Cyanogen: The Resurrection of Deadman Turner

Flawless Man

  Simonides* wrote words which ought to last though a myriad seasons since have passed; he said: I shouldn't waste my whole life span in trying to unearth a blameless man… I'll love and praise the one who tries to do right; against necessity the gods themselves don't fight.
  Simonides said good men must aspire to commit no evil by their own desire; he said: I shan't waste an entire life span in the futile search for a faultless man… I'll love and praise the one who tries to do right; against necessity the gods themselves don't fight.
  Between one darkness and darkness again you can't find a faultless man among men; as good as you could wish a man to be is one who does nothing base wilfully… I'll love and praise the one who tries to do right; against necessity the gods themselves don't fight.

* Simonides (c. 556-c. 468 BC); "So I shall never waste my life-span in a vain useless hope, seeking what cannot be, a flawless man among us all who feed on the the fruits of the broad earth. If I find him I will bring you news. But I praise and love every man who does nothing base from freewill. Even gods do not fight against necessity."

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Trust Me

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  You can trust me, I'm a doctor; I know what is best to do; and I have been sent by the government—and I'd never lie to you.
  You can trust me, I'm a lawyer, and I'm honest through and through; without fail, I'll put your cheque in the mail—and I'd never lie to you.
  I'm a decent politician for I take the long-term view; I work day and night, to try to do right—and I'd never lie to you.
  In every land are liars who say what they know aint true; ev'ry day you meet with fraud and deceit—but they'd never lie to you.

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Someday

  Someday, I reckon, you may find that you have to survive on the strength of your mind. Maybe then you'd wish you had read more books; for someday you may lose your beautiful looks-someday.
  You may read Ovid's Ars Amat., and therein you would notice how well he says that someday you may regret not learning now; for you may live to see furrows on your brow-someday.*
  Someday, when your hair is all grey, when youthful charms have faded as all things decay, you may want some art which you now disdain; you may need to depend on a learned brain-someday.
  On some not too far distant day, when all our humane arts have been tossed far away, you'll learn the worth too late of what's long gone; and then you'll know which arts be sine qua non†-someday.

* see Art of Love by P. Ouidius Naso (43 BC-AD 18), book II, lines 118-20.
† sine qua non-a prerequisite, "without which not".

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Party Song

  It's ever the easy way: leave your problems for another day. Can't plan—can't think—empty larder but an over-filled sink. There are beers in the fridge, whiskeys in the bar, vodka in the freezer, grass in the cookie jar. It's ever the easy way …
  Clear sky—late night—imbibing freely, the drinks are all right. The band's in the kitchen, the other rooms are full. Someone's complained there's a drunk face-down in the pool; and I say: it's ever the easy way…
  Small house—big crowd—the walls are shaking 'cause the band's so loud; pigs are in the garden, toadstools are on the floor; some neighbours have appeared with pitchforks at the door; and I say to 'em: it's ever the easy way….

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Newborn Baby Blues (and Pinks)

  I've been reading that a newborn baby's eyes can't see pale colours however much it tries: pastel yellows, pinks and blues are wasted on babies' views; so I'll be happy to choose some primary colours he can recognise.
  I've been studying the standard baby tome, with pictures (in colour and in monochrome) of cute lad or mademoiselle; but they can't convey the smell: they ignore the living hell of yelling, smelling babies inside one's home.
  We've been shopping for some little baby stuff. (Babies, like pollies, can never have enough.) I'd like a good habitat; say, with a toy vampire bat-my wife will have to make that [and she did]. If you don't want cute things, shopping's pretty tough.
  I've been learning that our newborn baby's eyes can't see pale colours however much it tries: pastel yellows, pinks and blues are silly, they just confuse; so I've been happy to choose some vivid, nifty colours to recognise.

