Last Words

Without spontaneity what are we.
Without spontaneity just machines.
Without authority how are we?
No grace under pressure, no ill-fitting dentures.
A portrait of society when all is told.
Artists fold as dartists hurl.
The evil eye stares on, Jenkins' at home.
Garibaldis' conquest relies on the understanding
Portrait of Society(')s alright. McButt signing off.

"Another Portrait of Society"

An untitled automatic writing piece from 2012 that I went on to recite in a Glenson Heart McBrute jam. Subsequently released on the "You Can Call Me Doctor Balls" album under the title "Another Portrait of Society" in reference to my 2006 prose.

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Piece by piece
How the parts come together
Rise and take hold
What he knows she feels
Death and his maiden
The portrait looking on
Who leads the leader
Who writes the song?
Foot in hand
A clumsy dance
Struggles for resolve
Finds its way somehow -
With trepidation
A sweeping sound
And we're off
Imperfect cadence
To finish off

"Andante con moto"
Said the weathered face
What a shame I thought
Of course Schubert knew what to do
Electronic glitch:
Welcome to now
Gone the aspiration of old
Still, to experience
When all's said and done
A merry old barnacle
Who sweats out fun
"Anne Frank" he'd shout mocking
A somewhat beleaguered attempt
At humour - missing a vital
Point of contention:
She only had one leg.
Does humour belong in music?
Does humour belong in comedy?
Does humour belong in geometry?
Does subjectivity belong in life?

"Pot Song"

A set of lyrics I wrote for inclusion on as-of-yet unreleased Glenson Heart McBrute reggae side-project "Spliff Riddims". A jam on June 21st spawned an album's worth of material - several new tracks plus some Garibaldi classics reworked.  Steve, Rob and I wrote words for the remaining originals; hopefully the album will get released soon - it could possibly be our finest work to date!

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POT SONG

Our home is our health

It takes more than walls to feel safe

But what of out wealth?

In times of debt, how to replace

The systems that we've built upon

Knowing now the foundation's gone

On land we built that had no strength

The sinking sands help us to see...

Our time is our wealth

But knowing it's finite does not help

Our sense of self

Was thought up by another

How we fought for our right

Knowing not of other's lives

The lies we heard and took to heart

Redemption can't be bought

Our mind is our guide

Together we achieve all

Our hope is the light

Dear science, help us evolve

"From Hope to the Eschaton"

My fourth song in a back-and-forth writing session with Steve, overseen by Robert, which resulted in Kissing Sally In The Smoking Room. Also credited as "From Hope to the Eschata", the title is a reference to an excerpt of EWTN dialogue sampled in Hope And Monet epic "In Excess!".

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From Hope To The Eschaton
Where words fail
The meaning remains
We're taking comfort
On the open plain

The road looks long
Going strong
Take it one step at a time
When all's said and done.

When words fail
The feeling remains
I'm taking comfort
From this open plain

We save ourself
You save ourself
I save ourself

The road seems long
Still going strong
And where does it lead
When all is said and...
When all is said and...

"My Woollen Lullaby"

The songs that became Kissing Sally In The Smoking Room were predominantly written in a day. Situated in "The Hit-Factory" at Bowels of the Basement studios, myself and Steve Wicked passed a guitar back and forth, there and then writing and recording basic tracks for around 8 songs. My lyrics came at a somewhat slower pace over the proceeding few weeks. Incidentally, I had wanted to use the title "My Woollen Lullaby" several months previously planning my solo album "Catharsis" which to this day remains shelved for reasons apparently obvious to the listener (think Glenson Heart McBrute's JAZZ.)

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My Woollen Lullaby

There was a time when words just came

We closed our eyes shut out all pain

And sang a song that beckoned in

A new tomorrow

The days were long despite the rain

Their brightness shone on all the same

And bore a song that kept alive

Thoughts of yesterday

And from these tunes we reminisce

Fresh tales emerge now from that mist

Of clouded hours, lost in time

Such as this one

So what of laughs and endless fun?

