Saturday, 17 June 2017

the new vernacular

everyone would gather on a
saturday and laugh at the cladding

like rows and rows of developers teeth
ceramic veneer of that which lies beneath.

somehow we became hopeless proponents of a new vernacular
where momumental masons are designing their own gravestones and
it's hideous from every angle. hideous from every angle. hideous from every angle.

sing it in the mirror - from the yawning trenches
of Camden and Kensington to the horse guard parade plague pit,
an unofficial history of our existence. told through jokes and
shit fan fiction, more important than any photograph or social interaction.

and we're already bored
of our new national anthem
and this knackered old vernacular.

but
johnny shall love his new master
johnny shall love his new master.
johnny johnny johnny shall love his new master.







lo siento

in a curse-d unit
we can set up shoppe

obliterate all the ancient vacancies
with our favourite new song:

"starbucks, costa, cafe nero,
come on England give us a hero"

he hobbles out from under the arches and mutters:
"yo tengo un dolor en mi estómago, y en el pecho, el ritmo nuevo - lo siento."

in a voice devoid of danger - sing of exponential loss
at the mercy of total strangers - SAME OLD SHIT / in DIFFERENT SHOP

singing starbucks costa caffe nero - come on enger-land give us our hero.

broken molar (dental lecture)


I carried my broken molar in a bottle of rola cola
I count the scratches on my glasses 
and sit behind with the fresh-air fascists.

If only I owned some shoes with no holes in
and could chew on both sides of my mouth

I'd sidle my way across town to you and show you my splintering frown.

If you kiss me on my wooden teeth
and show me what you really think of me

there'll be nothing left but history 
to be passed down through our collective memory.

false energy

false dawn, false door, false energy.
false dawn, false door, false energy.

stitching the contemporary reference to song
where the work is never over and the job is never done
and the guts of the gallery won't amount
to more than a waste of good calories

false dawn,
false door,
false energy,
the second I speak the words
is the same second that those words become dead to me.

fizzing with bitterness and with spots in your vision
pushing your luck to its logistical limits

pinning all your hopes on the process itself
selling tickets to your next series of cerebral events
nothing more than a hunter who has forgotten any feeling of hunger.

if we all stick to swimming we will minimise the risk of combustion.

Thursday, 4 May 2017

never ending renovation

in a panaroma of partisan land
the king of the minglers idly stands
and pleasures himself by the endless fences
and dedicates the act to past and future apprentice...s

read all about his heritage in luminescent lettering
as a look of the hunted creeps across his forehead
as lonely as a lamp-post in a peripheral development
as nature re-arranges itself all around him

he said "the curse of perpetuity is nothing really new to me"

a million different disciplines of minimal coherence,
ending every sentence asking "any other business?"

in the city of no-known limits...
eternal selfless servant to each one of his senses.

Tuesday, 6 December 2016

MoFaK

dumping ground for dead ideas
hidden deep in the museum of finders and keepers

a new exhibition of true ambition
presented to you by dr prudence and mister diligence

sudden bursts of colour above the blankest of all canvasses

an anxious narrative announced
the last of the mass distraction techniques...

offer up your commentary
rigid and anonymously
on this celebration of quantity

a synthesis of cynical myth
and declarations so designed
for minimal disruption that are
airlifted to brilliance from rivers of indifference

a retro infectious feast for the senseless
born of a canyon of laboured conversation
where celebrity has not met sophie ellis bextor's expectations.

island psychosis

something has taken up permanent residence
in the corridor of permanent pleasantness

that which cannot be captured on camera
flickering in the periphery of your vision

go easier on your only opponent,
he's blinded and bloated with island psychosis

the apotheosis of all that is wholesome
hitching home along the postal road

from the death at the centre of the island of lights you
must trap it forever in the depths of the pre-terite

push ever west to the land of low density
as they fill in the tunnels and reman the battery

flickering footage of history
from all the angles we never normally get to see

solemnly demolish your dynasty
and send yourself a letter of indemnity

the dust at once diminishing and endlessly replenishing.