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Graphite

by Kevin P. Gilday

/
1.
The painters never paint And the writers never write The painters never paint And the writers never write Rain battered face Hair depletion A green slime masquerading as excretion The mind is weak and the flesh is reeling My whole life encapsulated in a feeling Regret In whole or in part Condemned by the purveyors of shit motorway art Content with a life of watered down beer A holiday to Tenerife once a year Artistic intentions hidden by fear Artistic intentions hidden by fear Artistic intentions hidden by fear Artistic intentions hidden by fear The painters never paint And the writers never write
2.
Oh dear green places of Glasgow You welcome tramp and child alike Provide a refuge from the brew Allow a battalion of students to ride a bike Brilliant green scars across the anonymous grey Islands of beauty not yet swept away A place to write, to think and to dream Away from the malaise of the estates and the schemes Oh dear green places of Glasgow Relics of Victorian splendour Our true collective birthright Our entwined pasts you render From Kelvingrove’s herbaceous border To the Lama of Tollcross From Bellahouston’s wide open spaces To the swans of Hogganfield Loch Oh dear green places of Glasgow Against the harsh winter you stand resolute Intrepid explorers conquer your vertices And transform your snow covered hills into chutes Vivacious flowers bloom in intricate arrangements Under the nourishing cover of the Botanic’s containments Young children frolic Earnestly chasing the leaves While the teenagers push their boundaries Drinking Bucky behind the trees Oh dear green places of Glasgow
3.
So I put my hand through the mirror Another 7 years bad luck So enraged by what I saw Too drunk to give a fuck In the church of the self I write my own scripture, rejoice in my sin, worship my own picture In the church of the self I write my own scripture, rejoice in my sin, worship my own picture In the church of the self I write my own scripture, rejoice in my sin, worship my own picture In the church of the self I write my own scripture, rejoice in my sin, worship my own picture A reflection of my face The disappointment it has brung To myself and many others They oughtta crucify my tongue In the church of the self I write my own scripture, rejoice in my sin, worship my own picture In the church of the self I write my own scripture, rejoice in my sin, worship my own picture In the church of the self I write my own scripture, rejoice in my sin, worship my own picture In the church of the self I write my own scripture In the church of the self I write my own scripture
4.
I may see it fit To borrow an expression or a phrase To be executed by my tongue Or written all over my face A half remembered bead of wisdom Or a bawdy little pun All recycled as my own I am my father’s son A restless mind and greying hair Amongst other things bequeathed A bulbous sac filled with bile A mouth of crooked teeth Three generations of men Who let spirits loosen their tongue But despite all that’s said I am my father’s son A propensity to sadness A genetic predisposition Joins a hereditary dissatisfaction Amongst a litany of conditions Yet to unselfishly oppose injustice Is something I’ve never done But there’s still time for me I am my father’s son I eschewed tools for language Curtailing tradition as I went Assigned societal roles I’d attempt to circumvent Reigned in by lineage Impossible to outrun As he was before me I am my father’s son
5.
“Please wait while one of our UK based advisors becomes available” Goes the mantra – distant and inalienable A disembodied female voice Repetition without a choice So I wait, beep beep And I wait, beep beep And I wait, beep beep And I wait, beep beep I consider a more efficient use of my time Creating art, masterful and sublime These jobs are designed to deny our potential And occupy our minds with the inconsequential Hour upon hour of precious time wasted The fun we could have had, the wine we could have tasted
6.
You are the centre of your little world and I am of mine Now and again we meet for tea, we’re two of a kind This is our universe, cups of tea We have a beautiful cosmos, you and me We have a beautiful cosmos What do we talk of whenever we meet? Nothing at all You sit with a sandwich, I look at a roll Sometimes I open my mouth, and shut it We have a beautiful cosmos, you and me We have a beautiful cosmos, you and me
7.
8.
Ed crumbled under the weight of Jane’s erotic confession. He got the train, bought a pasty from the trolley and cried furiously. “It’ll be hilarious”, laughed Jim with abandon. But when the water soaked Irene with a flourish she found it infinitely less so. As the brisk mountain air cascaded down into the valley, invigorating shrubs with artificial movement, we held our breath - in awe. The laptop arced through the air and hit the ground with a dull thud. Chris wept. She had changed her status to ‘in a relationship’. Some teenagers with asymmetrical fringes laughed at Robert as he walked past them on the street. He marched straight to the first public toilet he could find, and turned his Pet Shop Boys t-shirt inside out.
9.
Fate, drove me away Enraptured by possibility Hate, rained down today Encroaching on my civility Fair words oblige no man Take, your time with me My mental state not fully formed Draw, a map to see The distance until my heart has warmed Fair words oblige no man Fair words oblige no man Fair words oblige no man Fair words oblige no man Fair words oblige no man
10.
