The Hell Butterfly

Archive for February, 2014

“I’ll spend eternity comparing all my poetry to yours”

I don’t believe I have shared any of these yet. I was having a moment just now. I felt like I needed to share my creativity. Here are a selection of poems I’ve written and felt as though I wanted to share with you lovely people. I know by saying this I’ll probably be jinxing it, or pressuring you, but if you are one of the people reading this, I would appreciate either feedback (good or bad is fine) or just the name of your favourite in the comments. You know, for an ego boost. It’s always nice to know what people think and which of my works is the most successful. In the meantime, enjoy.

The Goddess, Pretence

O, dear glorious Pretence
Whisper sweetly in my ear:
“O Love, don’t be scared,
This is how it’s meant to be.

The smoke that curls around you,
Wraps its fingers in your hair,
Is nothing more than that;
Smoke, Love; smoke and air.”

Alone I wander, blind,
Drift silent through the crowd,
Make peace, the melancholy fog,
Down, down the riverside.


‘David’ – Caravaggio


Lips parted in taunting or in shock, eyes
                                                             droop, dark, stare endlessly at you.
The mark of death, stone-cold, upon the forehead.
The head at opposition to the body. Shoulders down: beheaded.
Here lies Goliath.
White knuckles bare, unbroken; loop of string; young brightness, then
David in shadow.
Black lashes, brown curls, and nothing but the subtle blush of triumph.
Slingshot out of shot but simple sheets of innocence which could have been
his shroud enfold the supple muscles of his youth. His knee holds
down the Philistine. The other stands its ground. A finger,
curled as if to flick young David down: a shot at the victor though he’s bound
forever at the foot of the painting.



The Stars are Fire

To be or not to be? Oh, heart! To pick
apart a work of art. To strike a stick
upon the back of Denmark. Oh, to dream;
perchance to know. The sky burns up
                                                       the street.
Sweet sacrifice; sour sacrilege. God save
the Queen. Poor Shakespeare’s turning in his grave.
Good prince, this house is ours. Gertrude, take it
with a pinch of salt. Stir it, don’t shake it:
you’re no James Bond. Ophelia you cracked,
are cracking, crackling. “Doubt thou the stars are–
The reek of rot from your crimson river
intrudes. Thank god you were pretty. That’s that.
Snap yellow
                                Hamlet, charred name in flight.
You die. But never doubt I love, alright?

This is Not a Pipe

I thought about writing a short story for this but, well, I didn’t.

I’m too tired today. Not physically, but mentally. Trying to think about Surrealism made my head spin and I ended up daydreaming. In the weird way my mind does, I remembered something random: a video I once made about Classicists and style. This was in relation to Dadaism and Expressionism. According to Wikipedia, Surrealism was born out of Dadaism so I guess it makes sense I’d think of it. For the kicks, here’s the video.

That song is going to be in my head all day.

ImageI wish I could talk about Surrealism in a more cohesive way. I’d like to sound like I know what on Earth I’m going on about, ,but frankly I’m too tired to care.

We all know this picture, right? “This is not a pipe”. It’s kind of mind blowing when you think about it. It’s totally like Saussure. As you’ll know from a number of my posts I love Saussure’s theory that words are merely labels. Letters are just shapes that we humans created for the sole purpose of communication. I could go on about it all day, but perhaps I’ll save that for later. My 100th post is coming up soon so maybe I’ll dedicate that to blowing your mind with his ideas.

But in terms of this picture and surrealism, I can’t fully make a link. I don’t understand surrealism enough to talk about it. But I’m fascinated by the truth of it. It’s funny. It looks like a pipe, so surely it is a pipe, no? No. It is not a pipe. It is a drawing of a pipe. It is a visual representation of the concept you have in your mind of what a pipe is. The simplicity and truth of it makes me laugh.

