Season of the Witch…

Once again the hour of the witch is near.
The May fires are lit on the mountain.
All this shouting and singing and dancing.
Burn, baby, burn…

Must be the season of the witch…

When I look out my window
Many sights to see
And when I look in my window
So many different people to be
That it's strange
So strange

You got to pick up every stitch
You got to pick up every stitch
You got to pick up every stitch
Mmmm, must be the season of the witch
Must be the season of the witch, yeah
Must be the season of the witch

When I look over my shoulder
What do you think I see?
Some other cat lookin' over
His shoulder at me
And he's strange
Sure is strange

You got to pick up every stich
You got to pick up every stitch, yeah
Beatnicks are out to make it rich
Oh no, must be the season of the witch
Must be the season of the witch, yeah
Must be the season of the witch

You got to pick up every stitch
Two rabbits runnin' in the ditch
Beatnicks out to make it rich
Oh no, must be the season of the witch
Must be the season of the witch
Must be the season of the witch
When I go

When I look out my window
What do you think I see?
And when I look in my window
So many different people to be
It's strange
Sure is strange

You got to pick up every stitch
You got to pick up every stitch
Two rabbits runnin' in the ditch
Oh no, must be the season of the witch
Must be the season of the witch, yeah
Must be the season of the witch
When I go
When I go

Bird watching…

The north wind is blowing cold showing his north face.
Winter is not over yet. And yes, he is showing his north face
'cause he is a grumpy old man blowing his icy breath through
his frozen, sizzling beard all the way from north pole
bringing us ice and snow and soft hail.
Maybe he is Father Christmas.
Christmas in April with springtime a-knockin'?

Winter is coming, as the wise men said.

Lights reflecting lights. Light shadows in white mists and fogs.
I am sitting… Or am I not? I am lying. I am flying. I am floating.
I am drowning. I am crying.

Ground control to Major Brom.
Where am I? Where are I?

Sliding and gliding in space. There is something wrong.
Can you hear me, Major Brom?

I'm sitting here in a house, a very big house in the country
watching birds gathered around a funny little wooden house
filled with seeds and semen mainly sunflower seeds.

All these little birds freezing. Tits and sparrows.
Green finches and blackbirds and a magpie from time to time.
And every time they hear an unknown noise or spot a sudden movement
they fly up in the sky almost panicking. Like a stampede in the air.
But they are sure to be back only moments later.
Hungry, greedy.

What about survival of the fittest?
Are we killing the birds by feeding the weak and inapt
and allowing them to spread their damaged DNA which
would let them and their offspring starve to death in winter
'cause they become too dumb, too old, too weak or simply
too lazy to find food on their own in this season?

Isn't that a question old as mankind?
The question of man interfering with nature
manipulating the way and circle of life?
Doing bad things by wanting good?

This is no winter. And this is no springtime either.
This is a long and winding, grey and rainy, never-ending autumn.

(So the story begins)

City dweller, successful fella thought to himself

Oops, I've got a lot of money

Caught in a rat race terminally

I'm a professional cynic but my heart's not in it

I'm payin' the price of livin' life at the limit

Caught up in the century's anxiety

Yes, it preys on him

He's gettin' thin, try the simple life

He lives in a house

A very big house in the country

Watchin' afternoon repeats

And the food he eats in the country

He takes all manner of pills

And piles up analyst bills in the country

Oh, it's like an animal farm

That's the rural charm in the country

He's got morning glory and life's a different story

Everything's going jackanory

Touched with his own mortality

He's reading Balzac, knocking back Prozac

It's a helping hand that makes you feel wonderfully blind

Oh, it's a century's remedy

For the faint at heart

A new start, try the simple life

He lives in a house

A very big house in the country

He's got a fog in his chest

So he needs a lot of rest in the country

He doesn't drink, smoke, laugh

Takes herbal baths in the country

You should come to no harm

On the animal farm in the country

In the country, in the country, in the country

Blow, blow me out, I am so sad, I don't know why?

Blow, blow me out, I am so sad, I don't know why?

Oh, he lives in a house

A very big house in the country

Watchin' afternoon repeats

And the food he eats in the country

He takes all manner of pills

And piles up analyst bills in the country

Oh, it's like an animal farm

That's the rural charm in the country

Oh, he lives in a house

A very big house in the country

He's got a fog in his chest

So he needs a lot of rest in the country

He doesn't drink, smoke, laugh

Takes herbal baths in the country

You should come to no harm

On the animal farm in the country

Bird-Watching – The Great Escape
Bird-watching's way better than birds watching.
Ducks and covers.

I turn around leaving the porch taking down my binoculars

entering the house filled with stuffed dead birds

with lifeless yellow glass eyes.

Eagles and hawks and falcons.

Kiwis and parrots and peacocks.

Ostriches and emus and dodos.

