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Monday, September 07, 2009

good morning

Good morning. HAHA. Good evening. HAHA. Fuck you. HAHA.

She was wet before I even touched her. I Think it was the electricity. Or the rain. Get your stupid stubby fingers out of the electrical goods. They are wet with happiness, and Dixons XL is a place of work not some kind of merry-go-round of childish glee.

When I worked in Dixons (XL), I used to take great pride in having sexy times with all the produce.

I was the first person in the UK to ejaculate onto an IPOD-NANO. Take this Steve-jobs, Take this! And That! And a little bit more of THIS!

HOW DO YOU LIKE THIS STEVE JOBS!!!

And what about a final splash of THIIIIIIIIIIIIIS!? Huh?! Huh?! Jobby-Boy!

Suck my mother-fucking kiss!

Touch my ass, go on, actually touch it.

ACTUALLY TOUCH IT.

That is the sort of thing I used to shout as I came.

Still do.

Though it has been many years since I last made love, I do remember how it felt.

It was before the war, before the cold came and shrivelled me back into my pelvis.

Before the only way of moving was running, before the fear came during the daylight as well as the darkness.

Before there was no water to part and no water to walk on and no water to soothe your skin after a lifetime of hiding your grey face in the dust.

Before I stopped dreaming, then stopped remembering, then stopped remembering what either of those things felt like.

Do you remember the world before the war came?

At all?

It says on this rock that it was shit.

You’ve seen it.

Everyone carried sticky little squares with wires and buds and batteries. They listened to beautiful sounds- straight, BANG, like a million idiot cocks prodding a million idiot brains.

Good morning.

I’ll miss you.

12:02 PM

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Thursday, August 13, 2009

erotic spectacle

Where Are You? Where Are You? Where Are you?

The curtains in my bedroom are too thin, pointless little skin-strips. If I were doing a naked-naked-sexy-windyourbody-boomshakalackandalldepeopledemwant-style-dance then I reckon the erotic spectacle would be rendered all noir-ish and enticing out there in the real world (IRL IRL IfuckingRfuckingL). Once, I did this and someone knocked the window, they were all like ‘ can I come in please sexy snake man?’ and I was like ‘No, my lair is my own- there is no space for your a-rhythmic voyeurism in here, stay out there you twat. You are like a statue of an idiot, do you know that? Like an idiot, but less mobile and alive, oh, and when I say statue, we are not talking fucking Henry Moore or Brancusi, or anyone good- I am talking about some statue carved by a no-armed convict, made solely out of rotten GM ginger and embalmed in his own dribble’

As I SCREAMED this response, I never dropped a beat, not one, I kept it going like Usher: all crystal-methed up and ready for the bumming… but without the pip-head and the ‘King of Pop’ coffin-stroking. I once did have anal intercourse with Usher, it was rubbish; he had painted a gold penis on his penis and he kept waving his meta-penile creation about like Paul Daniels slow dancing with a foetus.

I once saw Paul doing this; it was genuinely quite moving.

Only joking, obviously.

Though it was quite sexy.

He saw me watching, I felt embarrassed, so I jumped into his lawnmower box. Amongst the grass and needles, I found a piece of paper with this written on it:

‘Debbie, that time, when you did that thing, to me, you know?

I felt all, like really, properly, you know? That way I feel.

So I thought I’d write this thing, to say that.

Remember that time when I said that thing, about that thing you did?

And you said, that thing you wrote was really full of feeling.

Yours and mine, all of the feelings we had, all mixed up nice.

I felt nice then, and you felt nice, about those things, the nice ones

( Debbie, I will give you the other half of your sonnet when you agree to be my wife)’

And then, I cried. And wrote this thing, you know? About that thing that happened and that thing I read.

10:44 AM

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Monday, March 30, 2009

dear friend

Dear Boy in the river island t-shirt,
(calling a girl who bumped in to him a ‘fat-paki’- Birmingham bull ring)

You are so stupid. You don’t deserve skin. You should be forced to walk around all skull-naked and ashamed. You are so stupid someone could sneak up behind you and steam your flesh loose, peel it off your bones, make a paper plane from it and then fly it into your stupid skinless face, and you would still keep plodding on like some idiot hippo on the way to buy milk.

I remember once; do you remember? It was Wednesday, do you remember Wednesday? It was last week. I pushed you into a bush. Your legs were akimbo-ing out of the foliage like two chewed up chicken bones at a fat girl’s birthday party. Shit party that was. I tickled your feet and then licked between your toes. All in broad daylight. You sang the national anthem, it is your favourite song. Twat. Shit song- no friends.