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Add Your Own

[no words]

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Well, well

[no words, though there are various calls from blackbirds, magpies, ravens and sheep, and other sound effects]

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Batty Bat

  If I should ever have a pet I know that I should try to get a vampire; and if couldn't manage that I'd like some other nifty bat to admire. I should call him Batty, Batty Bat….
  I think that I could wear a cape at night when wand'ring for a jape with Batty. I'd have him hang inside my coat and train him to fly at the throats of baddies. I'd call out to Batty, Batty Bat….
  Mayhap I tripped and broke my shoe, and knocked my head and fell into a coma: my friend would twitter as the sad dead heroes in the Iliad of Homer; he'd summon help and save my skin; I'd thereafter speak to him in gratitude. I'd say: "thank you, thank you dear ol' Batty….
  Life is short for all of us upon this vale of tears, and life is even shorter for each little furry friend; come the time, or so I'm told, when we must say farewell, for nothing lasts for ever and thus all good things must end.
  Life may be brief but far too short to waste much time upon the thought of dying; I think I should as lief then spend some little time to watch my friend go flying. I'd call out to Batty, Batty Bat….

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Deadman's Boogie

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[no words]

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Human Nature

I have a faith in human nature because I got my wallet back. One man in five thousand million has done a decent moral act. I get my picture in the paper, and I say it is a fact: lose any faith in human nature, someone could find it, hand it in: the act of just one single mortal negates doctrinal proofs of sin. I get my picture in the paper with a sweet contented grin.
I have a faith in human nature as steady as a poplar tree. All my belief in good and evil depends on what occurs to me. I get my picture in the paper for faith in humanity. I have a faith in human nature.

[Informal wrote this song on the day he read an article, in a local newspaper, which related that a teenage girl had lost her wallet and had it returned to her, and that her belief in human nature was thereby restored.]

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Words

  Read the news and note the ways that words are turned around: what is now on shifting sands was once on solid ground; what was clear is now obscure and hardly understood. Meanings are reversed so often, evil be my good.*
  Now words mean anything at all wherefore all meaning's lost today; and truth is never absolute, so cast the seven arts away.†
  Talk of colour in hushed tones, be sure to toe the line: British hues offend the eyes, but African are fine. Rainbows are politicised: some shades may not be seen. Reds and whites may have the blues, and black & white is green.
  Now love means any thing you like; the times decry old-fashioned ways; the world is quite devoid of sense-it's "o tempora, o mores."‡
  Now words mean any thing at all; and all their meaning's lost that way; do not attempt to speak your mind; no words have any sense today.

* see Paradise Lost, by John Milton (1608-1674), iv, 110; see also Isaiah, v, 20.
† the seven liberal arts: grammar, dialectic, rhetoric, arithmetic,geometry, astronomy and music.
‡ O tempora, o mores-"the times! the manners!" from In Catilinam by M. Tullius Cicero (106-43 BC), I, 1.

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12 Bar (Amnomad)

[no words]

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and Many More

[no words. When Informal was a wee lad he would often see advertisements on television for various albums (usually of compilations by such folk as Dean Martin, Jim Nabors, and Max Bygraves) which would list many of the "hit songs" featured on the LP and, invariably, the list would include "and many more" so Informal promised himself that if he ever recorded an album he too would include that famous title.]

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No Justice

  You can't find any justice in this town, no matter how far or wide you look around. Politicians and lawyers and magistrates are in it only for themselves and their mates. You can't find any justice in this town.
  You can't find equality in this State-that's not unless you are white and rich and straight. It does not matter how severe be the crime: the rich man gets off; the poor man does the time. You can't find equality in this State.
  You can't find any justice in this land. All our laws may as well be written in sand. If all that you need is but a helping hand, our well-paid leaders can hardly understand. You can't find any justice in this here land.