So we dingied school And hung about on the spare ground With it’s protruding weeds And indeterminate mounds We kicked around a can In lieu of a ball Loosened our ties And clambered over a wall Into an old lady’s garden Or so we presumed Confirmed when she appeared Just recently exhumed A vision of death In a tartan gown Greeting us with a smile Not the prerequisite frown She offered us biscuits And oily tea Daytime telly A seat on her settee Regaled us with stories Of times gone by Insisted we stay for supper A nice cottage pie Informed us she had two sons Not much older than us We thought this was strange But declined to make a fuss Introduced us to her husband With his playful grey moustache He took us by the hands And at our wrists he wildly slashed “You’ll be ours forever now” She shrieked, and screamed, and sighed As the madman took his knife And started hacking at our thighs Let this be a lesson To those who would trust a stranger It’s not only foolish But inherit with danger Just remember my story Of those who failed to atone The two limbless children Who never came home
11.
Late that night by the crooked christmas tree You opened up your mouth and prepared to consume me Your blood was soon to stain my pubic hair And your naked body was not all that you would bare And I remember, there were ducks on your pants And I remember, the way the breeze blew through the flat And I remember, you taught me how to feel And I remember, the way I threw up that day’s meal Our clumsy movements as we attempted to disrobe Belied the intricacies of our unspoken code We cleansed ourselves of our self loathing and despair And handed our bodies into one another’s care And I remember, there were ducks on your pants And I remember, the way the breeze blew through the flat And I remember, you taught me how to feel And I remember, the way I threw up that day’s meal
12.
We used to build ships here Not just despair Now the veins of our city Lie in disrepair All our industry Faded or tertiary All our hopes and dreams Subject to tyranny We used to build ships here We used to make steel We worked with conviction To provide every meal Now for the flocks of foreign tourists Our city we debase As they take photographs for albums To document a dying place We used to build ships here We used to make steel
13.
Plastic Bags 01:52
We packed up a year and a half into faded Co-op bags, which we then exchanged in silence. They were filled primarily with folded underwear that seemed familiar but somehow lost. The self same underwear that had sat side by side and, on occasion, rubbed against each other was now quarantined. Confined to their respective plastic bag they passed each other without a sound. The look on your face is indecipherable, an ancient Japanese puzzle designed to drive men mad. There is hurt, yes. There is anger, yes. But also something else, something indefinable. The kind of expression only ever witnessed on the face of a visitor in an intensive care ward. Words were spoken, but to no real effect. Just dull syllables that bounced off the walls. The empty pleasantries of society. However, the looks exchanged, or indeed the lack of, belied the enormity of a situation now beyond our grasp. An endless network of complexity and compromise, of give and take, of risk and reward. After you leave I throw the newly repatriated underwear into the drawer with a sigh, sad but thankful as I was running out.
14.
This one is for the hipster fucks and the aesthete cunts I will hunt you with my voice This art is a compulsion Not a fucking career choice With your twee little melodies And your synthesized sins If it were up to me I’d consign it all to the bin Beside the tattered brogues and the vintage chic You’ve appropriated as your look Try discussing Dylan with me And I’m liable to puke Your vacuous façade hums quietly along Market research disguised as a song An unremarkable shade of beige Snivelling sycophants sniff Around the corpse of a scene Jumping from tweepop to mathrock And everything in between Whatever tickles the fancy Of their esteemed peers Fuelled by delusions of grandeur And self congratulatory cheers Comets orbit moons Orbit planets orbit stars Space detritus fallen to earth And drinking in trendy bars Your scripted drama unfolds so predictably You identify, use and abuse so instinctively An unremarkable shade of beige
15.
Late that night by the crooked christmas tree You opened up your mouth and prepared to consume me Your blood was soon to stain my pubic hair And your naked body was not all that you would bare And I remember, there were ducks on your pants And I remember, the way the breeze blew through the flat And I remember, you taught me how to feel And I remember, the way I threw up that day’s meal Our clumsy movements as we attempted to disrobe Belied the intricacies of our unspoken code We cleansed ourselves of our self loathing and despair And handed our bodies into one another’s care And I remember, there were ducks on your pants And I remember, the way the breeze blew through the flat And I remember, you taught me how to feel And I remember, the way I threw up that day’s meal
16.
They hold up placards of Jesus Christ Beside a picture of a foetus devoid of all life They believe life begins at the point of conception And a woman is responsible for a man’s erection Their stilted values swirl out of time Obsessed with traditions dated and benign Like the sacred union between husband and wife This is the scum that believe in pro life It’s not just destroying a collection of cells It’s symptomatic of society’s everyday hells Cold blooded murder masquerading as science Infanticide committed with a household appliance They’ll kill a human being on nothing more than a whim A fully formed foetus with two eyes and four limbs They’ll gladly deny a child a voice This is the scum that believe in pro choice
