These Three Words

One hour shy

of midnight 14th

forget-about-me

decade soaked promises

have evaporated slowly

into the heat

it is not

as half as

easy to let

these  feelings slide

like the chalk

at Birling Gap

accelerating fathoms deep

perhaps nobody would

notice a thing

the corporal equilibrium

would be maintained

8.2 billion people

would certainly remain

none the wiser

it might be

much easier to…

close my eyes

shut my mouth

plug my ears

switch me off

burn me down

let me go

run me over

tell the truth

spin right round

live new lives

bang a gong

get it wrong

leave you be

shoot me dead

swim out there

just move on

breathe or stop

all of this

but not today

but not today

but not today

because I am

still St Valentine

and I revere

these three words

As ever X

Funeral Blues (aka Muffle all the bells, monitor the internet)

Muffle all the bells, monitor the internet

Prevent the people from protesting with a juicy threat

Silence the Sound-Systems with un-holstered guns

Bring out the corpse, let the celebrities come.

Let police choppers circle observing overhead

Pepper spray protesters with the cry She is dead

Put a quarter mile exclusion zone round the streets of St Pauls,

Let the coppers wear black DM’s for that kick in the balls

She was Finchley via Grantham, a bullet-proof vest

Her twenty hour mantra there is no time to rest

The long days, dark nights, her screech and bitter song

I thought her brutal siege would last forever: I was wrong

The Polling booths are not wanted now: shut down everyone

Close the mines that survived not dismantled by The Sun;

Pour away the whiskey and sweep up the barricades

For nothing good will ever come until her legacy fades.

A. Franks 17th April 2013

After W.H.Auden ‘Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone’

St Valentine's Return

I still return

this February night

to the room

behind the door

up those stairs

in the place

on the street

of the city

where we lived

for a day

just us two

no one else

sun shone in

low glasses full

and over flowed

onto the bed

where we lay

arm in arms

like lovers pure

in the days

before the rain

washed time away

I still return

on Valentine’s day

to our room

behind our door

up our stairs

in our place

on our street

of our city

where we lived

for a day

just us two

no one else

sun shone in

low glasses full

and over flowed

onto the bed

where we lay

and kisses reigned

like lovers pure

and as ever

despite the hour

dream what might

St Valentine X

New book on horizon

I hope to have another collection of my poetry published and out and about before the end of August this year. Check the SOUL BAY website for details as and when it becomes available!

Poetry (in Ocean)

Viking
North Utsire
South Utsire
Forties
Cromarty
Forth
Tyne
Dogger
Fisher
German Bight
Humber
Thames
Dover
Wight
Portland
Plymouth
Biscay
Trafalgar
FitzRoy
(Finisterre)
Sole
Lundy
Fastnet
Irish Sea
Shannon
Rockall
Malin
Hebrides
Bailey
Fair Isle
Faeroes
Southeast Iceland

THE SOLDIER

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust conceal'd;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air.
Wash'd by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

Rupert Brooke (1887-1915)

Astral

And when the rain falls
I hide in every puddle and
in every drop that drips
down your neck

and when the wind blows
I wrestle the leaves to the ground
and place them on the path
for you to curse each morning

and when the snow settles
I shall mess up your hair
and make you wish that
you’d stayed at home instead

but when the night comes
you’ll see me swinging from Orion’s belt
like a distant lucky charm
looking after you still, even after all this time.

X

The Theme from Suntrap

http://www.vimeo.com/29104866
Filmed by Alan Stepney, taken from 'The Last of the Great British Traitors', published by Soul Bay Press

Black Eyed Dog - Nick Drake

Black eyed dog
he called at my door
The black eyed dog
he called for more

A black eyed dog he knew my name
A black eyed dog he knew my name
A black eyed dog
A black eyed dog

I'm growing old and I wanna go home,
I'm growing old and I don't wanna know
I'm growing old and I wanna go home

A black eyed he called at my door
A black eyed he called for more

Why write at all?

Why write when you can paint?
Why write when you can sing?
Why write when you can dance?
Why write when the world
is full of such beauty
that it can never be tamed or turned
into lines worth repeating?

Why write about the horrors?
Why write about the wonders?
Why write about the magnificence?
Why write about black holes,
supernovas and invisible celestial forces
when the near and far is beyond
capture, beyond control?

Why write about politics?
Why write about greed?
Why write about corruption?
Why write about deceit
when empires are imploding
not half a mile from here and the
cheers and applause can be heard
from here to the sun?

