Saturday, 22 October 2016

All we've been taught is wrong

"Sometimes you just can't please anyone, so you give up trying to please anyone at all" said the Alchemist, dissolving into an invisible haze. He walked invisible through the corrupt labyrinths of a lost civilisation, looking for a chemistry that would give hope. Nobody noticed anything but their own shadows. "All we've been taught is wrong" said the Alchemist, "the sea is just a flood" he said, mysteriously, attempting a metaphor for official lies. He sat down by the bay where submarines hide. "The world is just nowhere pretending to be somewhere. Once you know that it's ok, you have no illusions!" Out of the haze came the sound of a guitar, then a voice -and then the rest was just musical...

Words by Trev Teasdel

I live in Jethro Tull's flute

I live in Jethro Tull's flute. I am the rise and fall of every note; every mad expression, every heartfelt trill, each crescendo and diminuendo, I feel the universe in the passing of each breath - no note is an island unto itself, in the world of pure soul we are one tune, no division is true in the world of song - in the illusion of a single self, we are one song - if we look!

Trev Teasdel

I took off in my mind

I took off in my mind, hitched a lift at the midnight roundabout, rendezvoused with a memory I knew, inner landscapes with no passport needed. Cold coffee in a wayside cafe, women made of marble stared at me from the wall. Life's travelling circuses parking up for the night. I mixed the paints in the palette of my soul and tried them on for meaning. There was nothing doing - just another song on internet radio and a map without any roads to show. When you don't know where you're going, you just keep on walking - some days that's all you feel..

Trev Teasdel

Zombie Halt

1964, Kings Cross Station, two lonely buskers, sharing three well used chords and a plectrum and a Existential philosopher - Hey-Dig -Her. The age of steam was being replaced by the age of R & B and Free Love was on tap at any bar. In those days, people wore their novels like clothes, you could indeed read them like a book, line for line, episode for episode. The buskers looked like trains with their followers in carriages that rode behind them. Sex was all over the place and in your face but nobody noticed, they were busy being their own novels. The 1960's was a movie, written by a Pop Art aristrocrat made homeless in his own mind. Hey-Dig-Her philosophised when on the job - it helped to relax his syllogisms. It was his mission to invent the world but he failed miserably. Nothing really made sense but then it was never meant to. Just then, the two buskers hit on some chords and a freelance organist joined in. The lyrics fell out of a book on phenomenology, but were simplified for alienated rail users. It was business as usual at Zombie Halt and nobody knew where anybody was.....

Trev Teasdel

I'm a Conceptual Post Mod and Rocker...

I'm a Conceptual Post Mod and Rocker anti-ism-ist flashing poetic-fictionalist Lycra-lyricist, broken string-guitarist, rule-dumping, starbucking, jolly rogered bard out and barred out and banished of a decidedly liquid definition of a Bart and Homer Simpson, arty, Cafe Latte, Expresso Cappochino impressionist poeticullis. (I think,therefore!).

Words by Trev Teasdel

In a world made of paints...

 In a world made of paints and random words we strive to create meaning. We forge meaning out of randomness. Randomness is not responsible for our meanings. Half undressed equations coated in paint with random letters. Random and randy they rage and relinquish meaningful existence. The page is a canvas of encrypted truth, written on a paint processor, he-mailed and she-mailed for accuracy. The paint flaked, the words defied order, and meaning followed artistic contours with no map. Doors leaned and were neither opened or closed but nonetheless he said Hello...

Words by Trev Teasdel

Southside Sacramento

Suckcess lived in a sack, South side Sacramento, a qualified mess, undressed, hair rassed, bare assed. Nothing could caress, pardon or bless or please her less, home alone with Mona and the Mobile Phones, drying out her hair tones where the rats of society race then groan. The Rebellious Monk, a washed out punk, where politics stunk, on the fifty second bunk, claimed 'Love was beauty in a social junk', but the world went mad, postgrad bad, the people were 'had' and the pop world was a tad 'Glad all Over'!

Text and music by Trev Teasdel

Joe Toe-Rag

Joe Toe-Rag was a rag-time nobody with two strings on his six string and a harmonica solo in his tanglewood hair. He'd do a 12-bar crawl and sing for his beer and sleep in his flat-tire car. The world was built out of dictators, money-lenders and racketeer politics but Joe just slid underneath their understanding and turned his poverty into a pentatonic harmonic. He built his wooden shack utopia on the edge of some dark dimension and slid up to the 12th fret whenever the rent was due. "You gotta strike 'em weird' said Joe, 'or else they'll drain your self-esteem.' Joe was no dinosaur despite the scales all over his guitar. He bent the rules like he bent the strings and escaped along his endless bass-runs whenever the authorities called. Joe wrote his own world, and sang it differently every night. He'd hook them on the chorus and stump them on the verses. Joe was nobody's fool and his one and only very best friend.

