and ponder all of life’s great mysteries
But all the castles of Ire never had porches quite like these.
This is where stuff starts to get fun. This song has evolved so many different times it is hard for me to tell what brought the first glisten of inspiration.
Assault on the Senses
Pound the ground or bring the pain
We leave your Dead behind and reign
Raze the buildings and raise the rocks
To the roar of thunder and lightning shocks
Through your Darkness we Preserver
We are the Light you where Born to Fear
Artillery blasts burn the hollow sky
A disheartening symphony to our Battle Cry
And with the Drums blaring from behind
You will cower to our Anger, divine and refined
War Chants, Death Hymns; Never Disappear
We are the bellow you’re Afraid to Hear
Our soldiers stand ready waiting for the Assault
While the magma erupts from under the Black Basalt
Destroying the unruly evil blocking their way
And they’ll slay the wounded set in disarray
Constantly Advancing, We shall Never Yield
We are the Death you will Never Feel
The Air becomes thick and much harder to breathe
The poisonous gases make your feeble mind Seethe
Rotting corpses add to the scent of disgust
And the caustic vapors turn your Soul into Dust
Don’t Breathe in - the air’s already Stale
We Lay the Fumes you’re Afraid to Inhale
Upon the Horizon the Blood Sun Fades
Hiding our Forces in the Mountain’s Shade
With the Darkness our Force is fully Released
There’s no way to stop our Nocturnal Beasts
The Tenebrous Colossuses Rampage at Night
We are the Shadows Burned in your Sight
Our Ruthless Campaign will Toil for Years
Assaulting your Senses and Enhancing your Fears
We won’t stop until your Army is Erased
We Claim the Victory that you’ll Never Taste.
I tinkered with the old Irish saying May we be in heaven for a half an hour before the devil knows we're dead and it eventually became this.
The Guns of Killarney
In City of Killarney, just east of Dingle Bay
A tyrant came a walking, and settled here one day
He brought along his minions, a legion of despair
We tried to get him to leave, but wouldn’t go no where
Corruption ran rampant, and nothing could be done
But it had to end when the mothers would lose their sons
So a band of us young rebels, and armed to teeth were we
Set off to save the people and the city of Killarney.
So may God look down and recognize we tried
And may the devil burn in hell and never know we died
All of us good Catholics, all loyal to the Green
As we loaded forty fives, into the magazines!
We asked for his forgiveness, the prayer was no mistake
We hoped that He’d forgive us for the lives that we would take
We all dressed up in solid black and left our humble abodes
And took ourselves and the guns onto the cobble roads
As we lined up at his door, the tyrant began to run
That’s when we turned night to day with flash of Thompson guns!
So may God look down and recognize we tried
And may the devil burn in hell and never know we died
The tyrant laid a bleeding, gasping for a breath
And then came his minions, alarmed by his death
Their numbers grew immensely, but we wouldn’t have defeat
The guns went blazing, unto the city’s streets
The battle raged for hours, a sight no one should see
Bodies lay strewn upon the streets of Killarney
People tried to stop it, they would cry and they would plead
But all their voices drowned out by the machine gun symphony
So may God look down and recognize we tried
And may the devil burn in hell and never know we died
We stood and fought together, fighting in the fray
Sadly though we wouldn’t see the sun rise the next day
The band of us young rebels, immortal we shall be
Because we killed that Tyrant and saved the City of Killarney
Now there stands a statue, a block from where we died
To tell of the sacrifices to all those far and wide
And under that bronze statue a plaque that goes and reads
“Six men holding Thompsons, the Guns of Killarney”
So may God look down and recognize we tried!
And may the devil burn in hell and never know we died!
So may God look down and recognize we tried!
And may the devil burn in hell and never know we died!
Everyone knows that childish 'Yo Ho A Pirates life for me!' song, well, I thought I would take a few key words from that song and turn it into something more sinister and more demonic, painting a true portrait of who pirates really were.
Dead Pirates
Not many people can tell you the tale
Of blood thirsty bastards under a black sail
We made our home on the wide open blue
We would have done different but that’s all we knew
Marauders of our town and thieves of the Few
We hijacked a ship and assembled a crew
Our souls were as black as the far ocean’s deep
If one of us died, no one would weep
We made it our mantra to simply cause fear
As we lived off the sea and from pier to pier
We were no heroes, no saviors of souls
We searched for no treasure, we hunted no gold
We pillaged we plundered we raped and we killed
We burned every building the red coats had built
We had a good run and lived for a while
And that’s why I tell you we died with a smile!
We would land at each port and burn it to the ground
And let the whole world know when we were around
We’d storm the Grand Navy and fight for our lives
We’d fight to the death - but we never died!
We’d kill every man and tear the captain apart
We’d cut open his chest and hold up his heart
Drinking the blood as if it where Rum
Even the Devil had all of us Shunned
Well it took the Old Crown at least ten dozen men
To finally capture us and then that is when
Marching to the gallows we broke out in song
We told all those bastards what we had done wrong
“We pillaged we plundered we raped and we killed
We burned every building you bastards had built
Go ahead; please tell us our lives are a disgrace
But all of us will die with a Smile on our face!”
We garnered no sympathy for pirates were we
Blackening the pages of your history!
Well, that is what I feel like posting for now, maybe I'll post some more stuff tomorrow...
some good reads there, man.
Vice President of Internal Affairs at Dirty Donny's House of Hookers
and 
Comment