Zoolon Audio


This experimental electronic demo track (made in Bitwig) is my look at a mind on the edge of madness.  We all go that way sometimes I think.  It gradually builds up from a revolving beat, gets a bit choral (I think madness is a bit choral) goes darker before a little panic sets in.  The photo is one I took at the bi-annual World Puppet Theatre Festival in Charleville-Mézières, France. Weird place.  I hope you enjoy this track.  Here’s the link;

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Copyright © 2016 Zoolon Audio.  All rights reserved.  Unauthorised copying, reproduction, hiring, lending, public performance and broadcasting prohibited.

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“Well I’ve never seen the like of it Freda girl. I mean to say corrosion being the complex series of reactions between the water and metal pipes in which the water is transported leading to oxidation certainly had discoloured your drinking water to the point it had become toxic – bloody lucky you called me out when you did. Still, all sorted out now luv.”

“Oh Jonny I’m ever so grateful, I was at my wits end.”

“No problem Freda, luv. Think it’s time we both had a nice cup of cha and a garibaldi biscuit wouldn’t go amiss either. Tell you what if that back of yours is still giving you jip I’ll go make it for us shall I?”

“You’re an angel Jonny, thanks.”

“There you go, service with a smile.  Better dunk the biscuit while your cuppa’s still hot. Best way in my book. Anyhow what’s new on the old painting front?”

“Was that a double entendre I just heard, you cheeky rascal you?  Whatever, I’m into self-portraits presently Jonny, would you like to kop a gander at the one I’ve just knocked out?”

“Too bloody true I would girl.”

“I’d be curious to get your take on this one Jonny…voila, ‘The Broken Column’ it’s called.”

“Fuck me Freda you haven’t really done yourself justice have you girl…I mean, the old mono brow notwithstanding and as God is my witness you’re a fine figure of a woman and that’s the truth. I don’t get this one at all.”

“Well I originally painted myself entirely naked then decided that that was a bit old hat and thought it a sound idea if I painted over it in a surreal style that reflected my physical and psychological struggles rendered visible through distortions of my body, which is fragmented, doubled, turned inside-out and merged with non-human elements.  Metal nails pierce my face, breasts, arms and torso, as well as my upper thigh, hidden behind a swath of cloth revealing just how exposed I feel with regard to the vagaries of life following the bus crash all those years ago when I wrecked me spine.”

“Blige, only you could make a life time of chronic back ache sound like rocket science! Loosen up Freda luv. If I were you…and I know a thing or two about art… I’d take it back to its original state…you know paint over it again until you’re back in the raw.  I’m feeling a firming in my parts just thinking about it.”

“Tell you what Jonny, how about if I give you the original sketch I scribbled before setting to work on the painting…you know before I changed it to The Broken Column.”

“You’d do that for me Freda!  You really do have a heart of gold.  Freda Mahlo devoid of kit…it doesn’t get any better than that girl. Can’t wait to tell the boys down the pub… you’ve made my day.”

“There you go then Jonny I’ve even framed it for you…it’s all yours.”

“Thanks, I’d better be off…well as soon as a certain swelling subsides thus allowing me to stand erect…so to speak.”

“Don’t let that embarrass you Jonny, there’s not a lot I haven’t seen or done. And you really are a living legend Jonny.”



Inspired by a true, sad story unearthed with only scant timeline facts left in historical record and subsequently the subject of a post by the wonderful photographer and lovely gal, Inese (https://inesemjphotography.com/ ) Her exquisite photo heads this ‘almost poem’. Plainly, I have availed myself of poetic licence in penning this. 


Only within an enchanted island of gemstone green carpet

where a chivalrous white mist serves to guard from harm

the innocence of a new rainbow’s inviting curve

where if you listen hard enough you will hear forgotten

castle ruins whisper their darkest secrets

could the knife of Divine betrayal

cut so deep a wound

that the inevitable contagion that is grief

spreads far and wide

hunts down the blameless

loses track of the hideaway guilt

of purist happenstance

“No chance of a mother and child reunion, this side of eternity?”

