1. |
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2. |
In The Garden
03:33
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Garden, made of snow
Nothing living lies below
Hear the songbird breathing slow
In a garden made of snow...
One quarter of the muddy platoon man
And I'm not in it for the drugs and the poontang
Release songs like they're coloured balloons man
See them rise til they bump on the moon landscape
I'm rooted but my head's in the clouds though
Etch a message in indelible sound bro
My letters spread around the globe like Katrina did
Antihurricane cos I build where my thesis hits...
but still a storm, you can't shutter me in voodoo
Must travel like Huckleberry Finn used to
Sketch a picture of yr mum in a tin tutu
Just to confuse you...
Then I make a tune for your buttocks and hips to move to
Let yr buttoned-up lips get loose to the process
No need for the singer mate
I speared Britney then I peed in the Timberlake
Finally a little peace from the scrilla game
The empT-V screen and the titty shake
Zim-zimmer frame, I ate the keys to your beemer
lay by from the speed of the interstate.
Garden made of sand
Mona Lisa leads the band
They strike up when she lifts her hand
In a garden made of sand.
I'm loving this. It's brilliant when my friends are round me
Without breaking objects, we break boundaries
at times we do break objects, and somebody calls the state mounties
But generally, we make sounds with our mouth-pieces
It's brilliant.
The fact that these scriptures even at times make it onto CDs
Is double-D wicked
Like when you nuzzle the sweet tits of your lover
and each minute fills infinity's limits.
Bountiful... the beautiful views of the town that I hang around, it's cool. Sometimes I bike out to the Downs and lounge in full sunshine. This one time, I stripped down to my bouncy balls
Browned it all off in the sun, then cooled off in a trout pool.
THAT's IT! At least it's what I feel I'm looking for- the flow of Chi and peace of which you read in Buddhist thought
But it's rawer than that- it's the gaps between the teeth of the deepest sea creatures that attack squid with black ink and lidded jaws.
It's the pitted paw of the jackal, the livid roar of the grizzled bear, the armpit itch of the poet...
and it's all sitting there. Blood, stones, sticks, soil
While you're sat
listening
to Chris Moyles
In a garden made of worms
New Domestos kills the germs
Press-ups make your pickle firm
In a garden made of worms
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3. |
Engurland
03:35
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Skin cancer costs an arm and a leg, man
People on the beach self-harming to get tanned
Laid out flat like an army of dead mans
Red necks, red bellies than expand
Like jellyfish on the wet sand
Very Engurlish, suncream and sweaty hands
Mingled in with tepid lager, I’m on my 7th can-
Can I kick it? Probably not very elegant
Stepping over spaghetti Bacardi Breezer sick
Chilli sauce on my portion of cheesy chips
Silly thoughts, tell a stranger he’s a prick-
Receive a hit, lips and teeth are split.
But it in’t a party unless you bleed a bit
Bit of a geezer, telling Lisa she’s a fitty
Grab her tits, and she’s throwing a seizure fit
Now I’m sleeping in a cell, police are dicks.
Engurland, mingerland, middle fingerland
Footie song singerland
Baddiel and Skinner-land
School dinnerland
Red white, brown and gingerland
Imperial hinterland,
Perpetual winterland,
Where happy pills are in demand
Engurland, engurland, engurland
Aren’t you proud?
And it’s a land where families spend holidays in traffic jams
And radios play tracks by tragic bands
That have millions of avid fans, all little girls
Who crave a glitzy soundtrack to their shitty world
Where there’s poison in the food, and chlorine in the water
And models in the nude, in every shop, in every corner
And disorders of mind, and bulk orders of baked beans,
Cos here are 3 kids, and their mother … aged eighteen
… and they dream of stardom, watching the X-Factory
But they have no garden, and nowhere to practise being
Therefore, they question what they’re there for
And why there’s armed policemen, outside Mr Blair’s door
… then they reach their teens, and learn to count up to ten Bensons
Hiding behind hedges, burning pubescent tension
What’s progression? Let the Daily Mail write your starchart-
“this week you’ll lose your virginity in a carpark.