I’ve been scrolling down the Surrealism page of Wikipedia for a bit. I’d hoped there would be more pictures. But I did come across a name I remember. Max Ernst. I’ve seen that name before, and for those who watched the video above for the laughs you may recall seeing his name come up. I’m pretty sure I mentioned him. I find it hard to interpret Surrealist paintings in the same way I could never interpret Freud. Everybody else on my course got it, thrived in fact in that section of the module. But I always lagged behind. I took art at school and at college, but I could never figure out the deep meaning behind any of Freud’s interpretations, and I’ve never been able to dig deep enough to understand Surrealist art. But it can’t be denied: Max Ernst is a pretty damned interesting artist.


L’ange du Foyeur. Image courtesy of Wikipedia.

Napoleon in the Wilderness. Image also courtesy of Wikipedia.

Sorry this post sucks, but just look at all the pretty pictures!

If you appreciate art, watch this space, because I have a plan to do a post or two in the not so distant future on some of my favourite paintings. There’ll most definitely be one on Carravaggio and I have a few up my sleeve from last week’s Victorian lecture that I’d like to share. For now, accept my apology and please know that I’ll try harder tomorrow.

Other time warps:

  1. Karma For a Lapsed Veggie | AS I PLEASE
  2. Mad Hatter and I | Perspectives on life, universe and everything
  3. Ecclesiastical rocket | Perspectives on life, universe and everything
  4. Lime Plant in White | Exploratorius
  5. Daily Prompt: Twilight Zone | Incidents of a Dysfunctional Spraffer
  6. Daily Prompt: Twilight Zone- The Psychological Fact of Living | Journeyman
  7. Coffee Neurotics Seem To Find Each Other and The Daily Prompt | The Jittery Goat
  8. The Twilight Zone | Hope* the happy hugger
  9. Daily Prompt: Twilight Zone | Under the Monkey Tree
  10. Wholesale Hot Dogs | the intrinsickness
  11. Surreal journey: Daily Prompt | ALIEN AURA’S BlOG: IT’LL BLOW YOUR MIND!
  12. Daily Prompt: Twilight Zone | The Wandering Poet
  13. Daily Prompt: Twilight Zone | tnkerr-Writing Prompts and Practice
  14. fandom | yi-ching lin photography
  15. DP Daily Prompt: Twilight Zone | Sabethville
  17. in concert, there ought | y
  18. The Truth About Motherhood | theempathyqueen
  19. Pushing forty, going on sixteen… most of us anyway. | thoughtsofrkh
  20. Drunkenness Adventures | Knowledge Addiction
  21. You will meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger- again | Suddenly Single in Marin
  22. Daily Prompt: Twilight Zone | SURREAL | nomadofwoods
  23. Lisa’s Kansa Muse
  24. Twilight Zone meets Logan | It’s a wonderful F’N life
  25. Daily Prompt: Twilight Zone | A Day In The Life
  26. One Crazy Mom » Living In A Haze
  27. The Santa in Derby UK | Le Drake Noir
  28. For E., With Love and Make-up | Kosher Adobo
  29. 270. Train Rush | Barely Right of Center
  30. Twilight Zone | The Silver Leaf Journal
  31. The Daily Post: Twilight Zone – Revelation | growinolder
  32. Surreal (Short story) | A mom’s blog
  33. The Cruelty of Time | snapshotsofawanderingheart
  34. Chaffinch | Writing and Works
  35. Daily Prompt: Twilight Zone « Mama Bear Musings
  36. Episodes of Serenity | My Musings | WANGSGARD
  37. Daily Prompt/ Twilight Zone? | Sitting on the Porch
  38. Get Transported. How? Finding Awe | Emotional Fitness
  39. Daily Prompt: The Twilight Zone | Chronicles of an Anglo Swiss
  40. DP: Surreal | As I See It
  41. Twilight Moments (Daily Prompt Challenge) | Ana Linden
  42. In the Nick of Time. | jwdwrites
  43. Daily Prompt: Twilight Zone | Indira’s Blog
  44. Time Warp | Views Splash!