the last utterance of a melancholy Lord of Waterford

later to be found in his library

a single bullet to the temple

When desire grabs hold of a chosen heart

then feasts upon carnality exposed

when yesterday’s forbidden smile

becomes tomorrow’s surrogate sorry frown

a fate is sealed

He had lost all that was sacred

ingrained lethargy born

of eternal longing for what had gone

in the knowledge that a new beginning

was impossible

while Memory’s sweet fragrance lingered still

he had had no choice

no say in the matter

such was the event

at Curraghmore House, Waterford October 23, 1895

Long since he, the one described in song as, ‘reckless and rollicky’, had begged of good fortune a reprise of their stay at the Hotel Westminster, Paris in the spring of ’69

A pair of young elopers, landed gentry at that, leaving a mighty scandal in their wake, for both were married mortals, had slept through dawn’s own symphony of lovebird’s song, the fatigue of unbridled intimacy had seen to that

“Did I hear you screaming ‘Oh yes’ or was it ‘Amen’?” he joshed

no method actress, her scornful see-through blush of pretence, “You tease, you know full well, the latter” she lied, mattered not

“All my life I have wanted to be adored by women, now I’m gratified to be adored by just you…you, my Florence…I’ll somehow make an honest woman of you, you wait and see”

true to his word, he untangled affairs of yesteryear, won himself a new bride

Lord and new Lady set up home in Belgravia

where only the rich and powerful dwell

yet notwithstanding the privilege assets bestow

egalitarian cruel circumstance observes no preference

the worth of a moment comes when tears and fears coalesce

he could see that after the event

when mother and child were no more

The City of Love, not Olde London Town

 would have been a finer place for his Florence

and new-born, denied first breath, to die

Herewith, Inese’s post link;




Was it the hunt and peck

that incessant discordant clatter

of a pool of girly typists typing

or their less than accomplished

orchestration of du Maurier

‘filtered for flavour’ induced

wheezes that made him conclude

that one cannot be a traitor

on a globe without frontiers?

Given the choice he would relocate to Leningrad, join the Soviets, drink history and neat vodka

in equal measure and thereafter write a tome regarding the failings of democratic endeavour

nearly five o’clock on a Friday night

the office would soon be locked up

he could put aside dismal thoughts

of paperwork, pens and thumbtacks

for those of ale, tarts and fruit machines

the red lights of Soho scared him shitless

the punters in pubs looked at him

as if he were either a loser or a loner

devoid of even a modicum of social etiquette

a smart restaurant quite out of the question

it would have to be the usual Wimpy Bar burger

thereafter sipping from a half bottle of whisky

disguised within a recyclable brown paper bag

sat alone on his bench of preference

under a light polluted full moon in Hyde Park

‘Home’ such as it was, a ‘no place for a harem’

one bed, top of a jerry-built block

of council flats in Haringey had scant appeal

“Watcha Mister, don’t mind if I sit with you? I’ve just bounced off a distant Sun and it didn’t even scorch my knicker elastic…how impressive is that?” So said, the young lady who appeared

out of nowhere, with the look of a gregarious personage about her being

she did though, have beguiling chocolate eyes and a smile that never took rest

a painfully shy man, he merely nodded a tight-lipped affirmative

“What year is it?” A bizarre question

“1962…18th September,” his less than confident riposte

In a posh, posh voice, “Botheration, I was hoping it was August 2nd 2027…jolly good eclipse on that day. Mind, you’ll need to be in Cairo to see it properly. Have you ever travelled to The Milky Way?” 


“Tell you what…take hold of my hands, shut your eyes and I’ll take you there…it’s so nice to be back in the known universe!”

Against all odds in his narrowest realm, a quiet and self-conscious man

had unwittingly chanced upon a demonstrative time-traveller

henceforth, he would never have need of a pet cat, junk food and drab ruminations





I see my son has been at it again!

Zoolon Audio


The link https://soundcloud.com/zoolon/erasing-the-38th takes you to a demo version of my experimental song ‘Erasing the 38th. I haven’t done much with my music in terms of sharing it with others lately so here we go; the lyric is printed below if it helps you follow the song.


See how it burns

Stars instead of streetlights,

Two moons instead on one,

Touch the edge of heaven,

Give breath to a dying sun,

Give breath to a dying sun (repeat etc.)

See how it burns (repeat etc.)