17.
I filled out a questionnaire To see if I was depressed Had trembling in my hands Or tightness in my chest I circled some numbers To quantify the pain Described my abstract feelings Qualified my disdain Discussed the fear of failure That weighs heavy on my back The man I’d like to be And the one I’ll have to hack Misanthropy, in human form The irony, not fully worn I’ll protect myself from thoughts that sear I’ll make myself just disappear We numb ourselves With bottles of wine To make us ignorant To the passing of time To quiet of souls And quell our ambitions To shield ourselves From our human conditions We consume poisons That make us feel sick Lay prone, abusing A flaccid dick Misanthropy, in human form The irony, not fully worn I’ll protect myself from thoughts that sear I’ll make myself just disappear
18.
Barbara’s pet raven has escaped it’s cage. It perched itself menacingly on the bannister by the door. It cocked it’s neck to the side and seemed to mark us for death. George was 18p short for his copy of the Guardian. He put it in his bag anyway. Navdeep had to stop him on the way out. George protested that it had been planted there. Sally invented a card game for fun when she was drunk at a party. Within a year people were playing it online for cash. Sally regretted not patenting the game. “You’re doing so well, I really want you to keep up the good work”, beamed Stephen’s manager. “Yeah, I bet that would get you wet”, laughed Stephen. His witty banter was once met again with stunned silence. Tim stood on a block of ice with a noose tied around his neck. It was taking forever to melt. So he hopped in the car and drove to Ikea, where he purchased a nice chair.
19.
We’ve spent half of our lives in these hospitals Traversing the narrow corridors We wait in vain for a hint of good news While the sterile fumes make us choke 19th century buildings 21st century lies We’ll only ever cry in these hospitals Bidding farewell to the past One by one it comes to us all Our love was never meant to last 19th century buildings 21st century lies 19th century buildings 21st century lies 19th century buildings 21st century lies
20.
Glasgow comes to a standstill when two well-mannered men collide. Such has been the gradual diminishing of manners from generation to generation that this is now a quite seldom occurrence. Although history books seem to recall this phenomenon occurring regularly – sometimes right up to the 1960s. It is now probable to suggest that there is, at most, one person of a polite nature present at any one time in the city. Of course from time to time it is logical to hypothesise that there may be two, maybe even three, of these anomalies traversing the streets. But of course the large geographical area involved would preclude them from ever meeting. These men (and they are men, for what is a women without manners?) would float through the streets – one in Springburn, perhaps another in Shawlands – enchanting the disillusioned masses with their peculiar code (“please”? ”thank you”?) and their amiable disposition. But what if by some quirk of fate their paths were to cross? Modern Glasgow has not witnessed such an event for many a year, to the extent that the younger inhabitants debated whether it was an urban legend. Although many of the older residents still regaled the bars with stories of the great meeting of 1942 which backed the Gallowgate up on both sides after two polite men had attempted to cross the road at the same time. Glasgow as it is now, devoid of it’s mannered past, was not ready for the statistical anomaly made flesh that was to befall it. The corner of St. Vincent Street and West Nile Street. They both stopped at once to allow the other passage, as was their custom, and as they both retained their respective positions a strange smile infiltrated both their faces. “On you go mate” prompted one. “Nah, after you big man” replied the other. By this point there began to form a swarm of angry people, attempting to negotiate this man made obstacle. But still the loop of politeness continued unabated. “Och, get yerself away, I insist” “Not at all, I’m not gonnae have a gent like yourself getting out the way for me” A group of Japanese tourists pulled themselves away from taking photos of the architecture to witness this spectacle. They threw pound coins adjacent to the point were the two men met, mistaking this show of manners as some kind of street theatre. This mannered exchanged continued for a further five hours, with neither man budging from his chosen spot – frozen like Venetian statues in bizarre poses. The crowd swelled significantly as the word spread and even reporters from The Daily Record and The Evening Times turned up to cover the event. At last the police arrived. As they exited the van they were greeted by a cacophony of boos from the gathered audience – as they were witnessing history in the flesh, so they knew that all history must pass and that the police were the men to push this great meeting into the recorded tomes. Even as they were being lifted into the back of the van (the policeman citing ‘breach of the peace’ or some other such antiquated act) the politeness continued unfettered. The police struggled with them as they both attempted to hold the door of the police van open for the other. The crowd roared in approval as the two men were driven off to the cells, deep in their hearts they knew they’d never see their likes again.