On how I know I’m an old Romantic

They stood, naked, like upturned grape stalks with the fruit all picked. Autumn had stripped them of their colour, their life, and Winter now exposed their bare frames to the frost. They looked old. The pale glare from the low-hung sun cast ghastly shadows over their bodies. Once proud, glorious, now they seemed to cower in shame. They were not made to be on show like this. Even in death, they had seemed somehow magnificent. But cruel Winter had stolen their majesty when she stole their crowning jewels. Their leaves were gone, and with them it seemed their very pride had left them too.

This is something I wrote recently after having walked home from university through Beaumont Park.

I often find I compare myself to the old Romantics like Keats, Coleridge, Wordsworth, Goethe … They loved Nature. All the Romantics did. They found a particular connection with it that struck a chord with them and that same chord is striking with me. It isn’t often I think about it, but rather when I’m having a moment of contemplation, thinking about life and what I’m doing with it. These moments usually come to me when I’m away from my computer, away from the cars and bustle of the main city. The perfect setting for these musings is Beaumont Park.

In an earlier post which I really don’t have the patience to find I wrote the following contradictory thoughts that still ring true:

1. The park looks so beautiful like this.

2. The trees are dying.

This was at the end of Autumn. The leaves were just starting to fall away, and yet, despite knowing that they were dying – at least in relation to the cycle of the seasons – they looked somehow graceful. Even in death they held a certain majesty. Like courageous warriors on the field of battle, clinging to their swords and smiling bravely as their eyes faded. Cruel Winter was stealing their dignity but as they fell apart they still held their heads up high. They were proud, grand, even though they had seen better days.

Today, I noticed something different. Something that made me uncomfortable without quite knowing why. It took looking closer at them as I walked to fully realise what it was that was so unsettling.

The trees seemed ashamed.

There was a sense of them straining to hold themselves upright. Like an act. A charade to play the part of the once glorious trees they were. It made me pity them. It was an awkward feeling. They had been stripped bare by Winter and stood naked, exposed for all to see. And their attempt to resemble their former selves in this state made me uncomfortable. It was almost physical. It made me feel ashamed too without understanding exactly why.

They lacked the fullness and glory of Summer’s radiance. She smiled down on them and made them flourish once. Their leaves gleamed, the green of their veins pulsing vibrant and proud. Then they turned umber, fire, russet. Deep and sensual. You could almost feel that they had lost the playfulness and joy of youth but had replaced it with the equally esteemed wisdom and experience. They were bold, beautiful, and they knew it. They were grand. Then Autumn’s influence began to fade and as they shed their leaves and they awaited the bitter sting of Winter, they still remained proud and glorious, yet in a more subtle manner that comes only with the aged and the knowing.

But now … They have lost their grace, their fire, their glory. They have lost their dignity. And as I walked through the park today I felt it. It was thick in the air. They were ashamed of what they had become. Or if they weren’t, they should have been. That is what I felt in my heart. I almost couldn’t look at them for pity. A wise, great King who has lost his power and his mind should not be paraded through his kingdom after he has lost his former glory. His former greatness should be the thing that his subjects remember and he should die knowing his subjects loved him and what he used to be, and knowing that is how they will remember him. He should not be able to die having had his worst traits displayed, exposed to his people. In this same way the trees should not be on display in this show of feigned self-honour.

It is painful to see them trying so hard to cling to their former greatness.

I am yet to see Beaumont park in the light of Spring. I do hope that She can restore the trees to life, restore their pride. Right now, the state of the trees putting on such a charade send cold, slimy waves through me and makes me feel almost dirty, like I’ve witnessed something I shouldn’t have. I am optimistic that Spring’s youth and hope will cast that feeling out. Perhaps She will restore the sense of ease with which the trees used to stand. They are rigid now, sterile, mechanic. But I feel as though Spring will help. In my gut I feel as though She will bring about a sense of relief. For the trees and for me. I will once more be able to look upon them without it seeming like a violation, and they will once more be able to stand tall, firm in the knowledge that they will be beautiful again.

