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In Honour; _or_ how hearts get lost

a wristwatch sank
in the sands of an old rich holiday haunt
gaunt model wasn’t curve enough
and the local young rebel wasn’t wild or strong

and along came the leaves to
clog up the jacuzzis and ruin all the lawns
cocaine dinner party
hardly anything to do anyway give a damn

to speak of one’s own pride
as if an ocean cared who it drowned
and the moon was all but a hole punched through deep blue tarpaulin pulled real taught

and this is exactly how hearts get lost
inside cubes set aside inside valleys
of a ripple on the top of the Thames like glass
and the all-star child-cast firing squad
god complex, next level ambition
of a prison guard role acceptance speech
deep theory, dull dull prose
no hope for folk singer these days

and after all, we are all a figure
standing tall in a landscape
and the moon is all but a hole
a hole punch through
deep blue dawn

and the tower clock cast out cold all grey
in a city like war where paperweights
take Place of minds inside dead walls
and where does all the time get to? 

in honour of new endings and men that pen the prose
of dust and somesuch crystal carving out the paths
of all your dearest loved ones

and all at once it was clear the earth was only just
a girl asleep inside the greedy silence coiling in a gun barrel
this song is called in honour of the men that penned the dictionary of angels and smaller feats before the curtain fell

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We Are Small; _or_ the way the valley made us feel

we all die twice
the first time when we cease to breathe
and the last time is the last time someone speaks our name
the last time
the last time

and the cloud is a halo about the mountain’s cold crown
and we are small
the cloud is a halo about the mountain’s cold crown
and we are small

we grew together, strong as a storm
we grew together, strong as a storm
grew and grew and grew
grew and grew and grew

so started out slowly all coming down silent in a tacky kind of hue made out of nothing of a uniform
cradling a sky torn open wound broad by the city park sitting down trying to be whatever man
let it all silent as a halo as cloud or the heresies of snouts sniffing pyramids of money see
never going to be the same. never going to be the same. never going to be the same let them roll down
in the end all colour like colour tv a kind of scratch made out oblivious and stick them all upon a shelf
always in the end you'll find. always in the end you'll find. always in the end you'll find. 
that we grew together as strong as a storm

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Cardigan; _or_ along a line of linden trees

along a line of linden trees i’ll see you always
crazy in your cardigan and your famous, yeh your famous, grey hair
and on the landing through the banisters i can see your shadow praying
praying for the painters waiting tables in cities that don’t care
and your pacing on the landing is the sound of flirting rain
falling on the roofing of the garret where all your children lay

why just yesterday i used to chase girls
all women and music there wasn’t much else
when i went out one weekday night
awoke to find i’d found my bride
and life is good what else to do
then let our hair curl and get tattoos? 
and i was young some say i still am
the son of a butcher the sum of all man
it’s the way women lie

then it broke away as an offering as a mist on a lake or of something
in the end it was all kind of carved out like a reed lying down in a river flat

then of course it was kind of like before cut cutting out dust or a dull bore
never even understood how it could've been all this opening of flowers on a windscreen

then we kind of felt how it maybe was just to stand close calmy there and only watch from the spot where we all grew foolish deep scratches buried under varnish

[your words are sham] 

and those that you love are mostly made of water and a heart

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Goat’s Gloom; _or_ call off the hounds of fate

on a pedestal where all men bleed the same as goats
and here’s to hoping for something pretty
flee with me my love
flee with me or leave me be my love

such is the way of the heart of the fool
to pull apart the coals and let them cool
all for a spark
all for a fear of the dark