Text by Trev Teasdel

Listen to it on this video

Unentangled Multiverse

I'm a reluctant stereotype in a simulated reality, I've played the string theory in an unentangled multiverse, I was born in a white hole hologram, projected through a matrix of light years. I'm nobody's fool, I'm hip to the game, I wrote the script in Strawberry Fields, where nothing is real, and paid a fortune in Penny Lane by Arnold Layne and Bronco Layne. I made it all up for a Quantum Quark, it's all just a spark in the dark. I'm an independent guardian from a mirror star, waiting for my daily mail. I'm a fake news fanatic, a Mario in the loft and in the attic, I'm off script and out of kilter, a stereotype in a reluctant, variant, virtual reality.

Text by Trev Teasdel

Beyond Capitalism

Beyond Capitalism,
in the Second Evolution,
when mankind can think
beyond the Selfish Gene.
In a golden egg age,
with a rational form of surrealism,
warmongers will evaporate
like steam.
There's a nucleus of human spirit,
creative and cooperative,
that's never fully had it's day.
It may not be,
the rigid centralism
of the past:
more Zen;
world cooperative
but self-sufficient,
Our brains have yet to
outdated media to hit the
may never
make it through -
There's a nucleus of human spirit
whose time
has never been
Beyond Capitalism.

by Trev Teasdel

Audio version - 

The Fool

Many's the time I've played the fool, jester, janitor and joculator, for Kings and other ordinary people; in lifetimes prior and future. I have perfected my foolish grin, over time, my quips, my foolish ways. Some have liked a good fool, others not. I am what i am, King of fools, a fool such as I. Like a fool, I've fooled with love, felt foolish and got fooled. I've fooled around with wisdom, got wise and been found full of foolishness. I'd be a fool to say I've never been a fool. The world is full of fools, and I'm king!! I am wise enough to say I am a fool! Yours truly - April!

Text by Trev Teasdel

When I began to write the world

When I began to write the world - I had no plan, no plot and no idea of any direction - I just ploughed in, keen to let words tumble, fizz and fuse with the alchemy of word-play. I had no serious thought, no axe to grind, no sensation to reveal - a waterfall of word parachutes - that was all. Things came as they came, no game plan, no strategy, no hidden meaning, no esoterica - i let my fingers have fun running along the keys, the surprise sex of love-making images, the alliteration of chiming assonance, the personification of blank pixels. You took it all so seriously and asked for meaning - I gave you meanings and asked you to make up your own - you wouldn't listen and things got surreal. So here we are - still no plot - you took it all the wrong way - just relax, have some wine, have some fun - it's just a crazy composition - i just made up the world to get you going - it's no big deal - the world is just a story - we're all particles and waves, that's all... Sorry.

Text by Trev Teasdel


This wild world of the human race, full of genius and madness, empathy and cruelty, intelligence and greed - what cosmic jazz can improvise and harmonise to make your bass brass see the light of piccolos and flutes?

Words by Trev Teasdel

Picture - Swingin by JOHN HOLYFIEL

Sea Washed Shore

We're shifting shadows on a sea washed shore, souls moving through situation. We attach emotion to people and things, clutch at reminders of wind blown hopes. Memories come in waves, wash over your feet, on the beach and then retract. Sometimes you want to say something but words are like buckets with holes in and meaning is hard to capture. You hold your breath and carry on...

Trev Teasdel

The story of Me begins...

The story of Me begins in a beer-nest of honey dromes, the Outer-Hebrides of a Hornet's nest, a Monkey's uncle of a tall tale, a cut n paste of random episode. I was five lines in; a paragraph away from paradigm change, out of sequence but not out of imagination. I was born to the pendulum of pens, Open Office and Microsoft Word, running scared of a bearded grammarian. Life is tale told by a fool, a fiction of pixels, a fantasy of particles, dark matter with all the lights on! I fought for meaning on the tide of obscurity, expressed my repressed ego in the fossilised fog. I was hard to understand, easy to persuade and rebellious without a cause. I was hard pressed in the the Rock n Roll Free Press; faked the pentameters of a silent protagonist. I wove simple imagery into a Stock Exchange spreadsheet and profited from rouge investments. That's the story of Me, edited in secret, hypnotised by hyperbole, locked in incantation and wild in revelation! Well you did ask!

Trev Teasdel


MONEYFACT & HEATWAVE (Fiction that Flashes a bit) By Trev Teasdel

Moneyfact lived in a brown worn out wallet in Tango Town and slept on a Visa card in the orange light of a Tango Town night. There were a few of them in the wallet sharing food with straws. Tango Town was all that was left after the money world had melted down suddenly in the white heat of a vicious rumour.