“I need to climb the cherry tree to get to the marshmallows”

It is always the weird, the wonderful and the terrifying that stick with us in relation to dreams.

For those of you who have been with The Hell Butterfly for a while, you may remember my attack on Freud’s ‘Dream Theory‘. For those who haven’t read it and don’t fancy clicking the link, I’ll summarise – Freud says that dreams are secret wishes, things we secretly want. I disagree in the strongest possible way. I think it’s a load of crap. In that post I bring up the weird (speaking the language of mice, zombie apocalypse at Hogwarts) and the terrifying (death of the family) and explain basically how I think it’s evidence enough to disprove Freud’s theory.

But theoretical babble aside, dreams are certainly the product of some wacky psychological, subconscious mechanics. It’s fascinating.

I could go on forever about the crazy shit my Dream Bank has stored up in there. But for the purpose of a post that won’t make your eyes bleed from reading so long, I’ll narrow it down to a few of my most memorable ones.

The Weird

I never really understood where our dreams were made, how they were formed, or why exactly we have them. But they certainly bring about more questions than they often answer. One of my earliest memories of my dreams occurred several years ago now. Picture this: You are looking down at a gas hob. On it is a frying pan with oil bubbling away. And there, floating in the midst of this sizzling turmoil is a fried egg. Perfectly formed, whites white and yolk yellow, runny, and perfectly domed. And on top of this, balanced impeccably, another fried egg. It lies flat, as though in a pan of its own, and it floats in an impressive display of acrobatics on the very pinnacle of this yolky perfection, an image of wonder in itself. Both eggs are stunningly cooked. And they are more gracefully balanced than the most skilled of gymnasts.

No, I don’t get it either. But it made me laugh, and I have never forgotten it. It makes me smile every time I think of it.

The Wonderful

My sister stole one of my dreams once. I guess it was just that hilarious she felt it would sound better than hers. I overheard her telling her friends the story that I’d told her not two days before. I confronted her and she claimed it was hers. I know it was mine. But I’ll let her have that one. I was on a ladder that was up against a tree, looking down at Amy, a girl from my class, and I very distinctly remember giving the reason why I couldn’t come down yet: “I need to climb the cherry tree to get to the marshmallows.” Yeah. Cool, right?

The Terrifying

I have had a number of terrifying dreams in the past, so many that I can talk about a few here without repeating material from my dream theory post. The one common link is the fear of death. My own, my family, my friends, but always a fear of death.

My one recurring nightmare, the only dream to be almost exactly the same every time, is about tornadoes. I am shit-scared of tornadoes. In fact, I’ve convinced myself that by looking after the Earth (recycling, turning off lights, respecting It’s power) I will be rewarded by never being witness to one. But my recurring nightmare always brings me to the brink of death and destruction before I wake.

The people with me change. Sometimes my good friends, sometimes friends of friends, sometimes total strangers or even TV stars. But they always happen in my neighbourhood. The area known as Winklebury that I grew up in. It is not a very big place, and this dream always takes place here. The sound is the same too. A pulsing that fills my head, perhaps my own heartbeat amplified, and a deep, low whirring. Imagine the film Twister and hear that unsettling score in your mind when you read this. Twister is not meant as a scary film I don’t think but it scares me. I love it, but I get nervous watching it at night. It starts with me in my area, anywhere really, but then I see it forming in the sky. Dark. Grey. Angry. And coming for me. There is never just one of them. It starts as one, but before long there are at least 4. Never less than 4. And they have minds of their own. They have a consciousness. They target people. We run, screaming sometimes, crying others, but we get chased by these tornadoes through the streets, back alleys, down the road, through the houses. They almost laugh at me, call to me. They split off and one will pursue me alone. It has chosen me as its prey and won’t stop til it gets me. And in every dream it towers over me, right on my heels, the whirring and the pulsing drowning my head, and just as it opens its jaws of dust to grab me I wake up. Every time it nearly gets me. It drives me to the point of absolute terror before it releases me to the waking world. I hate these dreams.