about

Graphite is a concept album. It deals with the selfishness, insecurities, dreams, imagination and shortcomings of a man in his mid-twenties struggling for a sense of identity. The intangible sense that everything you've ever wanted is just round the corner and the inescapable sense that it'll always remain just out of reach. An album about potential and it's crushing responsibility, about the disparity between who you are and who you'd like to be.

Listening Instructions

Preferably, this album should be heard through good quality headphones with the lyrics present - to be mocked at will. Recommended listening locations include Tollcross park, Duke street at night and the bush outside your ex-partner's new flat. This album should only ever be listened to alone. Enjoy.

credits

released December 25, 2011

Recorded and mixed by Emily MacLaren and Stuart Evans at Greendoor Studios.

The players:

James Campbell - Saxophone on track 15.

Jennifer Campbell - Piano on track 2; Flute on track 3.

Tim Courtney - Guitar on tracks 17 and 19; Melodica on track 10.

David Flood - Guitar on tracks 6 and 9.

Kevin Frew - Melodica on track 10; Drums on track 15.

Kevin P. Gilday - Vocals on all tracks; Percussion on tracks 3, 12 and 17; Violin on track 10; Saw on track 10; Radio Static on track 14.

Rebecca Kilgour - Vocals on track 19.

Emily MacLaren - Organ on tracks 3 and 12; Glockenspiel on track 3; Tape loops on track 7.

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Kevin P. Gilday Glasgow, UK

Kevin P. Gilday is an award-winning writer and spoken word artist from Glasgow, Scotland.

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