Couples made love in the vaults where once gold was stored and talked about the coming of the golden age where gold was a metaphor for the 'Shining Example' that was beginning to emerge out of the desecration of the fiscal virus that had impregnated the human mind for so long.

Moneyfact thought of changing his name as his girlfriend dressed in a coat of light and ran her intuition through his rigid thought patterns. "Things could be different" thought Moneyfact as he trembled at her fingertip therapy. "It really could" he shouted, running around the wallet like a coin spinning on a bank tiller's counter. For the first time in his 'Ring-mastered life' (as he came to think of it) he saw that life was a blank page upon which he and the rest of Tango Town could write a manifesting poem that sang with the alliteration of cooperation, that encompassed the syllable counts of the towns varied talents.

The poems would need to be drafted, honed and worked on and chiselled until the vision shone like gold in the unison. Now that the 'melt down' had sent the bent virus of the way people used to think to the salty waves of its own liquidation, Tango Town was free to be truly creative and treat it's own negative thoughts about the future with intuition and inspiration, while taking caution and keeping prudence.

Moneyfact's girlfriend. Lightwave, tempered his heated male brow with her fingers as he unwound centuries of conditioning and gold-bullion thinking as they both took their part in the creation of the 'Shining Example'.

Lovemaking in the vault of gold involved stripping down to the pure intuitive self; the setting aside of all ego and the conjuring of elevation and radiance of conjoining wave-patterns. Moneyfact was learning this lost art, long subjugated to 'commodity sex' where you rang a till and kept the profit. All profits were shared for the cause of the 'Shining Example'.

Moneyfact was a 'realist' but with a rising intuitive Sat-Nav (revealed to him by Lightwave) that charted a course through the mudtracks of an unknown future. He was but one of them, a destiny poet helping to create a first draft new way of being.

Moneyfact lay on his Visa Card, snug in his wallet, meditating the credit-limit of what might be achievable in this first phase of the 'Shining Example', and as he dreamed, the reader saw Moneyfact's intuition grow stronger as the story made of words faded and the reader's own sequel began imaginating......

Feb 2010


Bart Backwards was looking for some spooky action when his mate told him he wouldn't have stood a ghost of a chance with Maybellene Ford-Mustang, a belle of the 1950's hip hop scene. Bart had driven in the fog through the spider webbed ghost town of Quantumly En Tanglemere and witnessed the hairs on the back of his carburetter standing on edge. "What strange fuckabridge is this" exclaimed Bart, who claimed to have three penises at a party no one saw him attend! Maybellene Ford-Mustang was sitting on a wall, dreaming of Humpty Dumpty, when Bart Backwards pulled over in the fog. "Where am I " said Bart "Who knows, in a town where anything goes" said Maybellene, "and anyway, Humpty has stood me up again!" "Get in" said Bart, "I'm heading for Future-backwards, where my mate will tell me I would never stand a ghost of a chance with you" " Ok said Maybellene, it's better than waiting here and getting egg on my face!" The couple drove through the driving web of wild particles and wave forms through all manner of episodes and scenarios and eventually came into the town of Future-Backwards. "My mate is in the cafe, I would love you to meet him!" 
Maybellene smiled and combed her particles into some kind of recognisable form."I bet he's cute like you" said Maybellene. Bart looked over at the table where he and his mate were still chewing the fat and talking about the possibilities of dating or not dating Maybellene Ford-Mustang."What goes on" exclaimed a surprised Bart, "how can I be here and there at the same time". Nonetheless, the couple sat down at the table and talked as if nothing was weird. Bart congratulated himself on his recent entanglement to Maybellene Ford-Mustang and his mate, as if it wasn't strange, just timed-out of existence, voluntarily!
by Trev Teasdel
Sparked by this article- 

Cod or Bream

It doesn't matter if you're Cod or Bream, dig the Sociology of the policy marine, fishcake fortunes, boatride porkies, salecloth salaries. They're all loaded, encrypted, coded. Hook that fish, kiss and wish, hot potato the new dictator. They're coming in loaded and all we're outmoded....

Trev Teasdel

Back in the season of time

Back in the season of time, clocks chimed, lovers rhymed in the synchronistic universe. You clocked in, clocked out and clocked up the miles.Then time disappeared, blank empty space, no appointments, no past, love lost in the abyss, curling towers of mist. Love was a diminishing chord strummed into submission. Time played fast and loose and all meaning fooled itself. Out of chaos, a drum beat, out of nothing a breathy voice, on the beat an organ seasoned by a timely song..