Next week, you’ll take your first ecstasy pill
Nine pints of White Lightning, and get messily ill.
The week after that, perhaps you’ll get a job in Lidl
You can stop believing, but you can’t stop the drizzle
You can stop believing but you can’t stop the drizzle.
Stop believing- you can’t stop the drizzle”
And we sing…
… and we sing… and we keep singing
Engurland, mingerland, middle fingerland
Footie song singerland
Baddiel and Skinner-land
School dinnerland
Red white, brown and gingerland
Imperial hinterland,
Perpetual winterland,
Where happy pills are in demand
Engurland, engurland, engurland
Aren’t you proud?
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4. |
Bomb Tesco
03:42
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Who's this? Another rapper with a messiah complex
Thinking when I write a concept, it stops the nonsense
But God chuckles, so I let go
Playing African drums in the carpark of Tesco
My heart is vast and growing- it beats in paradiddles
casting poems out through the drab and the drizzle
that drives down, and penetrates the shoppers' coats-
one office bloke gives me a look like
"you can't stop this bro"...
But I can bang a drum until my hands fall apart
and if it makes one shopper dance,
that's my calling answered.
My reason for playing the evening til the morning after
Carry my flame like stigmata through the falling darkness
and the rising light- I hit the goatskin
The nature of sound means it always finds an opening.
This time, I'm hoping it might find your lugholes
And if it does, I'll flood your subconscious with a drumroll...
That's the movement, what?
The movement
None of your rulers can stop the movement
Because it moves in the veins of the movers
Their brains and their boots
and the strains of their music...
('this is your time... Bomb Tesco')
That's my primal ish, son
my tribal rhythm bounces
somewhat manically in the cavity of your sinuses
in order to fill your mind with this ethereal medicine-
you might just find yourself beatboxing in the cereal section
Or tapping 4/4 beats on tins of corned beef
Or slapping a solo on a slab of mature cheese
the manager's called Steve,
and he comes over to chat to you
Saying, "please do not practice drum patterns
on cans of tuna
It's very distracting to the consumer"
...but in mid-opus, Steve freezes
and his eyes switch focus.
He grabs a pack of Kit-E-Kat and starts to shake a latin rhythm with it.
and the shelf-stacker, Dave, is rapping bits of lyrics
... he's very gifted.
And within a minute
Delores from storage has chipped in with a sung chorus
in Zulu.
They never knew she could do that, it's hard to believe
Steve is beating the bass on 2 vats of margarine
and Dawn, from customer services, is busting verses
over the P.A,
and Gary
who has a nervous twitch, and a weak brain
is stamping out the hardest beats on the counter of the pharmacy
Scattering paracetamol rather anarchically...
Before long, the whole supermarket's deep with raw song
Somebody's even found some frozen cod they can play chords on.
Four long hours later, you step out in the fading light
with a new perception of space and time.
In the carpark, a strange guy is playing a djembe...
what a weird way to waste a Wednesday.
That's the movement, what?
The movement
None of your rulers can stop the movement
Because it moves in the veins of the movers
Their brains and their boots and the strains of their music...
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5. |
Take Me Dancing
02:27
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Take me, take me dancing
Take me from this place where I can’t even breathe
Take me, take me dancing
Got no-one to pray to… I’m on my knees.
Sail, sail away now
And when you sail away let me aboard
Cos I am tired, tired of running
Tired of screaming, and I’m tired of being ignored.
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6. |
Good God
03:42
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For my mate Mike, God is called Christ
It gives him headspace among the highrises
Lends order to the muddle of his mind,
Sorts his troubles into sins
Helps him struggle through a crises.
For Tom-Tom, God is Dionysis
… he prays by dropping little white hits
And waits for the hurricane of light
Blowing rugged in his eyes
Leaving puddles in his irises.