Bird watching all over again.

And always remember:

WINTER IS COMING…

Always the moon…

To be

or to be

nothing.

William Shakes Beer (what a mess)

There's a moon over Bromford Street tonight
I see faces as they pass beneath the pale lamplight
I've no choice but to follow that call
The bright lights the people and the moon and all
I pray every day to be strong
For I know what I do must be wrong
Oh, you'll never see my shade or hear the sound of my feet
While there's a moon over Bromford Street

It was many years ago that I became what I am
I was trapped in this life like an innocent lamb
Now I can never show my face at noon
And you'll only see me walking by the light of the moon
The brim of my hat hides the eye of a beast
I've the face of a sinner but the hands of a priest
Oh, you'll never see my shade or hear the sound of my feet
While there's a moon over Bromford Street

She walks everyday through the streets of Bromford leans
She's innocent and young from a family of crown
I have stood many times outside her window at night
To struggle with my instinct in the pale moonlight
How could I be this way when I pray to God above
I must love what I destroy and destroy the thing I love
Oh, you'll never see my shade or hear the sound of my feet
While there's a moon over Bromford Street

Sting – Moon over Bromford Street

Travelling Bromford…

I'm travellin' the world
Again?
Every night another town
Every town another gig
I'm boxin' but I'm not a boxer
I'm buskin' but I'm not a busker

Boxin' is the wrong word
Boxin' on a boxin' day
Handin' 'round my busket

BASKET
Not ball

I'm passing 'round my hat
I'm hating but I'm not a hatter

Confusion - it's such a terrible shame
Confusion - you don't know what I'm saying

I'm not travellin' the world
I'm not buskin'
I don't even play an instrument
I can't sing, I can't dance
I can't dance, I can't talk
The only thing about me is the way I walk

But the truth is…
Out there…
I'm too lazy to think of something
And all this is just an excuse to steal words and lyrics again

Thank you, all you musicians and songwriters

I'm sittin' in the railway station
Got a ticket for my destination
On a tour of one-night stands my suitcase and guitar in hand
And every stop is neatly planned for a poet and one-man band

Homeward bound
I wish I was
Homeward bound

Home, where my thought's escaping
Home, where my music's playing
Home, where my love lies waiting silently for me

Ev'ry day's an endless stream
Of cigarettes and magazines
And each town looks the same to me, the movies and the factories
And ev'ry stranger's face I see reminds me that I long to be

Homeward bound
I wish I was
Homeward bound

Home, where my thought's escaping
Home, where my music's playing
Home, where my love lies waiting silently for me

Tonight I'll sing my songs again
I'll play the game and pretend
But all my words come back to me in shades of mediocrity
Like emptiness in harmony, I need someone to comfort me

Homeward bound
I wish I was
Homeward bound

Home, where my thought's escaping
Home, where my music's playing
Home, where my love lies waiting silently for me
Silently for me

Why is Paul Simon writin' about a one-man band
while he's travellin' the world as the Simon & Garfunkel duo?

Foreshadowing? For shadowing?

7 Days…

Wednesday.

Already.

Did I just write 'already'?

Did I already write 'all ready'?

All ready on Wednesday?

I think I don't like Wednesdays.

Call it 'Middleday' because it's the middle of the week.

Why not call the day 'Middleweek' like those Krauts do?

I don't like Mondays.

I don't like Fundays.

But the worst of them all is Thursday.

The world will end on a Thursday.

Or as the famous German philosopher Marius-Müller Western-Hagen once wrote,

'die welt geht unter… die welt geht unter… an einem Donnerstag…'

So I will call it 'Worstday' from now on.

And what about the rest of them?

Seven days like seven dwarves.

The seventh son of a seventh son.

Is very special, you know.

This is the story of seven brothers.

We had the same father but different mothers.

But there weren't seven brides for seven brothers.

I knew I had to get rid of the others.

'Seven Days' was all she wrote

A kind of ultimatum note

She gave to me, she gave to me

When I thought the field had cleared

It seems another suit appeared

To challenge me, woe is me

Though I hate to make a choice

My options are decreasing mostly rapidly

Well we'll see

I don't think she'd bluff this time

I really have to make her mine

It's plain to see

It's him or me

Monday, I could wait till Tuesday

If I make up my mind

Wednesday would be fine, Thursday's on my mind

Friday'd give me time, Saturday could wait

But Sunday'd be too late

The fact that he's six feet ten

Might instill fear in other men

But not in me, The Mighty Flea (flee?)

