you promised me shared destiny, you promised centuries
you spoke of crimes unspeakable, and i fell down at your feet
No more the man I used to be, before you conquered me
your eyes like flying saucers, my bloody mary

every day was christmas day from that split second on
you promise me slaves loyalty, promise the cottonfields,
the christmas tree stood naked as the day it was first born,
a halo of needles, circle its skeleton, Promise me,

Napoleon and Josephine, Anthony and Cleopatra
Promise adam and eve, and I still wont believe,
Promise Hiroshima, promise Casablanca
and I still won't get born, Still wont be human

Regiments of warrior hooded crows, swoop low to watched the end unfold
99 red balloons, scattered to the four corners
below the silent disco glitterball, we waltz on eternally
and i turn to spaghetti when she breathed on me

God watches safe from a hil above the all lopsided battle
Tommy machine gun tongues crackle like the fifth of november,
I remember the stealing from grandmothers years, oftentimes I cant sleep
I paint a portrait of her ashes, of my shadowboxer's dreams

Promise Atlantis, promise Lupara bianca
and I still can't be killed, and i'll still be immortal
Promise Valhalla, promise moonlight sonatas
and I still won't get born, Still wont be human

---------its subtle since since christmas, as I cloud my brain with writing, but its still there, shadowing me, and I can't shake it off, every smile is fake, every step towards rehabilitaion a fake, every pinprick of confidence, fake, came back from NY and immersed myself in writing another record, by the end of January I have the bones, And from somewhere has come a bunch of songs, so quick, so dazed, dogeared, flicked through, I don't even know if I done it, but somebody did, cause they're all there, and they sound fucking great, and I swore that Seashells would be the end of it, and DOn't break promises, so I have to question who did this, for the first time the dead person in side me has spoken, the one who died in feb last, and it feels awful spooky to hear it, the new year so far has been a humdrum of washing my brain, trying to get all the bad shit out, and away from my life, swore I would stop having dreams this year, but the nightmare continues, so at loss what to do, been so long and it won't go away. The dog changes everything, except me and the nightmares,, we went to Battersea dogs five times, before we met our guy, it was immediately apparent after one look that this was the pup, As I wrote and wrote the dog sat at my feet and told me it sounds good, keep it going, can I have a biscuit, and so by the end of January was in the strange predicament of having two albums unreleased, and a dog
-----------Have to check in and see how the worlds doing, can't just be shut away for ever, not answering phone, computer, door, letters, Jesus's call, Satans demands, etc, sometime at the start of february, Go to the 02 shop, and pay my bill, it gets reconnected, the phone rings, at just the right moment, just when I was about to explode, and from this call a way forward and a plan is hatched, the next week, Go to dublin to mix the album, rent a house, a big empty cold house, pencilled for re development before the recession hit, and they ran out of fucking bricks, bring back the thatch, and the mud walls, and the fire at the hearth, Oh for fire, Mixing " Listen to seashells: they know everything ", it sounds re-assuring with the strings and Taras singing and everything in its right place, it is my work from last year, 2008, all that fucking time, when I didn't notice the world was going by, or cut my hair or have a shower, when my tears ran like Whitey Bolger, and my soul grew tired of itself, and my body said, I am all thats left, out of the empty eggshell, come a ghost chick, a chick with true grit, I load all the files for the album (3500) into the computer, and none of them are labelled, cheep cheep, says the ghost chick, and its an album, and we're taking it to Tejas, to SXSW. I'm going to walk into the desert and never come back
----------I'm gone away to Ireland for ages, mixing, but the dog doesn't care, he just makes friends with the people looking after him and worries about his next meal, knows if he stares long and hard enough, someone will give in, and he'll get half a digestive or something, just kills his toys, marvels in the attention. In the house its cold, where we're finishing the record, I drop some water on the floor and its still there three days later, the house where water doesn't evaporate, I havent been in Ireland this long, since I left home, can't sleep so I read naval history and find a begrudging respect for the English sailors of old, who followed the queen blindly, died for the sake of an empire which frowned upon their return with one leg, England is a different place now, mishmash of all the places it conquered, just doesnt know it yet, If only everyone could just mix together like grapes, its one of the things I hate the most, In the Usa there's Puerta ricans, Mexicans, African Americans etc and mostly in my experience they do their own thing, even in China where I thought it was one big communist country, its actually 54 tribes that all hate each other, and have a strict class system, under the banner of one Big red star, and four little ones. So recording, Beginning the year I never wanted to begin, a month late cause of the new album, I put one of the songs " Epiphany for whatever that was screaming in the woods" on www.myspace.com/thecrimea .The tune in the verse is from 'SPancil hill" a traditional Irish ballad, the words are printed above and below
---------Take the dog out in the snow, carry him, in my leather satchel, he likes looking around from a height, therefore keep circular breathing, as stupid as ever, clever as ever, or somewhere between, middleground, the cursed mound of wretchedness. comes with the thought process. And all its wrong turns, a curse on pre-mentioned stupidity. I can't think of little else but that I have out-stayed my welcome and I have lost the person I love, all last year tried to do stuff, to continue, but it makes no odds, Elvis cannot be returned to a building, and every day I wake up is a day I shouldnt be here, and every word I say, is a word I shouldnt have said, You can't just take love off the pitch, like an injured player, there is no substitute, it's all or nothing, True love or death, Damn you 2009, for all that you are, for all that you signal, and all that you bring, the trees on Golders green know everything, your greatest fears, your final testament, all that you could have been, U.F.O, no no no no no no no no

Then I see her face
cold in the winter sun
and I still won't have blood
Still won't be human

Then I feel her witches fingernails,
draw blood along my spine
and I still won't cave in
Still won't get broken

Then I feel her stolen,
kisses on the cold north wind
and the nightmare continues,
Still cant be woken

Then I feel her heart on fire
like the fourth of July
and I still won't have feelings
Still won't be human