The certainty of more to come

Take a breath, calm the mind

My woollen lullaby.

Recall a time when words had failed

Knew the score yet were unable

To change the cards we’d dealt ourselves

It needs perspective

Stuck in a rut, a mind possessed

Introspection obsessed

Close our eyes to all around

As if we’re special.

Don’t forget you’re not alone

All deep down searching for “home”

So drop your guard, freely roam

Take a breath, calm the mind

With woollen lullabies

There’ll be time to take a breath

There’ll be time to start afresh

There’ll be time to sing aloud

A new tomorrow

There’ll be a time when you are heard

There’ll be a time - far more absurd

There’ll be a time you realise

Your prayers were answered

So what of laughs and endless fun?

The certainty of more to come

Take a breath, calm the mind

(Take a breath and calm the mind)

"And Here Goes Again"

Closing my portion of Hope And Monet, the follow-up to "And Here Goes". A running competition between me, Steve and Rob at the time was who could have the longest song/suite on the album. By early 2011, Heart had won with his "In Excess? - Who Knows Who Cares - In Excess!" medley.

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And Here Goes Again

We choke this world so gracefully

We fill ourselves with forbidden fruit

Time's running out as we stand still

Forget to learn, forgot the past

Will we change?

Can we heal?

I see myself, a distant glare

The past is here, I was there

The time is now it's time to act

The clocks will never turn back

Have we changed?

Is this real?

"And confusion grows achingly

We once were safe now gone all three

Remembered through these words we write?

Forgotten not without a fight."

"And Here Goes"

My memory's foggy, however I believe the first talk of a 3-disc, 4-hour Garibaldis' album came soon after the completion of (Also Known As) Constellations in October 2008. What's clear is that by the following March, Steve had announced a title and I'd set about planning my 80 minutes of music. The Hope And Monet sessions kicked off in Spring of 2009 where the concept was solidified. Thanks to exceptional planning, my album was all-but written (and mostly recorded) by the end of the year. We knew HAM was an epic undertaking but no-one expected it to overrun its release date by a year, crazy days. 

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And Here Goes
"And confusion hits so suddenly
We once were safe now lost all three
Divided in the ways we work
United in the way we hope."

I roam this land, a lost cause
I've walked these boards, for hours on end
Time races by as I stand still
Forgot to grow, forget most things

Do we change?
Can we heal?

I crawl these floors, dirt and all
You warned me once, I ignored
I age a year in what seems a day
What have I achieved? Where too now?

Have I changed?
Can you heal me?

And confusion grows achingly
We once were safe now gone all three
Remembered through these words we write?
Forgotten not without a fight

The Album of Wrath

Although I can't be sure of the date, it's likely the material I wrote for the eventually abandoned "Album Of Wrath" had been completed by late April 2006. The Ill-Fitting Garibaldis' gave rise to my passion for lyric writing and ultimately (if I may be so modest) nourishing my bold talent. The casual observer would never guess all ten tracks were written in a remarkably short period of time, concurrent with the likes of "Dark Church". I still have yet to get round to recording the album, having on multiple occasions considered using the odd-song with The Garibaldis. At the time of writing, Steve Wicked was eager to use them himself! I have no plans to record the tracks currently but who knows, one day perhaps - it would be a shame to let such fine prose go to waste.

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WRATH’S INTRODUCTION

The following album

Is about a sin

The worst of all

Known as “Wrath”

Wrath’s a person

He’s in all of us

But mainly in evil

And this is his story

But there is a tale

To be told

And a message

To be sold

It’s important to know

Wrath is pure evil

And never mix with sinful doings

As it is the equivalent of:

Having intercourse with Wrath

DEVIL’S BIRTH WAS QUICK

Fighting for some respiration

Inside each of my peachy cells

Down there the Devil gives birth

I none of the many, many Hells!

Forgiveness is a very sick man

Whom doth not always flee

Try talking to him with your mouth full

He’ll expose you to the obscene!