The last of the great british traitors

My latest collection of poetry is now available from www.soulbaypress.com and or all the usual outlets...

Following on from ‘Scratched in the stars, sprawled on the sand’, Franks has produced another forceful collection of “blurred memories, long lists, gentle verse and raw observations”.

In ‘The Last of the Great British Traitors’ poems clash and merge throughout as the freshness of the sea at dawn mingles with the stale smoke of terminus bars. The fixed shadow of death hovers alongside memories of distant lovers and the perils of parking penguins is revealed together with the revenge of a reincarnated Sussex revolutionary lurking in the hedgerows. The clarity of betrayal combines with the shock of loss to paint a picture of a world where love still wins over everything else.

But it is a close run thing!

During the London riots only the bookshops were left untouched...

Coming soon, amongst others...

The King & Queen of Beak Street!

Love stands at the edge of the world

Love stands at the edge of the world
battered by the breeze and buffeted by strong waves
wrapped in the strong arms of blind faith
cloaked by the solemn certainty of desire
the ship on the horizon dips behind the sun
Love turns and walks the three miles back to town
hope is all there is
hope is all Love has

Love walks into a bar and finds he is all alone
he orders a final drink and sits in the corner
as the night clouds mingle with the darkness
rain arrives from the south
Love heads for the door, a soaking and an empty home
he will go to sleep early tonight
and prays he will find you there
in the folds and corners of my dreams

In the shade of the Carnaby Street lights

Stuck waiting for a taxi
on the other side of the world
with the pearly shades of heaven
still drifting down from wherever

I rolled back in slow time
to a land far flung away
and a kiss that tasted divine
from lips tonic coated sublime

the shops were all boarded up
chill rain came down like a waterfall
we held each other stubbornly tight
in the shade of the Carnaby Street lights

Scratched in the Stars, Sprawled on the Sand

Andrew Franks

Available from 15th July 2009. Go to www.soulbaypress.com

Have you noticed my words?

Have you noticed my words?
Scorched with a flamethrower on the side of the pier
Spray painted in 50ft tall letters on Beachy head
Chiselled on the side of a melting iceberg
Spread out over 5 miles in the shifting desert sands
Tattooed on my heart in invisible ink
Burnt down to stubble in the shrinking harvest fields
Blown from the mainsail of a Thames sailing barge
Abandoned in the cloakroom at the local Theatre Royal
Left dangling like old trainers on a slack telephone wire
Thrown from the window of the Inverness sleeper
Written in blood at traitor’s gate
Flung into the last cage at Betteshanger pit
Interspersed with the tank tracks on Salisbury Plain
Chalked on the hard shoulder of the M25
Shown alongside the Pearl & Dean in the Leicester Sq Odeon
Scrawled on toilet walls the length and breadth of town
Hidden in the small ads in the parish council news
Tucked inside the dust covers of a thousand unsold books
Squeezed between storm clouds and the edge of the earth
Stencilled on the pillars outside the Tate Gallery
Lost down the back of a sofa on death row at the council tip
Stitched onto the sheets at the Grand Hotel
Stamped on the barrels of Harveys Best Bitter
Scratched on the bonnet of a roller parked in the city centre
Hand carved into the body of a battered Fender Telecaster
Flashed up on the scoreboard at Lords
Smuggled onto teletext when everyone still used it
Splattered on the pavement outside Kentucky Fried Chicken
Handed out in lectures at stony grey universities
Hidden in the small print on a building society poster
Superimposed in gossamer on Southern Rail timetables
Mimeographed and microfiched to be stored down in the basement
Turned into sporting trivia on a million soggy beer mats
Used as expensive letterheads for bogus internet companies
Biro’d onto rucksacks and copied onto rough books
Leaning into the wind and rising with the tide
Passed off as a sicknote by ungrateful teenage truants
Forged in east end sweat shops and flogged at Wednesday’s markets
Frosted onto windows in the snap of another winter
Misquoted with reckless abandon by best men and vicars alike
Planted amongst the hedgerows by diligent Cornish farmers
Washed clean from town hall waiting rooms by disillusioned council workers
Or scrubbed from seafront shelters by popstars on community service
Tossed into a brazier by striking nurses and dockers
Shown between the sports reports and tomorrows weather
Stapled to the notice board in an old snooker hall reception
Engraved on a pewter tankard hanging from Harry’s hook
Embossed on the most expensive stationery this worthless money can buy
Italicised in 6pt on a music magazine’s spine
Laser printed on to death certificates
Run as subtitles for a ‘volatile and challenging’ new Ukrainian film
Plastered over the boarded up shops in Regent Street
Ironed on to the football shirts of a Sunday morning side
Texted as a virus to a million mobile phones
Revealing the true source of Lord Lucan’s whereabouts
Mistakenly reproduced in this years Michelin guide
Spoofed to hilarious effect by a mime troupe at the Edinburgh fringe
Showered over the airwaves on a late night FM channel
Mean the same thing in a hundred differing languages
Polarise whole communities and trigger petty turf wars
Displayed on the whiteboard at Loughton tube station
Have you noticed my words can’t conceal the way I feel about you
As ever
x