After the blaze of glory,

Comes the flickering light,

What’s left has no shadow,

No vulture in flight,

Take off this mask,

See how it burns,

See how it burns (repeat etc.),

In this game of Russian roulette,

The weapon now rests at your temple,

Your time on the trigger just drags,

Take of this mask,


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Springtime mist masks the fate

Of a summer yet unborn

Fast forward to the autumn

And feel the beginnings of the Devil’s scorn


Back then the thought tormented me

Where will I be when springtime’s exemption fades?

When propositions lend themselves

To passions once delayed


If dreams were just the simplest things

There would be nothing to decide

If wishes all were horses

Then all beggars they would ride*


Out there beyond horizons

Beyond all pastures new

I discovered that when autumn comes

I would have a finer view


One born of experience

And not one fearful of impending fate

A place in which mortality

Is a changeling disinclined to wait


*From an old saying dating back to the 16th. Century


My son George…his first blog I understand.

Zoolon Audio

zoolon-sampleplaySIMPLE SOUND ART

The above is a still frame of a video at my YouTube Channel


This post is my first ever ‘blog’. I go by the name of George and for my sins I write songs, make sound art and produce royalty free music samples for a living.  Odd as it may seem, I like to capture sounds and play around with them. In many ways captured sound is like a chrysalis. Once manipulated it sometimes emerges as a butterfly.

If you click the above YouTube link you can see and hear a piece made using a random ping pong ball and an ancient Indian brass dish to create a piece of simple Sound Art. All the sounds in this video (synths and bass included) are directly manipulated from the hits you see me make with the ping pong ball upon the dish.

You can also find me…

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close proximity everlasting lovers

so soon become incongruous entities

prediction or predetermined? matters not

together upon an invincible brass bed

witness to a thousand sweet contortions

she, of alchemy’s infused drifting eyes

privileged to The Sandman’s grand tour

of sugar-coated dreamland and beyond

he, beside her, ice cold and constant

collected up by the one with a scythe

ill intent and the propensity to thieve

she pulsating, the other abruptly not

neither of faith, both of hope and charity

by rights, he should have died in her arms

his final transformation by inferno alone

rotting flesh and bone to gases and ashes


she settled on a smart white cardboard coffin

cheap, almost practical, environmentally friendly

the day of, friends say, closure (questionable)

spic and span the brand new chaste crematorium

of freshest scars and butchers slab bloody tears

a sparse congregation of the deliciously bored

no ‘My Way’, no wreaths, no eulogy, no requiem

no remembrance plaque nor marble headstone

just a sprinkling of the wild primroses he adored

let albums, words and keepsakes be all that is left

she could not decide just where to distil and scatter

he had had no favoured place save for a shared bed

she remembers he once said the most bizarre words

he ever captured abandoned him; slipped his mind

were lost; before his pen could consign them to paper

when all was done and dusted she slipped away quietly

went back home to her brand new unruly Border Collie



More out of sheer boredom than real interest she told him that the boys back at RAF Tempsford had christened him an ‘Old Lag’.  That he was an experienced airman she had little doubt, after all he walked with the requisite bail out limp, sported a handlebar moustache and, by the smell of his breath, had a taste for the hard stuff.  “An Old Lag you say, do they by Jove?  Bloody penguins the lot of them,” he bellowed over the thrash of the propeller and the angry bumble bee constant hum of the engine. Although sounding the worse for drink, to his credit and her relief he seemed to have total control of the willowy, matte black Westland Lysander flying by the light of a silvery moon, low over The English Channel toward a field ‘somewhere’ in Northern France.  She felt compelled to pose a question, “Penguins?”  “Yes my dear, ‘penguins’. I presume you are talking of those bloody ground officers with no operational experience, birds with wings that can’t fly, in my book.”  Now she understood.

“May I ask what you were doing before you joined Special Opps?” She contemplated taking the easy route; telling him a lie, yet to kill time settled for the truth, “I worked in Paris in ‘a place more marvellous than any other,’ at 31 Boulevard Edgar Quinet in Montparnasse to be precise.” 

“Well, well, well…you surprise me. ‘Le Sphinx’ no less, to my dishonour I know it ever so well from back in the day. Is the lovely Madame Martoune still in charge? I heard tell that Wehrmacht have commandeered the place for exclusive use of the military?  Don’t recall seeing you there though, mind I was somewhat tanked up most visitations.  Wonder if they still keep that dwarf chappie who gift wrapped the gals in Cleopatra garb, such as it was, in a rolled up carpet? The little chap had the finest job imaginable I’d say.” 