For Polly, God is called Isis:
She steals kisses from the night’s lips.
Her heart’s large enough to hold the moon
She’s the chorus of a soul tune
Says a little prayer like this:
Deep in the belly, you’ve got to watch what you worship
Chasing pennies is a very weird way to find a purpose
Get yourself a good god and get yourself free
What you call it makes no bones to me.
No bones and no idols, I circle with the cycles
Instrumentals are my temples and the mind is my Bible
I keep it wide open, let my verse flow free
Psalms spoken as an urgent poetry.
Words are muscles, and they break commandments
Casting them aside
To let the spark of life set the dark alight
Far and wide over land and sea,
My magic speaks with the thousand mouths of the banyan tree
With all the twisted tongues that nature gives it
Without the grandiose pantyhose of the mystic
Who sacrifices sense at an altar shrine-
“the body’s sinful and the soul’s divine”
Well, I’ve had a skinful of an older wine
I came free, now I’m going forth and multiplying
The same beast that was present at the origin of people.
I’d rather one tree than a forest of cathedrals…
Deep in the belly, you’ve got to watch what you worship
Chasing pennies is a very weird way to find a purpose
Get yourself a good god and get yourself free
What you call it makes no bones to me.
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7. |
Pen Tangle
01:20
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8. |
It Won't Be Long
04:26
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One time for your crooked mind, said I
As I gave the man a pound
He said, “thank you stranger
The deed will come back round;
Perhaps we’ll drink together, man
Next time you pass through town”
Picks up his guitar again and sings:
It won’t be long before I’m gone
Swallowed by the road I lie upon
It won’t be long before I’m gone
Swallowed by the road
I stumble on
…there’s no backing down.
Two times for your crooked mind, said I
As I gave the man coin
He said, “I don’t need money now
But I could smoke a joint”
“fine”, said I
Sat by his side
I rolled and rolled, he told his life
And toked like he deserved to choke
And die…
He said
It won’t be long before I’m gone
Swallowed by the road I lie upon
It won’t be long before I’m gone
Swallowed by the road
I stumble on
…there’s no backing down.
Three times for your crooked mind
Standing at the grave.
Many of us fall
And very few are saved
It makes no difference now,
If he cursed, or if he prayed
Perhaps we’ll drink together
One of these days…
It won’t be long before I’m gone
Swallowed by the road I lie upon
It won’t be long before I’m gone
Swallowed by the road
I stumble on
…there’s no backing down.
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9. |
Reach In
02:11
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10. |
Reach Out
04:13
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Old man creeps in the streets in the puddles
Holds down the need to speak of his troubles
Both hands shake with the Parkinson’s
that is starting to break him.
Darkening sun sets over the streetlights - a night with no stars in
one shadowy figure steps into a doorway
where the whores play the same games as always.
the old man’s seen it all before,
he could tell you some morbid stories
He’s been through four wars and one divorce,
Carries a twitch that he got from the Blitz
he’s had a lifelong lover lost to the void
he’s seen his brothers destroyed
by the tick tock Bang Bang of reality
…
just another picture to hang in the gallery.
You need to reach out
Into the darkness
Before it reaches you.
Old man sits on train as it rumbles
Over land soaked in rain and struggle
…
the motion of it shakes his brain in a muddle
like Boggle dice contained in a bubble.
Man stops at stops in his pub crawl
in villages, on grubby stools.
He grins and orders in house double
no rocks in it-
got to sort out his own rubble
His mind is full of mumbles:
a jar full of colour
in among bubblegum fools
None of these suckers get him. Numbness sets in
Turns his stride to a stumble,
Tripping over his feet, back to the train
Rain seeps through cracks in the pane
Window frames him: Too old a man for a salary
…
just another picture to hang in the gallery.
You need to reach out
Into the darkness
Before it reaches you.
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11. |
Maria
06:53
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he sits with his head in his hands
his feet sunk into the sand
the sky turns grey above him;
he shows no sign of being alive.