When you die I will sing ‘swing lo, sweet chariot’--- you bloody bum chariots. You are gay for chariots.

I think you look like a slowly deflating rugby ball being kicked by a lame horse.

You rode a horse to work once, it hated you so much it died in protest.

It just sat there and died.

Kind regards, hope you are well.

Keiran Goddard

7:14 PM

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Sunday, March 22, 2009

dreams
Category: Dreams and the Supernatural

Mr Bones and The Dreamers are a dream. By this I do not mean in the

'oh my gosh, this audition is my number 1, 306%, most important thing in the world- ever since i was voted Cheshire's most wonderful karaoke singing widower that day after all my plants died ( i know those plants are looking down on me Simon)--- this next number is for the plants, i fucking miss those little green absentees... and my dead husband too, though in fairness he was an idiot, i mean, who chops off their own head just to have something special to throw at a Polish builder? '

sort of way.

But in a different way. Although, in truth, it corresponds somewhat to the above also.

There are three basic types of dreams; oracular, prophetic and enigmatic. In all seriousness, the more i think about it, the surer i am that dreams become real when they have the characteristics of all three of these Medieval categories. It is not strength of will, or luck, but an older, more alchemic equation that turns fantasy and futurity into actuality and flesh.

A dream is prophetic; it tells of the future, it is the distant homily to the burning cities of our memory. The aching melodies played out on the discarded teeth of animals consigned to an eternity of mud. We will do this, we will strike up the band as this putrid ship starts to sink. This is the only boat that contains every drop of every ocean.

A dream is enigmatic; what have we lost before we sleep, before we enter into reverie? Who no longer breathes with us, no longer shares in our body? What do we summon upon the closing of our eyes. Why is it there? Relentlessly, with the waking of the stars. Why do we rise every morning with the streaks of stale tears on our skin and the sense that somewhere, just beyond our consciousness is the melody we will dedicate our lives to finding?

A dream is oracular; everything we do or see or hear needs to be explained and interpreted through a dream guide. There is always a void. A blank stare only to be replaced with my fingers scratching at your stupid skin. The dreamer encounters the redefinition of concepts that he is familiar with, and which he is unable to recognise using his earthly terminology. There is need for translation between earthy and heavenly conceptions if the dreamer is to understand the dream; he requires explication in the form of an oracular dream guide. However, the communication between dreamer and guide is frustrated by the fact that earthly language is an inadequate means of conveying heavenly understanding. It is not simply that the dreamer does not comprehend, but that his language is too saturated with earthly definition to even contemplate. Despite the fact that the guide is originally of earth and has reached heavenly understanding she is a poor translator between the two. She does not attempt to accommodate his linguistic limitation, even though as the dream guide this is her responsibility. Neither the dreamer nor the guide recognises the linguistic void between them, producing a failed communication and the death of the dream.

This morning then, I wake. And as from every dream am left only with residual sadness and hope. I revert pathetically to the basic homiletic and ritualistic language of the creed, in the hope that this will be sufficient:

In Krystes dere blyssyng and myn,
Hat in the forme of bred and wyn
The preste uus to be his homly hyne
Ande precious perles unto his pay.
Amen. Amen.

Or, in the words of our prize-winning widower:

' I am beautiful, no matter what they say,
words can't bring me down'

all the same in the end.

Mostly I have been dreaming about fair-grounds, Ferris wheels in particular, but with a healthy dose of bumper-cars.

'A rotisserie is just a Ferris wheel for rotating chicken carcasses'
--- some fucking joker.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They gave praise (the lying song)

she said 'lying is what mouths do'
but bodies do the same,
if you're a lightening rod, lightening comes and carves you with his name....
but your name is not a shape my love, it's the memory of a bird
pulling eyes from lying bodies lying underneath the earth......

And the earth is just a place to rest, when you slip outside of time,
somewhere you can lie quietly until the day that I say

march on, Christian Soldier, until we hear peace, in every valley,
march on, Christian Soldier, until we hear peace, in every valley

When the wretched walk amongst us, singing hallelujah,
with seas outstretched from lands they've left, in hallelujah
they're reborn with every sin confessed, in hallelujah

--- but a holy lie is still a lie, and a holy fool's a fool, and a holy fire is still a fire, it comes to take us all....'

And our time-sick tongues are spitting songs, in hallelujah
for those that lied but now lie gone, in hallelujah
lying underneath your filthy feet, in hallelujah....

DONT WORSHIP WHAT YOU MADE YOURSELF, WHAT YOU CARVED WITH MORTAL HANDS, HE IS COMING FOR YOUR DEAD TONIGHT, SO I'LL KISS YOU WHILE I CAN, WHILE I CAN.