The devil’s birth as quick

His mother made the doctors sick

They coughed up phlegm and said:

Christ, your son’s been born dead – little did they know…

The devil’s birth was quick

His life was disguised with tricks

He lead on many a man

And with his friend Wrath raped them

This ain’t the first we’ll hear of Wrath

For did you know he wasn’t partial to a bath

Which leads on to my next point

Wrath loved now and again a good old sneaky joint

The devil’s birth as quick

Devil’s birth was quick

Devil’s birth was quick

Devil’s birth was quick

Devil’s birth was quick

Devil’s birth was quick

Devil’s birth was quick

Vomit – vomit – sick-sick-sick!

I like to eat rabbits

While they’re still alive

I listen to trip-hop music

Whilst I fantasise

Courtney Love in dungarees

Smoking herbal trees

In the woods

Watch it burn!

RORY’S NEW GUITAR

Been strumming all my life

Never had a wife!

Turned down relationships

Just to strum my six-string beauty

I got a new guitar

I’m gonna call her Martha II

I gotta new guitar

Strumming her all day long!

Pickin’ here, scrapin’ there

Writing new songs – what a dare!

Strumming Martha’s heartstrings

She’s screaming out my name (Rory!)

Playing her till I drop

She lies in my sweaty hair

Martha lies in my bedroom

But never on the bed

That’s because she’s inanimate

And also quite dead

Yet she still gives me pleasure

Makes my hair stand on end

“Martha, Martha!” I cry out loud

While she makes my body bend

She still gives me pleasure

She still makes me whine

Her stamina’s amazing

To say I’m twiddling her all the time

Then one night however

A snap resounded down her neck

…So I got a new guitar

PLOUGH OF WOOD

You used to live in Texas right?

(Sure I did!)

You used to light the fire right?

(Sure I did!)

Went to summer camp every year?

(Sure I did!)

Encountered many a grisly bear?

(What’s your point?)

I once saw a plough!

That was made of wood!

Can you even believe it?

Plough of a wood!

You used to visit pensioners right?

(Sure I did!)

You used to own a yellow kite?

(Sure I did!)

You drank Ribena since the age of four?

(Sure I did!)

You’ve cut down a tree to make a door?

(Who hasn’t?)

I’m your mate

We’ll play games

Fun and laughter

Party people!

Loving animals

Pets and people

World peace

I love you

How can I express my love to you?

Other than in words

Or perhaps by using the metaphor:

Plough of wood!

I’VE ALWAYS SEEN THE WEST RUN IN THIS LAND

Why does the west always run?

While the east tries to hide

Forget about the north

Go south and jump inside

Feelings cough-up strange emotions

Cowboy films after dark

I’m feeling strongly

For your whole being, baby

I’ve always seen the west run in this land

Whilst the east just sits alone

You think a man will ever be born,

Who can unite the two in harmony?

Sensing, bridges

Falling, ridges

The cake burns in the oven

As I listen to this unfinished symphony

Why does the west always run?

While the east tries to hide

I’ve always seen the west run in this land

North, south, east, west – bow down!

I am he

He is Rory!

I am he

He is Rory!

I am he

He is Rory!

I am he

He is Rory!

I am he

He is Rory!

I am he

He is Rory!

I am he

He is Rory!

I am he

That’s the end of this story…

WHEN THE MUSIC DON’T WORK (BLAME AN ELF)

You know the feeling you get

Whilst roaming the magic woods?

Magic mushrooms are your path

You feel an real-high rush

You know your feet are on the ground

But you can see for miles!

And then you try to sing, it comes out all wrong!

Time to blame an elf…

When the music don’t work – blame an elf!

When the music don’t work – blame an elf!

When the music don’t work – blame an elf!

Or, even, do it yourself

This is my song and I wanna sing it loud

I wanna tell everyone I’m Scottish and proud!

So what if I didn’t grow up there,

So what if I don’t have ginger hair,

I know where my roots are… and that is:

Scotland

This is my song and I wanna sing it loud

I wanna tell everyone I’m Scottish and proud!