But what can a boy do? The day the world went wrong
he was in the front row.
What must he go through to pay, to pay?
Well, he don’t know
Maria was his sweetness, his light
his redress, his night, his day
they rented a flat together and shared the summers
in their hideaway.
All he needed was her cheek pressed to his
and his world was calm.
He could almost weep
watching her sleeping
in the circle
of his arms.
There was one day they woke up early
and the dawn was splashed with gold.
Maria jumped up and wanted to walk in the morning cold
so they left, undressed
and stepped outside
strode the avenues
nude and giggling
unashamed, and unafraid of any truths
the universe may cast their way,
whatever time may bring
they danced among the city greys and
then he heard her sing…
Won’t you follow me
And find a space a little closer to the sea
To float away away away
Today today today today…
But then the seasons spun
The weakened sun began to fade
with such freedoms come poverty
and food has to be paid for.
Maria was too much a wild child to work for living
so it was he who went out chasing papers, while she chased her visions.
Imprisoned in suits and ties and factory uniforms
he slaved to pay for them both, dawn through to dawn
through to dusk. Resentment cultivated into mistrust
in his mind, and nothing hits us like a kiss does
when there’s very little love left within it
and workaday stress had stretched his love to its limits,
Money makes money, somebody said
but the money he made barely bought bread
for the table, and when you watch the weeks tick away
and the clock on the factory wall steals the day
and all that’s left you is the grey of twilight
and the long tired nights
there’s got to be a point
when your fire dies.
His was fading fast;
no number of Maria’s laughs could warm him
someone should have warned him
even a crack in the design can let a storm in
and the architecture of their love
was looking worn thin.
A smile, a worried glance, an angry thought.
A fumbled coffee cup, a slap, a slammed door
She wanted to make love
He needed to sleep
She wanted to talk
He thought she thought too deep
When she sang
Won’t you follow me
And find a space a little closer to the sea
To float away away away
Today today today today…
and to his mind it seemed that
Maria’d lost her rhyme and her reason
in her drinking and daydreaming.
Sick of coming home to the mess she made with
scattered sculptures, and fragments of scribbled pages
she called it art-
he called her from work and said he’d be home late.
Needed some of his own space
needed a drink. He went with a couple of work mates
to a bar just opened close to the factory gates.
and his mates were chatting about these women they find fit
saying they wouldn’t mind a bit of it
considering
and in the midst of it
our friend was drunken-hypnotised
by this blonde bit of skirt
with cute little eyes
that flickered like the serpent’s tongue
blatantly flirting
he thought, just what i need after a week’s working
and
one drink leads to another thing
he finds himself pressed against the barside fumbling
with this blonde bird
mumbling something about
going back to hers
and before he knows
she’s pulling off her skirt.
three hours later
it was long done and over
in his sleep, becoming
just a little more sobre
he was locked within a dark dream
in his imagining
he was scrabbling to find Maria
but she kept vanishing
he woke, cold and shaking
in a sudden sweat
driven by fear, he rushed to gather up
his stuff and left
running with his head spinning
his tongue raw
running through the streets that had been theirs
the summer before
he reached the door of the flat and tiptoed in
hoping to find his lover there, soft and dozing
but there was no lover, no sound
no smiles
just Maria’s artwork, stacked
in neat little piles.
He burst into the bedroom
but she wasn’t there
just a rumpled pillow
and a strand of her hair.
And a note
where she would have laid her head
and the moment that he saw it
he knew that she was dead.
It read
Won’t you follow me?
And find a space a little closer to the sea
To float away away away
Today today today today…
And everything must die
No sooner dry than we are taken by the tide
And float away away away
So very little time to play
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12. |
I Love The Sea
03:51
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Dizraeli Bristol, UK
Multi-instrumentalist MC, singer, producer from Bristol, UK,
distributing explosions that journalists find hard to describe.
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