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A Lesson In Skinning Goats; _or_ a murmur within the breeze

keep calm and make the logo bigger across the sniggering face of your un-appointed spokesman. go ahead get even. dragged to a dead end you strike me down blame the parents, designer watches or broken handbag replicas. what a stench. protective hands placed on the small of very awkward arching backs in very black alcoves - throw me a ruffled plumage - come along and heart me burn these ventricles pulled from my chest and dressed in a ridiculous, photographic, super slick scratched scene. scratched montage. an end to envy. not need lantern. how to deal with isolation and how sweet in a deeply corporate way they tend to seem. lie down, scream and gaze listlessly as the emptiness reseeds into nothing. gentlemans’ feuds, public floggings all is true and clear as the moon is carved. it’s really all brandy and business cards, body language, who owns whom in dull order and full coverage copper wire like incandescence. or a lesson in skinning goats on the end of rotting piers and here’s to integrity belly flopping in a puddle of crass taste, hypocrisy and hysteria. remember when we were made of flesh? and yes, an understated glamour of stretch glamour, come now detest brackets you and your cute dog-heart bark as cardboard arm reaches out from monitor screen wielding scalpel stumble hungry through the village home. sitting on a spit of reclaimed land, your son and heir prepare to let it get serious and who are you calling dummy? chin up and rally on await the intermission or leave the pantomime mayhem blend in masticate and make moves. for all the bruises traded in taverns a world of water awaits tethered to a moon made out of body parts, opalescent prints of past passions beamed from badly broken overheads. fed forever on minced lung, sunday supplements, colour and war, tourist routes and fancy dress - let me be i’m busy! for the flowers of our hedgerows, sniffer dogs and all sacks of silicon. a stretch of utter black fitliest called discord and how we crave for honest graspings or ducking stool experimentation. place one’s head in one’s oven which way to stumble for comfort, stony-souled little city?

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Fool's Errand

we are a cheap suit, we are a soup kitchen, we are a jam jar raised to the lips of a hipster sipping cocktails in some pale imitation gentrified joke. these pokey tales of failure, flavoured with sweet promise, curled around tongues tasting defeat as deep as a news anchors hot tub. the drunk girl on the bus attacks some crushed accomplice as we slip by all gold and red by the mad breadman pecked to pieces by the pigeons in the park. re-enacting the backstabbing of a best friend in front of a panel of industry big dogs while media power couples snog and hold hands under poster of post-war hollywood heartthrobs. yes, it can drift into something like a shopping channel at a wedding flirting with a chemical weapons expert. your music sounds like it’s made to be played in shopping arcades on bank holiday weekends - silly singer songwriters writing rhymes that read like middle class fridge doors. and when god looks the other way we’ll be playing babel fishh on cassette tape, running with scissors, standing naked at the window urinating on your parade. 


they said we looked fed up and bored and they were dead right of course. girl being sick in a limousine, lonely lad walks around room. what was i to do? it won’t matter come the morning a glorious failure, a last blossom blown loose, the final tear, a tango, a sword fight - finding a scratch card in a british heart foundation purchased blazer in a warm winters day. and here’s another song about me taking myself too seriously throwing parting shots at lost children in super markets. and the river looked to be sleeping so still and deep. the ruins of a resort town and ten foot advertising slogans over faces. you don’t work your job your job works you... blah blah blithering idiot fool’s errand.

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Dim Half Light

there was a vicious crack in the wall then I watched the wall fall down, fall down
there was a vicious crack in the wall then I watched the wall fall 

at first the flame was small, but then grew greedy, big and tall, big and tall
at first the flame was small, but then grew strong and tall
stretched its jaws and ate us all 

and the war we thought we'd won kept stretching on and longer
that war we thought was long, grew longer still
and the ladies cut their hair and kept it in a silver locket
the women cut their hair to gift to him
to choke on in the dim half light 

dim half light 

well the morning fell on the well heeled
with the feel of an over exposed old film reel
silver steel and real white
while in the valley of the night I very quietly strike a match
to catch atop the masts of all imaginary yachts 

bobbing rudderless lost on the lips of ancient lovers
and their fast fading pasts, burn marks on skin
i'm off to the public debagging, who's in? 
and who's lung, yeah whose lung is this one anyway? 