I tell a lie. I do have another recurring nightmare, but it’s not actually related to a fear of death. I think I have these when I’m only half asleep. Maybe I’ve fallen asleep with my eyes half open or something. I see my body as I was when I went to sleep. But I am paralysed. People move around me, always in double speed. I can’t hear them, there’s never any sound – probably because I’m half-awake and there is no sound in my bedroom. Obviously the paralysis is because I’m asleep enough to have no control of my motor functions. My consciousness is awake but my body is unresponsive. I fight to move my limbs, blink, say one word, anything to let these people coming in and out know I am awake and I can see them, but I can’t move. That complete lack of control is the scary part. I can feel myself straining my limbs trying to force them into submission but my body has mutinied against me. I’m never quite sure if I’m awake or not. And when I finally do wake up it is only by flailing and sitting up in bed that I know I am truly awake. It has been so bad in the past, the trance-like state so deep, that in forcing my arm to move, and waking up during that movement, I have punched myself in the face. It didn’t bruise, luckily, but my face throbbed for a while. That was how hard I was forcing my body to move. I physically injured myself in my attempt to do something.

But back to the topic at hand – dreams about the fear of death.

The first poem I ever had entered – and published – in a poetry competition was based on a dream when I was 12. I was staying at my grandparents by myself. I had asked to stay with them for a week by myself and my family were to join after that week. That meant they were across the other side of the country during this time. The dream involved walking through a playground with my Grandad. I remember it looked like a Tim Burton film. Not black and white, but pretty fucking dark. I was holding his hand. We went into a room with a bald man sitting behind a desk. I remember the room was almost completely black, like it was the middle of the night and he had all the lights off. He took off his glasses, folded his hands together and looked up at us. Then he said it: “I’m sorry, young girl, but your Grandad must die.” And he accepted it. He seemed a little sad, but he just hugged me like he knew it was coming and he accepted his death sentence just like that. I remember ‘Come What May’ from Moulin Rouge played in my head during it. I know it’s a song about love but for years I couldn’t listen to it. It hurt too much.

The other scary death dreams are scary for a different reason. It is no longer my family accepting their death. It is me accepting mine. I am dying, and I don’t fear death, I don’t feel sad. I just accept it, say goodbye to my family in my head and die/wake up.

It pains me to admit how many of these dreams have been based around my suicide.

One I remember particularly was me sitting on the edge of a bridge, about to jump into the water far below. I see a car approaching on the road behind me and duck my head – it is my Mum. I don’t let her see me, but in that moment I change my mind and start to come back over the railing. I slip. That gut-wrenching falling sensation churns my stomach. But instead of being scared of the sudden fall, even though I just that moment decided not to jump, I simply think these exact words: “Oh well. Goodbye Mum.” I fucking hate thinking about this dream. Why did I accept it so casually? Why did I not have the slightest fear of leaving my family? Was that really the only thing going through my head? No apology? No .. anything?

Death dreams are the worst.

But dreams are not all doom and gloom.

I have one last one to raise your spirits, so you don’t have to go away from this post feeling like crap.

The Fantastic Wake-Up

You know the dreams from which you wake up laughing? Laughing at something that happened, or your reaction upon waking?

I did the other day. It was the best wake-up I have had in a long time.

I had been watching Bleach before I went to sleep. This is essentially an anime about ninjas who fight bad souls to protect the good ones. That night I dreamt I was a ninja. I woke up mid fight scene. As I woke up, I was punching and kicking the air and threw my cover around. I opened my eyes realising what I’d just done and my only regret is that there was no-one around to see it. It was awesome.