So what if you don’t like this song

Blame an elf why don’t you, you silly cow

I know where my roots are… and that is:

Scotland

You know the feeling you get

Whilst roaming the magic woods?

Magic mushrooms are your path

You feel an real-high rush

You know your feet are on the ground

But you can see for miles!

And then you try to sing, it comes out all wrong!

Time to blame an elf…

THIS REALLY IS A WILD WORLD

I’m a cowboy, shovel the dung

Life is hard, ain’t always fun

Luckily I got Shelley

The biggest girl in Kentucky

Every night, go for a fight…

On the olde, olde fields of

Alabama! This is a wild, wild world, in

Alabama! Living on this farm

Alabama! Just me and my big breasted Shelley

Alabama! Rearing pigs for life!

Living in the wild- wild west

Kentucky to the east, Alabama to the west

I’m a cowboy from the south

My Shelley came from the west

The west is clearly the best

Best, best, west-west-west

CHRISTMAS WITH WRATH (THE WORST PARTY IN TINSELTOWN)

Once a year, on the twenty-fifth

Santa comes down, gives us gifts

But there’s one house, he’ll always miss

‘Cos in that house lives wrath!

Wrath, Wrath, evil personified

Even Christmas don’t save his soul

He’s the evilest thing alive!

Wrath, Wrath, Santa’s enemy

He gives gifts if you’re good

But every year, from Wrath he doth flee

In his house there ain’t no tree

No lights, gifts or tinsel

Wrath detests all that’s good

That’s why the police gave him a criminal record;

To keep him away from kids

If Wrath touches them they’ll be sinned

Imagine Wrath was Midas

Then all he touched would be black

Opposed to gold.

He lives in Tinseltown

He wins the “evil crown”

Wrath ain’t a fan of Slade

Buy him a monicle and be his slave

WRATH!

Yeah…

WRATH’S REPRISE

So, you think you know Wrath?

Several songs can’t just sum him up

One more thing has to be done…

One more song to make Wrath’s feelings clear

To help you understand what he’s all about

Don’t be surprised if what you learn now shocks,

You may feel the urge to scream and shout

As I foretold, Wrath’s story is not pretty

For all he touches turns to black,

This makes going to the toilet very inconvenient

So without further-a-do,

I introduce to you,

The Ten Commandments of Wrath!

You have been warned!

THE TENTH COMMANDMENT OF WRATH

Wrath! Wrath! Wrath! Wrath!

Singing about Wrath,

In and out of the bath

This ain’t no black mass

But we’re talking about Wrath!

Wrath is the thing that keeps children awake

Dreaming of sin that only they can make;

In the night Wrath touches them deep,

Gives them all his evil – to keep

Wrath has no remorse – he’ll eat up a horse

He’s personified by evil that we don’t endorse

Wrath’s commandments are simple:

To kill and mame!

Wrath will rape your children

They’ll never be the same!

One: death

Two: kill

Three: eat

Four: dare

Five: cry

Six: play guitar

Seven: die quickly

Eight: rape!

By the time you get to nine,

Wrath has committed the crime

Of the tenth commandment which is…

CANNABALISM!

"Portrait of Society"

My very first poem was written especially for The Ill-Fitting Garibaldis' debut album, An Angel Called Lucifer. Possibly conceived as early as February when the three bandmembers - myself, Steve Wicked and David Picklesworth - planned out three initial albums to kick start writing and give an immediate sense of direction. Third project "The Bittersweet Biscuit Rock Opera" never saw the light of day, "An Angel Called Lucifer" and Hard Rock Hotel both came to pass however by the end of 2006.

As part of my online archiving this is the first time I have typed up "Portrait of Society". I've corrected several spelling errors, formatting remains the same, as do footnotes. Without wanting to analyse my own work - that's the readers job after-all! - I would like to pass-on some feedback I have received over the past few years.