10:02 AM

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Tuesday, March 17, 2009

...a tornado whipping through shakespeare’s globe theatre

we have been reviewed by crud magazine. it is rather good and also rather funny...

"Take the trembling vibrato of a young (or even elderly) Feargal Sharkey, clue-in heaps of euphoric strings and the drama and intensity of a tornado whipping through Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre and you have the wonderfully named ‘Mr Bones and the Dreamers’. Describing themselves as a ‘literal and symbolic sanctuary from the ills of the modern world’ Kieran Goddard and his crew of rhapsodic exiles offer up an open-mouth, hair-tugging taker on Epic Rock. Bullshit aside, this is really quite good. Timing seems a bit off going into the chorus, but given the faintly hysterical condition of the band, it’s probably inevitable. Shamelessly overwrought and overblown but all the more fantastic for it. A bit like putting The Dears in a bag with The Fureys."

5:41 PM

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Saturday, March 07, 2009

touch my beard
Category: Religion and Philosophy

Stop your idiotic plotting! Stop it this instant! Your plots will get you nowhere. All plots tend towards death, all lines run into the sunset, all stories will end with a slaying.

That is what she said to me, while she jigged around me like a pneumatic preacher. I believed her; I punched her square in the nose. It is the only punch I have ever thrown.

I have been in hermitude, the other members of the band have been looking for me, this is the first sprinkle of contact they will have had this epoch, it has been lonely, I have missed them; but I have communed with nature and my beard is so good. I mean seriously, seriously good, it is a smooth wave of dead protein extending my consciousness into the world around me. It is how I reach out, it is how I make friends, beard LOOOOOVEEEERS, I am reaching out to you now! go on, touch me, touch my beard, touch the stars, open yourself up to the benign indifference of the hirsute deity--- start living, you bald faced bastards.

Despite my beard, I have never felt more alone.

Please do not pity me.

I am not William Blake and you are not William Blake’s wife, so grow up.

You could not be more wrong if your tried, I am not something you can hit with something else. Stop hitting things. You will feel so silly when you are engulfed in red light and all you can do is carry on hitting things like a monkey.

I feel ill. Once, a cat died in my arms. I was sick on its body, I delivered it to the person who loved it. She said I looked like the grim devil--- I’m not quite sure that is what she meant.

And what?

Fuck you.

I met her on the water….

She was riding a swan like a loon on a sparkly canoe.

5:31 PM

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Friday, March 06, 2009

EP review from Clickmusic
Category: Music

We have had another lovely review of our EP from Clickmusic. They have very kindly awarded it 4/5 in golden stars...

Mr Bones And The Dreamers - Are These Actual Miles?

With 'Are These Actual Miles', West Midland seven-piece Mr Bones And The Dreamers have created a folk-rock treasure. Driven dually by a delicate interworking of melody and rhythm, and by the hauntingly vulnerable voice of Kieran Goddard, this should push them firmly into the mainstream spotlight. The song is rich and deeply textured, with violin and backing harmonies creating a joyously hymnal tone.

The lyrics are off at a tangent to the optimism of the sound: "your teeth are tombstones that burn into my eyes" cries Goddard at one point. When a band singing the pain of a man cast adrift in a harsh world can make you want to jump up and sing along, then perhaps you are listening to something a little special.

With the epic sound of Arcade Fire, the desperate emotion of Joy Division and the expressive vocals of a much less irritating One Night Only, this is a single you really should track down.

Liam Clune
Clickmusic

1:50 PM

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Thursday, March 05, 2009

EP Review in God is in the TV zine
Current mood:

busy
Category: Music

We’ve had a lovely review of our

forthcoming EP written in the God is in the TV zine by Neil Watts. To see it
online go to: http://www.
godisinthetvzine. co. uk/content/content_detail. php?id=3125&type=Singles

Mr
Bones And The Dreamers - Are These Actual Miles? (CatCutter Records)

Neil Watts

Listening to Mr Bones And The Dreamers
is akin to stumbling into an Irish bar and finding a regrouped Hope Of The
States hurtling through The Lost Riots. The ....Birmingham....
seven piece’s music is as intelligent and intense as anything the sadly
departed ..Chichester.. outfit produced during their early peak. Are These Actual
Miles? paints lush but foreboding landscapes that manage to catapult their
music far from the urban surroundings where it was created.