Other dreams:

  1. Back In Bug and The Daily Prompt | The Jittery Goat
  2. Daily Prompt: Sweet Dreams- The Psychology of Dreaming | Journeyman
  3. Deliverance | Perspectives on life, universe and everything
  4. Fairy Wings- Non Fiction | Rose-tinted Rambles
  5. Sky on floor level | Le Drake Noir
  6. Until then… | Daily Prompt: Sweet Dreams | Ireland, Multiple Sclerosis & Me
  7. I Dreamed About Avril Lavigne | THE BLACK SPAGHETTI CHRONICLES
  8. Daily Prompt: Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This) | Incidents of a Dysfunctional Spraffer
  9. Daily Prompt: Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This) | tnkerr-Writing Prompts and Practice
  10. Nighmare | Mara Eastern
  11. One Crazy Mom » My Worst Nightmare
  12. Imaginary | La Gatita Oscura
  13. Care to Dare | Rima Hassan
  14. Best Dream: YOU – Daily Prompt | alienorajt
  15. thoughtsofrkh
  16. Daily Prompt: Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This) | The Wandering Poet
  17. Daily Prompt: Sweet Dreams? | seikaiha’s blah-blah-blah
  18. Truman Capote Dreams /Daily Prompt | I’m a Writer, Yes I Am
  19. DP Daily Prompt: Sweet Dreams( Are made of… | Sabethville
  20. Nightmares | Hope* the happy hugger
  21. Daily Prompt: Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This) « Mama Bear Musings
  22. I Dreamt of Heaven | Misifusa’s Blog
  23. It’s 3am, I Must Be Up Reading Your Blog | Do Not Get Sick in the Sink, Please
  24. Speed of Light | THE MARRIED MAN WHO LOVES HIS X
  25. This is What a Free Sailboat Looks Like | Exploratorius
  26. Daily Prompt: Worst Nightmare, 26.02.14 | Markie’s Daily Blog
  27. Daily post:sweet dreams | Going New Places!
  28. Since I was Prompted | Treading over Stars
  29. Imaginary: Daily Post | Destino

If We Could Be ‘The Batshit Crazies’

Every time I think of making a band I get super excited. I’ve wanted my own band for so long and every time the subject comes up I can’t help yearning for it. I won’t say I’m a songwriter because that would be a lie. But I have written lyrics in the past. I’ve fashioned whole albums by concept and with titles for songs. Admittedly I never got around to writing many of those lyrics, but I have written some that I really like.

I always said my band would be called The Batshit Crazies. Not convinced they’d be able to say our name on radio but fuck it, that’s what I want to be called and no goddamn radio station is going to stop me. Whenever I picture our band we’re in a garage, walls coated in neon paint, stickers, posters of our inspirations and we would be jumping off the drum-kit trying not to hit our heads on the rafters and bouncing off the walls because there was simply nowhere else to go. The garage door – painted like a 60’s hippy van – would be open as we played to let our raging music out, as there is no way you can contain the amazing shit happening behind it. In my world, we look like Tonight Alive, or Hey Monday, or Paramore. Just having a bloody good time with it.

I think we’d be a pop-punk meets indie band. I’d totally be the singer. Over the years I’ve wanted to be every member of the band. When I wanted to be the drummer I almost asked my friend to teach me. When I wanted to be the guitarist I taught myself how to read tabs and bought an electric guitar and amp to match. When I play Air Band to my favourite song I’ll do the drum solo and the guitar solo and switch back to headbanging to the vocals. Currently I want to be the singer. I love singing. I do it all the time, as I’m sure my neighbours can attest to. My vocal idols have changed over time but if anything it’s changed not because I don’t like the singer anymore, but because I’ve found vocalists whose style suits my voice better. At the moment I would say Lzzy Hale of Halestorm is my top female vocal idol. She is followed closely by Emilie Autumn. Daughtry is my biggest male vocal idol. I know I’m a lady-singer so shouldn’t have a man as an idol but I sing his shit well so why on Earth wouldn’t I?

I’m going to try and put some videos up now. I doubt they’ll appear here as I want them to but do click the link if they don’t.

There are a tonne of reasons I could give you why I love their vocals. But really they should speak for themselves. I think my voice is suited to songs with a lower register. That’s why I can sing Chad Kroeger – Hero perfectly but have to sing Evanescence – Going Under in too high a key. So really, Emilie, Lzzy and Chris Daughtry are the best suited to my voice anyway.

