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Breakwell In The Cafe | Martin Trippett

Breakwell in the cafe.

An album of songs dealing with themes of love, heartbreak, diminished hope and uncertainty. An existential overview of reality. Beginning with the start of the war and ending with the atheist’s mass it’s a reflection of a moment in time from a purely subjective viewpoint.

Allan Terry – Organ on The atheists mass

breakwell in the cafe

1 The start of the war
2 The ghost of my happiness
3 The ballad of a broken heart
4 The beast at heaven’s gate
5 Let’s go paddling
6 White feather*
7 The exquisite lady of letters
8 The dream collector
9 The atheists mass



The start of the war

At the start of the war all the children stop smiling and look at the ground as the walls start to crumble. The slaves all emerge at the dawn of the day so we pray to the Gods but they’ve all gone away. A dickensian child holds his bowl out for more and the dance carries on just the same as before at the start of the war.
At the start of the war I’ve forgotten my name and suddenly all of my friends look the same. Then the man next to me screams “The Emperor’s a fool!” and I shit in my pants like my first day at school. So we hide in the trench as the cannons all roar and the dance carries on just the same as before at the start of the war.
Then the head of the state makes a speech to the nation explaining the reason we’re all on this journey. He tells us that everything’s Perfectly clear but none of us really know why we are here. Then the ball hits the net so we all know the score and the dance carries on just the same as before at the start of the war.


The ghost of my happiness

You haunt me like the ghost of my happiness. I thank you for the memory, you gave my whole life back to me, now I can build an empire from the remnants of my pride as deep inside this broken shell, the man who loves you dies.
You haunt me like a mirror to my demons. I’d kept them locked inside for years, I thought at last they’d disappeared but they were only hiding in the rubbish on the floor. Now they stand up and laugh at me as you walk out the door.
You haunt me like the shadow of my loneliness, I run back to my sanctuary, to find you standing next to me like ‘Charlotte’ on the TV and the pain of ‘uncle Frank’, all wrapped up in reality and Alien conspiracy. Convulsive beauty smiles at me ‘till i’m scared to say goodbye. Deep inside this broken shell the man who loves you dies.


The ballad of a broken heart

He loves you as much as I do, you’re the light in his eyes. He loves you as much as I do, you’re the moon in his skies. and the fool at the end of the bar takes another long drink to forget where you are. He loves you as much as I do and you’re breaking his heart.
If you love me as much as you say that you do? Then don’t steal a kiss from the next one on the list, who’s pinning all his dreams on you.
For he’ll follow you all around the world so you’ll never be free. And at the end of the bar sits a broken hearted fool like me.


The beast at heaven’s gate

Woodlice crawl across the Parquet floor as Christian passion dies.
Save your prayers for the priest without belief who’s lingering outside.
Rag and ruin lays and winks at me. Leave last night on the floor.
Save your scorn for the next one who walks in through the door.
Hear the sound of the spirit in the hall. Faithful soul is born.
Save your tears for the madman’s scream! He’s laying on the lawn.
One last tear for the corpse of desire, dancing in your room.
Save your love for reflections of the truth that disappear too soon.


Let’s go paddling

You’re more beautiful than Brixton, you paint Rothko’s on my soul. The beast has left her poisoned gift, I drink bordeaux in my prison pit, I’d love to watch you dance and if you fall I will pick you up and carry you to France.
My broken fragile mermaid, my woman in the wood. You’re
everything that’s beautiful, you’re everything that’s good. Let’s go paddling today. One touch from you and the pain all goes away.


White feather*

Now do not judge or blame him for his cowardice because, he was not a brave man and he never said he was. He was not a soldier though he wore the uniform. Called up to fight some bloody war a long way from his home.
He was but a labourer, a worker on the land, they took away his pitchfork and put a rifle in his hand. Dressed him in their colours and marched him to the line. He had no wish to kill a man. He had no wish to die.
They marched him to the battlefield into the gates of Hell. His name on every bullet and his name on every shell. Some men shook and some men cried and some men softy prayed. But he threw down his rifle and he turned and ran away.
There was no mercy for the man who took the cowards way, and he became a dead man just as sure as if he’d stayed. Court marshalled and sentenced, his name upon a form. Condemed to death, this frightened boy a long way from his home.
Now whisper as you speak of him don’t say his name out loud, for he was not a hero who made his country proud. No mention in dispatches and no medals did he wear. No name on the
memorial that stands in his village square.


The exquisite lady of letters

Exquisite lady of letters, I am in my invisible years. Please excuse me as you haunt me and my portrait disappears. Thank you for restoring my belief. You are a Miro in the Pompedeu; I am an Autumn leaf.
Immortal icon of beauty in a dream of loveless nights. You reduce me to a shadow, to a statue of remembered midnight flights. As forgotten heros dance alone in pale blue fire and the rain dissolves the wall. I am ‘Breakwell’ in the cafe; you are ‘Blanche Duval’.
Personified sunrise, the mermaid swims ashore. As the phantom of desire falls asleep on the factory floor. I will build for you a plinth of oceans, I will paint you on the moon. I am a fading sepia photograph. I was born too soon.


The dream collector

In a sacred place lays a lonely face. Buried in the ground just waiting to be found. Bring it home to me, restore it’s dignity. It’s Karma leaves a hole, a castle for the soul.
I met a traveller who never lies. Folly, virtue, wisdom, wealth and vice. Profound and serious is the sleeping fool, enchanted pleasures in a stagnant pool.
Through an open door on the 14th floor lays a distant sound just waiting to be found. One last cigarette to burn away my debts. Bring it home to me restore it’s dignity.
Into my ears harmonious meadows flow, a forest in the heart begins to grow. The stagnant water becomes clear and cool. A smile reflected in a Miro pool.


The atheists mass

Toil with the hunger of kings, a vile imitation of being, that flaunts itself in the streets and smiles.
Desire lost in transient scorn, absorbs the impossible dawn, forgives the diminishing faith and glory.
A flow of Voltairians born, is mocked by a prayer on the floor. faith on the verge of the tomb refined.
And now the earth in it’s shell, dissects all the organs of Hell and drowns in the passion of souls forever.

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