Ask if I am mouse or man

The mirror squeaked, away I ran

He'll murder me in time for his tea

Does it bother me at all

My rival is Neanderthal, it makes me think

Perhaps I need a drink

IQ is no problem here

We won't be playing Scrabble for her hand I fear

I need that beer

Monday, I could wait till Tuesday

If I make up my mind

Wednesday would be fine, Thursday's on my mind

Friday'd give me time, Saturday could wait

But Sunday'd be too late

Seven days will quickly go

The fact remains, I love her so

Seven days, so many ways

But I can't run away

… … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …

Do I have to tell a story

Of a thousand rainy days since we first met

It's a big enough umbrella

But it's always me that ends up getting wet...

Where...

Where am I?

Where am I?

Where am I?

And where is the llama?

Is the llama a wombat?

Every blockblog needs a walking and talking wombat.

Where is the wombat?

What is a wombat?

Wombats are short-legged, muscular quadrupedal marsupials that are native to Australia. They are about 1 meter (40 inch) in length with small, stubby tails. There are three extant species and they are all members of the family Vombatidae. They are adaptable and habitat tolerant, and are found in forested, mountainous, and heathland areas of south-eastern Australia, including Tasmania, as well as an isolated patch of about 300 ha (740 acres) in Epping Forest National Park in central Queensland.

What is the battle of Epping Forest?

Were wombats involved?

Tasmanian devils among the sacrifice?

Dingos and Tasmanian devils prey on wombats. Their primary defence is their toughened rear hide, with most of the posterior made of cartilage. This, combined with its lack of a meaningful tail, makes it difficult for any predator that follows the wombat into its tunnel to bite and injure its target. When attacked, wombats dive into a nearby tunnel, using their rumps to block a pursuing attacker. A wombat may allow an intruder to force its head over the wombat's back, and then use its powerful legs to crush the skull of the predator against the roof of the tunnel, or drive it off with two-legged kicks, like those of a donkey.

Defending with their asses. Kind of cool but also weird thing, dudes!

Every household needs a wombat and will get one if you vote for me.

BROMFORD FOR PRESIDENT !!!

Or do you want a llama? Both would be too much...

Where is the llama? Where is my llama?

Freaky Friday, world. Really very freaky...

Moonday...

Holidays are over.

Just another manic Monday.

Monday.

Moonday.

Blue Monday.

Blue Moon Day?

Is there a blue moon in twenty-sixteen?

Pluto, where are you now?

Don't miss Jupiter, Nicholas.

See you on Aldebaran, Jan.

Moon, Mercury and Aldebaran on April 9th.

Is that what they call a constellation?

What a strange constellation that is.

Improv, definitely improv.

The challenge was to integrate script and improv, so the improv drives the script and the script illuminates the improve [sic! improv].

A script for a jester's tear?

So here I am once more in the playground of the broken hearts

One more experience, one more entry in a diary, self-penned

Yet another emotional suicide overdosed on sentiment and pride

Too late to say I love you, too late to re-stage the play

Abandoning the relics in my playground of yesterday

I'm losing on the swings, I'm losing on the roundabouts

I'm losing on the swings, I'm losing on the roundabouts

Too much, too soon, too far to go, too late to play, the game is over

The game is over…

So here I am once more in the playground of the broken hearts

I'm losing on the swings, losing on the roundabouts

The game is over, over, over, over…

Yet another emotional suicide overdosed on sentiment and pride

I'm losing on the swings, losing on the roundabouts

The game is over…

Too late to say I love you, too late to re-stage the play

The game is over…

I act the role in classic style of a martyr carved with twisted smile

To bleed the lyric for this song to write the rites to right my wrongs

An epitaph to a broken dream to exercise this silent scream

A scream that's borne from sorrow

I never did write that love song, the words just never seemed to flow

Now sad in reflection did I gaze through perfection

And examine the shadows on the other side of morning

And examine the shadows on the other side of mourning

Promised wedding now a wake

Promised wedding now awake, awake, awake…

The fool escaped from paradise will look over his shoulder and cry

Sit and chew on daffodils and struggle to answer why?

As you grow up and leave the playground

Where you kissed your prince and found your frog

Remember the jester that showed you tears, the script for tears

So I'll hold our peace forever when you wear your bridal gown

In the silence of my shame the mute that sang the sirens' song

Has gone solo in the game, I've gone solo in the game

But the game is over

Can you still say you love me? Can you still say you love me?

Can you still say that you love me?

Do you love me? Do you love me? Do you love? Do you love me? Do you love me?

The Jester's tear

Can you still say you love me? Can you still say you love me?

Can you still say that you love me? The Jester's tear, the Jester's tear

Do you love me? Do you love me? Do you love me?

Marillion - Script For A Jester's Tear

Fish, definitely early Fish…

The early fish gets the worm…

Monday, what are you doing to me?

Use The Fork...

* These aren't the droids you're looking for.

- Of course they are. Recognized them right

from the start. Your Jedi mind tricks don't

work on me.

* The force can have strong influence on the
weak minded.

- Ah, go away. I'm not your April's fool.

And I am definitely not your Valentine.