At the fore are Keiran Goddard’s vocals, constantly
faltering and trembling with emotion making him sound like some sort of twisted
angel. He drips with barely tempered vitriol, spitting out lines like ‘with
our fingers entwined we decay’, on Lend Me A Looking Glass, with
distaste. Spiritual and religious undertones drift throughout the EP, which
makes for interesting listening. It isn’t a wholly comfortable experience, but
it is certainly all the better for the band’s reluctance to conform.

The EP really comes into its own in the last two tracks. Time
To Rest is builds like Arcade Fire on a rampage, and centres around
the unrelenting refrain, ‘this is the sound when a heart starts beating’
that refuses to draw breath for a second. What follows in Lend Me A Looking
Glass is a giant slab of traditional folk complete with stomping, foot
tapping rhythm that bursts with dark energy. It is when they alter the tempo
that they really create something quite special, being able to flit from
uplifting to sombre in an instant.

Mr Bones And The Dreamers are proof that it is possible to
turn the grey streets of the Midlands into something far from dreary and
generic if you are brave enough to believe in your ideals and go it alone. They
verge on being a contradiction in terms at times, veering from the euphoric to
downright morose in an instant, all the while retaining an intensity shared
with the colossal sounds of I Like Trains.

Out 6th April on CatCutter Records.

8:03 PM

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Thursday, February 05, 2009

sleepover
Category: Parties and Nightlife

And Lo, said the prophets, the earth shall shake and the rocks will tumble into the sea ,the sun will split the land in two, the people will flee their homelands and on the horizon you will see the face of the lord.

Or maybe they didn't, I have a good memory (and sexy arms), but I can't be sure what was said at the meeting. Either way things were looking bleak to the prophets back then. Prophetic ministry would suggest that the closing of Woolworths and ZaVvi, the four day week at Jaguar, the rise in illegal downloading and the icy pavements are all part of this general disintegration of earthly charms, which in Prosper-ic terms are all basically o'thrown. Now, I don't tip tap this blockbuster to bore you with my theologies, however, given the current state of play I thought this story may be of interest to our one eyed governor MRBROWNMPPRIMEPRESIDENT.

In was only two days ago that I had a sleepover in my bedroom, the whole band were there, matching nightgowns, small baglettes of toffee popcorn and a small flat surface for the snap tournament. When we were all assembled, ready for the japes to begin, eager and silly, flushed with the hopes of what the night may bring ---disaster struck like a match on a broken boot. We had forgotten to buy any fizzy pop, sherbet or rice infused pringles. Far from being disheartened, we marched, single file, to the nearby group of shopping establishments, called, locally, shardendshops.

When we arrived though, there were no shops! they had all disappeared, each replaced by a door of a different size. There were seven doors in all, ranging from about two feet tall, to about twenty feet tall. behind each one was perspex cube, the same height as the door and about half a metre deep:

'shame about this here economic downturn, no shops and only plastic cubes in their place, oh dear oh dear'- sighed Ben.

'worry not' said I, ' who knows what consumer wonders may await us within the boxes, perhaps they contain everything we ever dreamed of'.

when we climbed inside the whole thing was a big let down, only horror, dread and degradation; the vomited drippings of our own unconscious sliding down the walls while the sounds of dying children drilled into our aching skulls, a small mirror buzzed around our bodies and we were forced to watch each of our fingers wither and die like weak flowers in winter.

So let it not be said then, that this repressed depression in our economy cycle's homeland baserate stock crash loss leader downturn downturn downturn downturn dying dying dead, has yet to effect the common man. It bloody has. I am having to type this by holding a flute in my lips and bashing it against the keyboard. So fuck you! system! yeah you heard me! fuck yooooooooooou!. I am embarrassed of my new woodwind appendage and it is all your fault. pricks.

In other news, I noticed on Wikipedia that there are no entries for either births or deaths on the day of my birth--- 12.04.1984. However, throughout history, lots of things have happened on the 12th of april, so, to sign off, here is a short history of the world, using only events that happened on that day.

1204-- the fall of constantinople, ending the byzantine empire
1633 - The formal inquest of Galileo Galilei by the Inquisition begins.
1861 - American Civil War: The war begins
1934 - The strongest surface wind gust in the world at 231 mph, is measured
1945 - US President Franklin D. Roosevelt dies while in office
1961 - Yuri Gagarin becomes the first human to travel into outer space
1968 - Nerve gas accident at Skull Valley,
1981 - The first launch of a Space Shuttle
1992 - Disneyland Resort Paris opens
2002 - Palestinian suicide bomber (female) kills 7 and injures 104 (among them 9 Arabs) at the Mahane Yehuda Market in Jerusalem

strange blue marble we live on eh?

http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=W2D6lU4bTBU&feature=related

2:42 PM

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