Trev Teasdel

The Belching Bars of Burlesque

The Belching Bars of Burlesque

Here, in the blank space of a status update there was nothing to express. Sheer emptiness of mind, indifference. Huge skyscrapers were falling asleep on their feet, heads drooping 'neath the snoring moon. It was at this time the Pixels came out, somewhat pixelated, picking their way through the trash-cans of throw-away politics, through the Tinkerbell fountains of neon light, through the belching bars of burlesque in the embolden bay of Risque. The night was counting up the stars in the spent tills of wasted time and the yellow cabs drove flawed, fictional characters into the wild outskirts of banished novellas. The Aliens of course, were there in the background, flashing their splashing lights, abducting the cash-machines of failed public policy. But here, in the blank space of status, where spelling mistakes conspire against all whispering pens, a yawn was heard in the corridor of power and lies were wired once again to twittering morning tabloids.

Outer Reaches

Out of reach on the outer reaches, snow clad mountain, gray faced sky, away from the madness of a cold heart world with ice-capped policies and poison wars, I felt that space within. No warm hearth, no smiling mirror, the world turned slush, the world turned trash. Upon high, without a signal, people spoke in frozen voices. I zipped my coat, pulled up my hood and did the only thing I could. Out of reach, upon high, no mobile signal, no laptop lover and the newsrooms under cover. In a world of lies, I spoke a truth, cried for justice, laughed for hope and loved in vain. Out of reach, out of touch, the world was spinning like this song.

Trev Teasdel

Hotel Perfection

I walked into Hotel Perfection, saw my Quantum clone looking back at me."How do you do this stuff?" I said "I mean, me, I fumble my way through the dark, try not to take a wrong turning, but it's hard to be perfect without a map." He took me into the Multiverse Lounge, there were a lot of lookalikes in that room, all doing different stuff but looking similar. "Perfection takes time" He said " it's not achieved in a single lifetime, you have to work through stuff, and it's not easy - mistakes are for learning." I didn't feel any easier about it and poured myself some humility. He said "Sometimes we hurt people we don't mean to and we can't turn back the clock". He gave me a tour of this Learning Workshop he called the multiverse, but, it didn't help, I still felt out of place in Hotel Perfection!

By Trev Teasdel

Power-Chord Primate

I was born to be wild, a wild thing running free, a bowler-hatted Steppenwolf on the steep Steppes of Santa-Anyplace. I rode a six string saxophone with a leftfield pickup truck, swinging in the trees and looking to get lucky. A power-chord primate with intuitive ignition, I radioed my intentions intensly. I was Lay Lady Lay in a lay-by near Las Lascivious fretting over her laid-back arpeggios. Nothing makes sense in a wild town, you have invent all your own meanings and feed them back down, town to town. I wasn't born to be understood, I peeled the fruit of life on the run. Outside Sacramento we were Monkey Magnifico, our amps ran off with the lost chord of the planet and the audience were torn between ovation and disgust. Well that's rock n roll for ya!!

Words and music by Trev - 

Metal Version

Poetry -music version

Image that inspired the piece - The real rock stars by birubadut

Stir Crazy and Sally Risqué

Stir Crazy walked out of an unpublished novel, sat in the bar with other disgruntled borderline characters and just stared at the wall. Sally Risqué came from behind the bar and slouched next to him."You look crazy" she said "I was in a bad sex novel - the author won an award ffs, how bad is that!". Sally 'laughed out loud' and sat in front of him, "You look ok though, what's your story?" "That's it" said Stir, "there was no story, just a bunch of wasted wank - I just got board and crept out!". 

Sally sat back down and he noticed her invisible bra "You know one day you got you're whole life mapped out in a book - it may be mundane but it's something and I didn't have much to say, but once you get free from its mediocrity, there's not even a plan.". 

Sally was stirred by his self deprecation and poured herself another beer. "You know", she said, "It's Sunday, why don't we just skip the plot and move directly towards the climax!"
 Stir, wasn't used to such short cuts and put another tune on the juke box..."Didn't we meet before" he quizzed "back in some pre-literary life?". Just then the singer stepped in with a crazy bunch of musicians. It sounded like he had something to say...

by The Poet Reprobate.

Big Joe, Little Toe

Well Big Joe, Little Toe had a drop-in, drop out, far out canyon cafe with the magnificent minions of mistletoe opinions. Life is rough when you voice is gruff and the world is someone's oyster on the run. A far flung, highly strung, well hung guitar was dancing in the kitchen. Big Joe, potato peeler, rocking reeler, paying his dues, singin' them blues down the hypotenuse. Things were just alright or never right or a half turn left or just plain wrong. Nonetheless he just carried on playing...

Text by Trev Teasdel