dim half light

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Peckham Rye

and I feel lost on Peckham Rye lane
as I hear the London Bridge train
trailing off
trailing off

let the dusk, be as smoke
and float around us dark and thick
and the dawn be as flame
a flame to warn us of the ways

the days just burn
turn to smoke
turn to dusk and float around us

better lost than to be found
drowning in their arms
babbling about how life is beautiful
broken or surely both

about how life, our young life is beautiful
broken or both
about how life, our young life is beautiful
broken or surely both

and I feel lost on Peckham Rye lane

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Retreating Tide

bright-eyed darlings
cult cult on campus
dead deer drowned in swimming pool in water hole slip up
a woeful ode to frozen food aisles
and plump pyramids of losing lottery tickets
where the birds dance their last in the weary light
cast by distant flaming effigies blinking, ugly, so vast
suicides beside bulk-bought bibles
on bedside tables carved from trees
the trusty old industry fade out collides with a CGI car chase in a hail of canned laughter
they saw the aeroplane disappear into the blue
and knew that one day they too shall disappear
they saw the aeroplane disappear into the blue

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Lord Be Kind

lord be kind, my ship is small
and your sea it's so wide
i try and see the sky, but cannot seem to find
that guillotine green line of copper carving gold
oh be kind, my ship is small
and your sea it's so wide

a beggar bowl at the feet of an old king
preaching for peace in a ruin
and who in great times of need, will be there beside you?

a hand clutching for a crutch
but nothing is there

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Slides By

glass of bourbon
a poorly rolled smoke
then it's time to go home
spend my whole night
chasing your eyes
two flakes of burning coal
outside words climb towards the moonshine
as if mining for gold
in the cool dark very big dark
'neath which i walk home

stalactites cling tightly to the tiny perforations stationed across the sky
blankets of clouds crowd around the congregation of sparkles then slides on by

slides on by
slides on by

the wind plays and paints an art nouveau swirl within your hair
you'll go to pains to make straight come the wide eyed morning
yet still the curtains still so strangely still it feels like a sheet of solid steel or porcelain

i like your skin so very fair
compared to so much within these four walls
the severed ties I can't repair
I'll weave in nets to catch our downfall
and so I say to you I swear
nowhere could ever seem so dreary
within your palm a lock of hair
is smouldering and rising up oh so lightly
snaking upwards
coiling along the ceiling
rebuild our cynicism there abreast
to all my mighty misty misplaced feelings

from my paper mache crown down to the skin beneath my toes
from my paper mache crown down to the skin beneath my toes I grow inwards
snaking upwards
coiling along the ceiling
snaking upwards
coiling along my ceiling

glass of bourbon
a poorly rolled smoke
then its time to go home
spend my whole night
chasing your eyes
two flakes of burning coal
outside words climb towards the moon shine
as if mining for gold
in the cool dark very big dark
'neath which I walk home

slides on by
slides on by

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Stuffing A Chest (With Twigs)

a feather held aloft in your extended arm
an old barracks graffitied and crumbling
green, brown, red in a skin like flung paint on a window
sleeping giants of industry your time to stir has been and gone
slake my wandering interest with dross
Ii the bird alone? 
is the veil a prop in the lonesome man's tragedy?


head on to the edge of the night residing in a western crockery plantation. This is expressive of cemeteries smeared black or dark orange sinking in a waxy skin of light blue left alone to rot amongst large scale fragments of aggressive every day objects; material plentitude, seraphim skin, sexually potent media and humour hanged and left silhouetted through a dazzling stain glass window to wither. Images in constant flux and sombre palettes like the sky today and tomorrow reduced to pure abstraction. The base truths of life sober exteriors and friends and their subtle contortions of disquieting impressions. A stain blend decorative vertebrate outline sketch secretion. Emotional detachment, stillness and calm scenes of pretty war or warm loathing woven with the anguish of all time. 

stuffing a chest with twigs with which to start a fire

we decided to start all over with fists all tied while distilling an often shocking sense of power over a smattering of fashionable ladies reproducing a wretchedly old fashioned rescue through modern means. Cheerily defiant in the teeth of a crushing triumph of judgement... legs spread on the casting couch 

stuffing a chest with twigs with which to start a fire

ideas: game show contestants spliced with birthday party children merged with prison mug shots, blended with health and safety videos cut with sexual education videos woven with laboratory mishaps...

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