She explained she had no idea as to the current welfare of Martoune, her bordello or the dwarf, adding that she had no recollection of her pilot either, “I left Paris in June 1940, the very day the Hun marched in… I was one of the lucky ones I suppose…and by the way, I merely served drinks, just a waitress, never a working girl…they said I was too skinny,” her roughly true explanation.

You’re not French, your use of English tells me that; your diction perfect.” 

“True, yet I am not English either, although if you heard me speaking French you would think me French…that is why they recruited me.”

He chose not to delve into her origins any further. “So it’s a bit of clandestine contact with the Resistance in occupied territory, no doubt a bridge to blow up or such like. You must be a very brave gal, going back there when you could be safe and sound, well as safe and sound as one can be in these wretched times, elsewhere?”

“I do not think of myself as brave, I simply take satisfaction from naked revenge and pay no heed to the consequences should my mission fail.”   

“You owe the Gerry one then…payback time?” 

“Very much so.”

Now over the solid terrain of La Belle France it was not long before the pilot announced that he had spotted the burning torches lighting the covert strip of field where they were due to land. “François and his cronies will no doubt be ready to whisk you off to the safe house. Take care my lovely.”  

“I’ll do my best.”

Come next full moon above a cloudless crystal clear navigable night sky, the Lysander returned to take her back to England.

“You did your duty I take it?” 

“More…much more than that I can assure you.”

She felt no affinity with kith and kin anymore, she had lost all to the firing squads or the ovens.  The tribalism born of lines on maps left her bemused.  The perceived requirement for flags and anthems an alien thing to a girl of Romani descent; a traveller who knew no boundaries; who took no prisoners.




Some say that there is no place for scarlet ribbon, white roses and blighted intelligence in the heat of debate, yet they (whomsoever ‘they’ are) overlook that in make-believe anything and everything is possible.

This day she would make as if she were a femme fatale, double agent spy gal, after all in the face of a completely hopeless feigning ‘possession by the Devil’ on the London Underground the previous day, espionage perhaps would afford her with something to get her teeth into.

What was it her boss Yuri Andropov had once said?  She recalls it was late autumn, an afternoon, a transparent sun, bit by bit being nibbled up by a peckish, open-mouthed skyline. Andropov, as ever, stood erect, his back to her, perhaps struggling for the right words in her mother tongue as he stared out at the statue of ‘Iron Felix’ in Dzerzhinsky Square below his then fabled third floor office at KGB headquarters in the Lubyanka Building, downtown Moscow. Turning about face, and more by way of threat than anything else, “There will always be consequences when enough slaves share the same dream.”  Such weighty words of a democratic birthing, yet surely a curse for a life time Leninist?  He had shared neat vodka with her, nothing more. Andropov bored her beyond measure anyhow.

Why exactly was it that all the secret agents she thought up were old, fat, generally unattractive with fetid breath? This really would not do. It was over a coffee (one more acidic than she had imagined) and croissant at a street café near Waterloo Bridge watching the passers-by she recalled that three dreams and a nightmare ago she had visualized a land where unicorns flourished, grazing on a village green to the backdrop of leather upon willow. Perhaps she would be a unicorn tamer…perhaps not, they all seemed pretty docile upon reflection.  A bed warmer for a handsome prince? Maybe a food taster for Rasputin? What about a wing-walker on one of those biplanes from the 1920’s? Vertigo and the lack of a parachute put pay to that idea, and as to Rasputin, his love of almonds and her nut allergy slammed shut the door on that one, whereas the handsome prince gig was somewhat passé.

She concluded this would have to be a day of rest; a recharging of the batteries. That the straightjacket she wore always itched puzzled her, although being spoon fed leek and carrot soup remained an astonishing much treasured delight. Padded walls, ceilings and floors were rather chic, nice and cosy also. No need for a bed, no place for a side table.  Sometimes, in lucid moments she wondered what would become of her. Winsome Mary, the one who cared for her often told her that one day all would be well again; that one day soon a suitable donor would at last be found, and a new brain would be offered up for transplant.