The other day me and the bestie were chatting about my new favourite band The Cab. The joke circled to The Taxi, The Bus, and all the way to The Tube. In the weird way all our conversations do this progressed to include all sorts of detail. Eventually we decided we should create our own group, call it The Tube and it would be the very first Pop-Metal-Funk group to grace this planet. We even ended up with a chunk of our debut single:

*Sings* Ooh yeah we dance to the tune of our beating hearts
‘Cos we love each other till the world goes dark.

Admittedly that conversation also then went on to talking about the logistics of how we could set our crowd on fire without incurring hospital bills, but we decided they could sign a disclaimer at the door and thus The Tube was born.

And now, just because I can, here are some lyrics that I wrote a while back. I personally think it’s awesome. I can hear it play out in my head, drums, guitars, everything. I wrote it with All Time Low in mind so keep I Feel Like Dancin‘ in your head while you read it. It sounds like that. Actually it sounds very, very close to that.

It’s called Clark Kent.

Tied a bed sheet round my shoulders
And built my tower tall [So high!]
Climbed up on to the tiled roof
I wasn’t scared at all [Fearless!]
Tried only to look skyward
I’d survive it after all [I’ll live forever!]
But when I leaped I found the proof
That I could only fall

How honestly
Could that man be
A superhero
He’s just a zero
But underneath
He is not quite so ordinary

Spread my wings and fly
You said I’d only make it if I tried
I have to see it through
How could you ever expect me to know who
I wanted to be?
What I need to see
Is some evidence that Superman is real.

Wore a bright blue spandex wetsuit
Initial on my chest [Giant S!]
Got pumped up ready to save the day
I was gonna ace this test [Flying colours!]
From the bleak horizon rose my foe
And while giving me his best [A’thank you]
He threw a box truck at my face
And laid me down to rest

How honestly
Could I ever be
A superhero
I’m just a zero
And underneath
I’m nothing more than ordinary

Spread my wings and fly
You said I’d only make it if I tried
I have to see it through
How could you ever expect me to know who
I wanted to be?
What I need to see
Is some evidence that Superman is real.

Wish I could turn back time
Three thousand revolutions in the sky
You found my Kryptonite
The single thing to make me wilt and die.
Give me back the light.

How honestly
Could that man be
A superhero
He’s just a zero
And quietly
He says to me
“You’ll never be extraordinary”


Spread my wings and fly
You said I’d only make it if I tried
I have to see it through
How could you ever expect me to know who
I wanted to be?
Spread my wings and fly
You said I’d only make it if I tried
I have to see it through
How could you ever expect me to know who
I wanted to be?
What I need to see
Is some evidence that Superman is real.

Na na na na
Na na na na
Na na na na

How could you ever expect me to know who
I wanted to be?
What I need to see
Is some evidence that Superman is real.

Other bands:

  1. Accomplished | Rima Hassan
  2. Dhol (a drum) | Perspectives on life, universe and everything
  3. Rockstar! | Perspectives on life, universe and everything
  4. Sometimes you have to simply stop and think | From One Crazy Life To Another
  5. Harmonized Taps for JFK | Exploratorius
  6. The Man From Bug and The Daily Prompt | The Jittery Goat
  7. One Crazy Mom » We Got The Beat
  8. Daily Prompt: We Got the Beat | tnkerr-Writing Prompts and Practice
  9. I was picked last for family band camp | The Bohemian Rock Star’s “Untitled Project”
  10. Jamming | Knowledge Addiction
  11. Daily Prompt: We Got the Beat- Music Performance | Journeyman
  12. Daily Prompt: We Got The Beat | Incidents of a Dysfunctional Spraffer
  13. Photographer declares war on Food Porn. | Greg Urbano
  14. DP Daily Prompt: We Got The Beat | Sabethville
  15. If I Had The Courage | Musings | WANGSGARD.COM
  16. My Band: a poem – Daily Prompt | alienorajt
  17. I Wanna Be A Riot Grrrl | RinnyWee
  18. Daily Prompt: We Got the Beat | Awl and Scribe
  19. Just call me Tabbycat… part of the T’Cats crew. | thoughtsofrkh
  20. DAILY PROMPT: Performance “I’m not in a band BUT…” | cockatooscreeching
  21. Beats Till My Heart Beats | Views Splash!
  22. Performance | My Little Avalon
  23. Anyone For Polka | Lisa’s Kansa Muse
  24. If We Could Be ‘The Batshit Crazies’ | jigokucho
  25. Daily post theme: Performance | The Wandering Poet
  26. Rockstars in the Making | snapshotsofawanderingheart
  27. I’m IN the Band | S K I P
  28. My Part of Heaven | Flowers and Breezes
  29. Daily Prompt: We Got the Beat « Mama Bear Musings
  30. Drum Roll Please…. | Life Confusions