Scratched in the stars, sprawled on the sand

If you like any of the poems that appear on this website and hanker for a finely printed version. Then Soul Bay Press are publishing 'Scratched in the stars, sprawled on the sand' at the end of this month. Go to www.soulbaypress.com for more information.

The case for the prosecution rests...

(The following was found in a notebook in the accused's bedside table)

Promises of effortless deceit
steamrollered across the
tarmac of the night
and the texted urgings
betrayed his location
and located her betrayal.

Fear not
fear not
I know
where you live
and when
you will die...

100 words on the back of a beermat

Time Out Competition

“You have exactly ten seconds to live asshole. You can either walk back down the alley, over the road and into tomorrow. Or you can die here and now, wallowing in your own puke and someone else’s piss – what’s it to be, Sonny?” I looked at the gun, her unswerving grin and the remains of my lunch on her boots. Usually I like to take my time “ONE”, way things up “TWO”, consider the options “THREE”, douse them in drink “FOUR” and see which one “FIVE” I could remember in the morning “SIX”. However, “SEVEN” this chick “EIGHT” looked “NINE” in kind of a hurry “TEN”…

Cover Version III - Corcovado

Quiet nights of quiet stars,
quiet chords from my guitar
Floating in the silence that surrounds us
Quiet thoughts and quiet dreams,
quiet walks by quiet streams, and a window
looking on the mountains and the sea.

Oh how lovely!

This is where i want to be.
Here, with you so close to me,
until the final flicker of lifes ember.
I who was lost and lonely, believing life was only
a bitter tragic joke, have found with you
the meaning of existence oh, my love.

Magnetic North

Each night I sleep
beneath southern stars
under a gentle gaze
in a silent spell
with my hands clasped tight

on the edge of the bed
dreaming ancient dreams
of a primitive pulse
that flows through-in
and surges throughout

like a swollen river
or an advancing storm
an eternal wave
pulling me closer to
your sweet kinetic force

roll back the dark clouds
throw back a thousand years
I suck in the cooling breeze
and feel it surge out there
across the oceans

I am drawn ever closer
pulled ever further
sweet opposites attracted
to you my
Magnetic North

As ever
St Valentine
X

Cover Version II - Happy New Year William Blake

Cruelty has a human heart,
And Jealousy a human face;
Terror the human form divine,
And Secrecy the human dress...

On seeing Slim Gaillard in London three days before he died

He strode through Golden Square
shrouded in a huge woollen coat, scarf, beret, beard and a scowl.
I walked by him and as I did so.
He turned his weary old head and looked me in the eye.
“Oroonie”, and then he was gone.

Over and Vout!

Cover Version - Ozymandias

This is an old Shelley number called Ozymandias. It goes something like this...
1,2,3,4

I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said--"Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert....Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings,
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."

Cheers ta, thanks a lot!

To a Married Woman on Valentine's Day from St Valentine himself

On this day
I wish that
my plans for
time travel
were more
advanced than
they are.
Because if
I could
then I would
strap myself in
flick the switch
and deliver this
kiss in person.

X

St Valentine

Havana Chevrolet Night II

Bursting black blue blazing motor
some rough chokin', spewin'’ type o'
Cigar Car
Filled up with Cane and pain
Cigar Car
Filled up with Cane and pain
Havana Club again
‘Well, it keeps out the rain' ~

Meanwhile on the other channel

“This is Radio Revolucion
bringing you the heat of Saturday Night,
Live from La Casa de Libre
In old town Habana. A selection of
anti-yankee rhythms that’ll have
you invading Miami before the evening is out
before the evening is out
before the evening is out”
Manana Oh yeah Manana Oh Hep Manana.

