Frowned Sounds

by Helên Thomas

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about

Dark poems set to experimental music.

credits

released October 7, 2018

ME!
With music by Owen J.
Cover photograph by Owen J.
For Owen - thanks for encouraging me to do more of this weird shit. xx

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all rights reserved

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about

Helên Thomas UK

You will find dark, difficult, experimental music here + by way of a total contrast, some up tempo poetry for children + if I can find it all, an ad hoc archive of randomness for grown ups + idiots.
Make of this what you will.

If you'd like any tracks but can't afford to buy, please get in touch + I will happily send downloads. Same goes for bloggers and DJs, etc.
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Track Name: Season To Taste
In spring I simmered Easter bunny stew,

Beneath its skin: dumplings of myxoma,

For caviar of lambs’ eyes and of ewe,

Ram-raided the carrion crows’ larder,

Fried bulbs of daffodils and bells of blue,

Their shoots adorned pasta primavera,

For cappuccino frothed spit of cuckoo,

With jam tart wounds: tacky red stigmata,

For drastic weight loss, I prepared for you,

My special: tagliatelle toxocara,

And plastic-surgeons’ pinky residue:

Liposuction taramasalata.

The outcome was not what I had contrived,

You gorged yourself, yet somehow you survived.


In summer, kernels of apricot ground,

And marzipanned cake fit for a new bride,

Then digitalis ‘vine leaves’ wrapped round

A mulch of garden molluscs, that died,

From slug pellets, or cider slow drowned.

For black peppercorns I utilised,

Laburnum and lupin secrets I found.

Dishevelled salad I tossed, which comprised

Of rhubarb's dark green to keep your sleep sound,

Before which, nettle stings I stitched inside

Your dental floss; then I urged homeward bound

To your mouth, African bees' suicide.

Come breakfast all I could heave was a sigh,

For all my efforts you deigned not to die.


In autumn: sundried, road-kill casserole,

Cow-bar culled, magpie inspected, pecked,

Blood marinated potage of pothole,

Maggot-riced, rock salted and flat packed,

Morsels tweezer-peeled from tarmac’s clefts,

With sulphur tufts and rare game braised, I served

A spill of tongues with juicy marrow cracked,

Then Granny Smith’s most vile windfall dessert:

A boozy, worm-holed sludge of apples bruised,

For raisins: drunk wasps and blue bloated flies,

With nutty gravel crumble, clay clods baked;

Poured septic sauce called ‘custard’ on the side.

Three portions later, to my sad surprise,

My favours failed to bring forth your demise.


Dead winter saw sorbet of yellow snow,

And warm umbles spice-mulled in caribou,

With goblets steam full of festive Merlot,

Spread giblet fois gras from geese with bird flu

For nibbles: old starving snowmen’s noses

Made carrot soup; and dubious fondue

Tainted taste buds with tuberculosis,

From gobbets of phlegm hacked into tissue,

I sauced for pasta evergreen pesto,

Of nasal descent and I laughed when you

Guessed, “Hmm, truffle oil?” You hadn’t noticed,

When you’re tucking in, that I never do.

Then as Christmas re-lit our attraction...

You died from allergic nut reaction.
Track Name: Protection
Beware the spores! They are growing bigger, more numerous and better organised (except for the ones that are getting smaller; so small as to be invisible to the human eye.) They attract their victims by emitting a unique bait of pheromone musk scent that smells of money and admiration. They are artificially intelligent; they learn from mistakes.

We can sell you special goggles!
Tick the box if you’d like to receive a catalogue.

There’s an unseen Disney film locked in a vault. It’s about a beautiful forest full of cute animals who all love each other. They can all sing, dance and talk. They’re all vegetarians and their individual foodstuff of choice can be found in abundance along with clean spring water, which bubbles into sparkling streams. The animals frolic joyously and have lots and lots of fun. Nothing else happens; it’s all quite lovely. They all live happily ever after, from beginning to end.

Not available to buy.

There’s a worm made of tar. It has no skin or bones. It feeds off plasma and platelets, and wears the walls of your blood vessels as its exoskeleton. It divides by binary fission, doubling and doubling like time-lapse gothic botulism. You can see it spreading underneath your skin, filling your capillaries until they creak. You’ll be compelled to rip out those strangling black threads like faulty electrics or rapacious weeds. There are procedures: we can arrange to have your veins lined with lead.

Tick the box if you’d like us to send you a catalogue.
Your statutory rights are not affected.
Track Name: Chill
It’s unravelling
like suitcased cash
cascade in slo-mo
dollar sky-dive
tragi-comic heist
gone wrong.

It’s a pile of sawdust
Left wood-wormed
from antique chair.

It’s sugared mortar
unbricking
brick by brick.
It’s obsessive disorder
creaking at the seams
split side of laughter
dust stuck to steak
picked from the floor.

It’s home made sponge cake
lopsided icing
wet unset.

It’s today’s to do list
undone:

I’m in the pub.

It’s not looking
at the others.
It’s not caring
what they think.
It’s the solution
to your problems.

Put the bench mark
on the bonfire,
no one’s looking
simply

chill.
Track Name: Out Of Time
the egg timers were hers:
a stickler for the perfect boiled egg,
she could break any shell, and know
if it hadn’t had three exact minutes.
that was her quirk, worse in hotels,
sending back, insisting on precision.
I remember one time,
in a Kathmandu guesthouse,
she returned half a dozen;
she never gave up.
everyone bought timers,
for Christmas and birthdays,
she owned thirty-five,
her age when she died.

she’s been up there five years,
some climbers say they spoke, offered help,
but she said she’d be fine; they’re liars.
on their ascent, she was just sitting there,
they must have known,
she’d run out of oxygen, and time,
they couldn’t waste theirs rescuing her,
they’ve different rules climbing Everest:
morality’s a burden; it gets left at base-camp.

as far as I know, I’m alone,
Dad’s a mystery; Mum wouldn’t tell,
Grandparents gone, now it’s just me,
I can’t have children,
it’s just one of those things.
but I want family,
blood not surrogates,
so I’m going for Mum,
I’ll bring her down; if that can’t be done,
I’ll send medics to her,
she’s young, fit and frozen,
her eggs must be OK
they have to be.

still, the hardest part is reaching her,
and the harvest. I’ll do what I have to:
raise money, learn the skills, climb,
however long it takes, I’ll get there
sooner or later,
we’re a very determined family.

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