Steve’s Music Mix Round 2b

So turns out the questions I used in my last post were previous ones and not this weeks BUT that just means we get to have more fun with music today! Hopefully I’ve done it right this time. Here are the real questions and Spotify’s answers.

Here’s a reminder how it works:

Each week I will post 3 new questions so…

(1) Go to the music player of your choice and put it on shuffle
(2) Say the questions aloud and press play
(3) Use the song title as your answers

Title your post “Steve’s Music Mix – …” and link back to this week’s page.

What is your view of people? Kill EVERYBODY (Skrillex)

“I want to kill everybody in the world *dropkicks head into orbit*” … Well I have been known to have homicidal tendencies. Fairly often I come across days where world-wide massacre seems like the best option.

What is the meaning of life? Infest (Papa Roach)

Infest the world. Life is a disease. Mutants and germs and everything contagious are the only meaningful things on this planet.

If you could change your name, what would it be? 2ba Master (Pokemon)

‘Cos I want “toooo be a master, Pokemon master!” Seriously, who wouldn’t change their name to that if given the chance?

Review: I’m a very angsty Pokefan who views the world as an infested pile of shit. My favorite Pokemon is probably a poison type. Like Gastly … or Muk. Today is not a people day. I should probably go lock myself in with my Pokedex. In the words of Romeo (a fellow Pokefan I’m sure): “The world is not thy friend.” I’m not built for social calls today. Keep all sharp implements out of my reach.

Steve’s Music Mix – Round 2 for Jigokucho

It’s that time again. Steve’s Music Mix has released the latest set of questions [AN: Actually he didn’t, I was just ignorant and didn’t realise these are previous questions. My bad, Steve] and I had so much fun doing the last one I wanted to play again. Click on the doobly-doo to check out the original post, then come back here and check out this week’s answers as chosen by my Spotify playlist.

What were you doing an hour ago? Laughing With (Regina Spektor)

Well actually I wasn’t laughing at all an hour ago, and it was Daughtry, not Regina Spektor. But I’m sure if I had the chance to laugh with Regina Spektor an hour ago I sure would have been.

Why are you doing this? Song to Bob (Frank Turner)

Hm. I don’t know any Bob. I have no idea how to explain this one. Perhaps this quiz will pick out a song to play to the next Bob I meet?

What will you be doing once you’ve finished this? No More Waiting (The Blackout)

I’ll be off to do something? In a literal sense I was waiting for each song to finish so I could get the title/answer for the next question so I’ll not be waiting to post this. But as for after this, I don’t know what I’m waiting for to be able to stop once this post is done.

Review: I should have been laughing with the lovely Russian goddess Regina Spektor an hour ago but instead was sitting at my laptop doing this post in the hope that I’ll find a good song to sing to Bob when I meet him. Maybe that’s what I’m waiting for. When I’m done here I’ll stop waiting for Bob and go out and find him myself. At least waiting for Bob is less frustrating than waiting for Godot – that bastard never showed, but I will find a Bob. Bob, if you can hear me, you are mine, and you will be made to listen to all three of these songs.