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Links

  Man's born free but ev'rywhere buys in chains, for freedom can be franchised easily. Look at Mr Lizard's wonderful gains: he can pay any politician's fee; for anything he wants to get, he'll buy-such be the power of our largest guy.
  The lizard's lackeys tell us that he's clean. No filth, they say, is shewn on his TV. They do not spot his porno magazines; his profits are the only thing they see; for anything he wants to do he can-such be the licence of our richest man.
  Every tarot reader is a cheat; each telephonic psychic is a fake. The media people join in that deceit; all just grab as much as they can take. For when you die you're dead, the truth is blunt-such be the knowledge of our biggest….

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Catullus XVI

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[No words for this song were recorded; but, obviously enough, the title refers to poem XVI by C. Valerius Catullus (84-54 BC).]

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Everything Flows

The twentieth year reunion: how quickly years have passed; they dragged so slowly whilst at school, and now they go so fast. I remember one thing—a golden, Latin line: quod uerum meum est—"that which is true is mine.
The twentieth year reunion: and now some grey hairs shew; all the folks I have not seen since; I wonder should I go. The twentieth year reunion: what tall tales it might bring; I had some decent lunchtimes, but hardly learned a thing. Yet I gained some wisdom—our motto's words were fine: quod uerum meum est—"that which is true is mine."
The twentieth year reunion: hear the old songs again, of living in the seventies; how times have changed since then. The twentieth year reunion:how quickly years have passed; they dragged so slowly years ago, but now they go by fast. Some wise words stay with me for all those years lang syne: quod uerum meum est—"that which is true is mine."

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What Shall We Do?

[No words other than the occasional "What shall we do?"]

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Millennium Dirge

Some will claim that all of this can't last: the end, they'll say, is approaching fast; all our future hopes have long since passed; we progress into infinity, all relying on technology, never thinking of society. We're living in the end days, we're all living in the end days now.
A faithful set trust the rising sun. The race is finished though few have won, and civilisation's days are done; but everything will be all right,just as rock 'n' roll singers oft recite; and so we'll sing in the fading light. We're living in the end days, we're all living in the end days now.

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Happy Song

  I've been listening to so many serious songs which moan anent the world ,and its mess of woes and wrongs; there's little need to add more gloom to that pessimistic throng, we could do with just one more bright and cheerful, carefree, happy song. So—
  There's been enough of misery, I thought I'd end my first CD with a sort of jaunty sing-along; with words as simple as can be, an undemanding melody,sing a happy, happy, happy song. Let your thoughts be quite erratic, put your mind on automatic, this is just a jolly, joyful air. You may soon think of "Batty Bat" (this is a little bit like that) though I gladly own I shall not care. Soon will come our simple chorus; first I'll check in my thesaurus for some synonyms for happy song: blessed ballad, delighted strain, a blithe and breezy, glad refrain; sing a cheery, pleasant, happy song.
  Happy, happy … sing a happy, happy, happy song….
  When you have problems don't you fret, for brooding never fixed much yet,just relax let carols make you calm; and spurn prosodic rules and such (for none of that may matter much), ease your mind and sing a happy psalm. You need no message to convey in any merry roundelay, there's no need for fancy chanticleers. Horatian laws are not applied when three chord tunes are versified, neither are they hidden for nine years.* Soon will come our simple chorus, quickly look in some thesaurus for some synonyms for happy song. Contented number, mirthful tune-toss in a careless moon or June-sing a hearty, sprightly, happy song.
  Happy, happy … sing a happy, happy, happy song….
  When keys are locked inside your car, you're stuck barefooted on hot tar, sing a happy song. For tears inside a letterbox or rowers lost without their cox, sing a happy song. Ignore what foolish folks disclose on silly morning talk-back shows, sing instead a happy song. Choose your very own agenda when you vote in referenda, sing at polling booths a happy song. When thoughts meander like some fuss aboard a battered Metro bus, sing a happy song. Brought before some feared committee, feel free to hum this playful ditty, sing a happy, happy, happy song….

* Art of Poetry by Q. Horatius Flaccus (65-8 BC), 388-89

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