Painting skies on carousels - For Gary

The gentle boy on the sofa,
painting skies on carousels
sketching dreams in wishing wells

the quiet boy in the flat
dusty arcane paraphernalia,
wisdom, wit and bacchanalia

the inspired boy in his room,
making rolling raging seas
drawing strength from burning leaves

the mad boy at the bar
laughing gently challenging
smoking drinking hammering

the young boy on the bus
writing songs on window panes
words and chords all with sustain

the lonely boy in his bed
painting skies on carousels
dreaming worlds and living hells

Soulbay meets Scritti Politti in an Arthouse

Having waited over 25 years since first hearing the honey soaked tones of Scritti Politti's Green Gartside... I found myself standing in the warmth of an August evening in the ground of the Tate Britain, clutching a modest glass of Chablis and hoping and praying that a) I hadn't missed them, b) They'd turn up and C) that the previous poor review I had read was not a true reflection of what was to come. To my absolute delight; I hadn't, they did and it wasn't.

Double G & The Traitorous 3 + 2, not so much hit the stage but found themselves there having been ushered on by some sweet reggae grooves. A brief hiatus ensued whilst Green tried to get his foot peddles working and then Boom! Into a set mainly plucked gently from White Bread, Black Beer. In particular E Eleventh Nuts and After Six sounded even better live. The band fell into a solid natural groove and the evening just sped by as shooting stars flew overhead.

* Boom Boom Bap * A corking Hip Hop number * The Sweetest Girl as a lovely little skank * The sweetest girl on bass * Robin Hood * All the way through to finishing off with Woodbeez *

And above it all that voice...

Chapter 1 - Bar Anglais

Autumn Jones looked at the clock flashing at him from the table. It was a quarter past twelve, too early to get up, too late to go back to sleep. He stretched out and reached for the first rush of the day. As he unscrewed the lid of the little brown bottle and inhaled deeply he let his mind stumble through the rough & grumble debris of the previous evening.

It had been just like any other boring Sunday Soho night. The Angels of London had finally shed what remained of their respectability, in the small courts and alleyways off Wardour Street and were slumming it with the lazy and the lame. The Smart Cabs were hugging the centre of the roads and the tourists were standing in awe of the power and poison of this silly little hamlet. Jones, who had left the 'Bar Anglais' at just gone ten alone and unimpressed, sauntered down Old Compton Street and headed for the taxi rank in Dean Street.

As he stepped off the pavement he saw the most beautiful woman he had ever set his weary dark browns on. She sped past him like a Ferrari doing a time trial at Monza, stuttering and slipping and then bursting past with such grace and purpose. Never being one to let the sight of a gorgeouos tear soaked girl pass him by, he turned swiftly on his battered brogues and followed after her. She dashed past 'William Shatners', 'The Giant Steppes' (where the dance floor bent and pulsed to the gentle shuffling of the handsome and bored) and ran into Soho Square. He finally caught up with her outside the graffiti smothered wall of Southbound Records, he grabbed her arm, caught his breath and was about to start speaking when she beat him to it. "I wondered how long it would take you to catch me. God, you really are getting slow in your old age; All that drink has finally got to you, hasn't it".

It was her, in the flesh, in Soho and in tears but still calculating and setting him small tests that only she knew existed and that only she knew the rules to. He fumbled for his little brown bottle. It was nearly all too much for him to control himself. His thoughts ran riot down Charing Cross Road, smashed windows and stole saxophones on their way and spilled out into the open arms of Trafalgar Square. The tears were still strolling down her olive-coloured face, catching the ochre of the street lamps and reflecting their luminescence. Even though her make up was ruined he knew that she really was the most perfect woman he'd ever known. Where to start, what to say? When in doubt he thought, stutter, mutter or better still kiss her. He lent forward to follow his instincts as a car backfired or stalled noisily somewhere on the other side of the dirt-blistered grey square.

“Surely in the world of 4x4’s, 6x6’s and computer controlled automotive excellence they can get better engines or at least better drivers…” Jones muttered as he turned away from the girl in time to see a dark red blur complete a clumsy but surprisingly rapid exit from view. He turned back with an affectionate smirk. In return a wicked smile played on her lips which seemed redder than he regarded decent. He was about to return to the kiss but was prevented from doing so as she slipped gently to the floor. Jones tried desperately to help her to her feet but it was useless. Iced panic filled his every pore.

What is SoulBay?

A chance meeting in a pub, leading to a night of terrible jokes, raucous laughter and serious discussion?

A quiet beach stretching into dusk?

The sound of a gentle samba filtered by the breeze?

The place at the end of the line?