"Moving and frankly too close to home."  D. Picklesworth

"... this man speaks truths!"  E. Sedgwick 

"For all those who argue one must have a passion for reading before picking up the pen to write: explain Rory McButt's talent; he detests reading yet writes with the insight, grace and subtlety of Paul the Apostle himself. Take that atheists."  R. Parsley  

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The End Of The Album Is Here

The end, a bullet of pain.
Can pierce the heart with one shot
Like a flaming burst of passion.
Scolded in the fire of doom
Men and beasts have been to show
Hell hath no fury
Calling, an electronic lathe.
Metal on metal.
Biscuits and cheese.
Decomposing bodies call me,
Flash back: school dinner, argh! Killed!
Death in one black image of a swan.
Birds. Animals. Biscuits and cheese.
The end.
How we feel. Called upon the cross
Of whom hath died before me.
When they nailed my pimpelled ass
to the cross. They got the wrong man.
Jesus goes not by the belovéd name
But by Jésūs – hey dude can I borrow
your crowbar? He's a thief.
A beggar. A stealer of the poor.
Crucified - been there done that.
Got the blood stained T-shirt.
At least in the 'book', He died.
Whilst the World breeded, I suffered.
A lamb to the slaughter.
Hailed as one who did not do.
A sinner. Failure. Bloody bathtime –
For babies. Mwahahah.
My only friend was on the screen.
A girl of twelve who turned out to be
A man.
Grey hair. Wrinkles. Evil glare.
I wasn't expecting this to be my
Birthday present. Scorned.
Hands – ow! Not there! It burns.
A hole where once my glands did sit.
The end.
Falling down a well.
Alice. That was her name.
She was a he. He was not a she.
The she she promised to be,
Was not a she but a he.
A he – she? What? She is no she.
A decrepit old man  –
Where did the 40 years come from.
Bulging veins. Repulsing. Vomit.
The end.
Would it come? Something was coming
And it wasn't the end.
The man was off me. A night of red.
Blood stains the white sheets.
No longer pure, no longer innocent.
Church closing soon. Ask the priest.
The same priest who was my Alice?
I burned the priest.
Look where that got me.
Up here on this oh-so sacred cross.
A sheep to the alter.
Stuff this hoof down your Jewish throat!
Call me an antichrist?
I am the anti-antichrist. Christ?
Me? A sermon. Probably.
The end.
An afterlife? I pray not.
I want to die. Be it painful.
So it be. A punishment for my sins.
I was me who dived into Alice's well.
One long night. Dirty hands.
Stained bedsheets. Red, black, red!
My priest Alice lay there kissing
The pentagram of my chest.
'Go home'
But mother will see.
'So it be.'
And that's when Lucifer came.
The end.
Mocked on my cross. Stoned.
The devil has no part in this.
What I did was worse.
Blasphemy, heresy, sodomy
Jesus Christ? No aunties here!
Nazi! Crawling from cell.
People worship. My only pain is not dying.
So let the people worship!
I own the church!
What remains of it. As sinned as hell.
They fear themselves and blame me.
A civil servant to Satan and the Pope.
I was there. I saw it all.
Intercourse between the pope and Beelzebub.
A hole in the statue of St. Lucifer?
Yep. The Pope.
The end.
Condemned for my beliefs.
In the Popes private chapel,
It's me on the crucifix.
Bleeding sin on all the desk.
Shut up! Stop! No! This is my turn.
Two minds. Me. The Messiah.
The real me comes out now.
No!
Stop? Why?
Spread the word through force.
A Nazi angel? More like:
An Angel Called Lucifer.
That's me. I'm that Angel.
I'm that Messiah. I'm the one who
Causes wars. Fire. Death.
Words spread about me,
But the word is false.
A traitor. Sins of the fathers.
They who taught me, now teach you.
Go forth. Plunge into the well.
The end.
No it isn't, there never will be
Until one day the World realises
One thing.
One thing to prove religions false,
One thing to condemn the priests
And politics of this World.
One thing to make me like you,
You like him. A pawn.
Wars aren't about enemies,
They're about religion.
Until now. At the end.
This is the thing that will change.
All that has gone before is...


Rory McButt – Portrait of Society.
(Please don't steal my poem, it took months to write and is special to me)