Instrumental

It’s not so bad,
But I’d quite like to feel well.
It’s fine and all, the alongside and the attendant.
The sickly and the trembling,
Like we took the cheapest flight out of hell
And reality has the mother of all jetlags.
But…
It’s fine, it’s fine, all shits and giggles, but I’ll put it like this:
Imagine my chest is a cheap set of bellows,
And my mouth is some weird instrument that only weirdos learn to play.
That would be quite tiring, would it not?
To be quite frank, I’d quite like to feel well now.

On The Bus

On the bus, and it’s an odd thing, because where are we now?
Don’t you think?
Could you look me in the eye please?
Yeah, it’s a belly alright,
Where we sit row by row.
This be its belly, but don't fear.
The monster’s benign.
Don’t you think though?
We’re its shifting gizzards, and all our sickly motions.
Such a beastly carapace, and the reek of intent!

That’s us, the smell, so don’t blame the demon, don't blame the beast.

There’s a thick haze, clouds not the eyes though.
Different senses.
It’s the smell of vaporous dreams and destinations.
You’ll not look at me, not see me.
This place is not a place. This where is not a where.

The place between the “where”s.

The view changes. Breathing by my side.
I looked up and they where all dead in the aisles,
In the seats, hanging by the handrails.
I had never known them, never would.
So much loss to be a stranger…

I am a fish, you too, and this a tank filled with time and such humanity.
The dead lie around me and the view is always changing.

Don’t you think though, strange corpse?
Dead in your right time,
But dead for me now, in mine.
Oh, you’re such a tender young thing,
And you’re good to humour an old man.
But you’ll not look at me, I know that much.

My stop? Oh no, not for me.
Not for me.
Not for me.

Love; noun/adjective :

Listen to this word, and forget for a moment how fucking ridiculous it is.

Listen to this word, how they speak it, how they spit it,

And still they tremble where they lie.

They tremble, but they don’t know why.

Love, in your throat,

Like an egg rolling down your tongue, clipped by a bit lip.

Love…

A hesitation, and no one knows the last part, no one dares…

And that word of eagerness, when violence is done and the world doesn’t give a shit?

What will we call that?

That is not our word.

Ours is a frightful thing, and bright.

Ours is liquid and sharp, hidden truth in brazen lies,

Lonely dots in shining eyes.

Life wearing Death’s robes

Death robed in Life’s.

Listen, to this word, which is a confession.

Listen. This is happening now.

You’ve broken through the ice, the lake is full of oil

And you’re drowning.

And sure we’re crass,

But we’ve come to the heart of the matter.

This love, this heavy love,

These hands and the great plains of the dead.

Speak the word, and become a lover,

And a lover is but a barren thing,

And two lovers are but two barren things.

In each other’s arms, still, they turn away.

As the coach pulled out of Copenhagen

Human thing of laughing hollows, conspiracy and murder.

Your flesh colludes and separates, holds partisan to the air.

You killed that child who was a child of moments and no killer.

You killed that man who would have turned

And walked the other way.

You lay waste to that path.

And in place of spotless maybes and that silken evermore,

You leave the ravaged past to be a corpse and ring of heartache,

You forge the timid future that waits in anguish for your rape.

And in those cobbled streets you build, you leave both friends and enemies.

They freeze where you left them, in the futility of their conflict.

And we call out still for riot and we run in all directions.

We call out for fire and stampede and the sacrament of tear gas,

The transubstantiation that turns this artificial irritant

To the tears of all our honoured dead, the children who we were.

The parents that we will not be, the freedom that mocks us.

Song #3

When we get old we’ll have to choose,

The right to win, the need to lose.

When we get old, when this is done and done,

Life under bridges.

And when death has died and we undying

Can no more choke on what we’re buying,

When tongues are one like in Babylon,

Our life under bridges.

Forget this “down and out”

Condemn this “pins and needles”

We not in a time

We all in this, all ours, canned laughter.

When we get old, we’ll not be old,

When we get old, we’ll still be cold.

When we get old, no fear, they’ll ban indecision.

And it’s life under bridges, above, below, human traffic.

Song #2

I’ve never seen a sky like this,

Never again for these eyes.

We know it ends like this.

I am an old beast all tusk and tooth,

All done with childbirth,

And on the plains I’ve shed my youth.

These ears lie ragged, sounds of thunder,

Echoes of brushfires, blood stained fur.

This sun's setting on all my wonders.

I come to die, to empty this leather skin,

And if there’s a God of violent skies

He’ll be me and I’ll be Him.

Fools call this Africa, but this is my flesh.

When you find me hold my bones and think of tall grass,

And the twenty mothers of your twenty mothers.

Fools call this Africa, but this is my flesh.

When you find me hold my bones and think of tall grass,

And the twenty mothers of your twenty mothers.

The twenty mothers of your twenty mothers.

The twenty mothers of your twenty mothers.

I’ve never seen a sky like this,

Never again for these eyes.

Never again for these eyes.

Precious Stones

Shine for me, my raw diamond,

Light’s cradle and first breath.

Monstrous, our symphonic breathing.

Sit within the hollow

Of this vulgar palm.

Dance for me my graceless angel,

My offbeat love,

Standing clothed in tattered sheets

And rags of human skin,

But your dancing socks darned with gold thread.

You are the plaything of warlords

My diamond whore.

Witness to the transaction, exchanged between the two deaths,

Oblivion and the gap left by a forgotten face.

I bring nothing to this table.

I take nothing from this table.

I sit before an empty plate.

You are not at all as you appear, a lump of broken glass,

But a raw diamond, torn from the mountains, oft traded and now misshapen,

And such horrors are reflected when you catch the light of this morning’s sun.