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.

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.

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.

dig for victory

each one of us is a witness to
that which is glistening in the distance

spinning it's soliloquy of silence
into the brine that surrounds us on
all sides in times of great stress

and above a town without any honour
the sky is alive with lancaster bombers

as i whisper all my tips unto the grizzled god of the ad hoc
he sat me down and me talk of topics, ghostly and ferocious

and how we might stitch the rustic to the rigid and digital

it's the time of the year for incredible gestures
something to minimise the difference and stitch us all together

and somewhere in a village stripped of all visible history
our siblings have somehow learnt how to drink themselves to victory

to victory, to victory, to victory.

it's the opening night
and the opening notes
and the room is alight
with the hologram of hope
reflecting off varifocal lenses
miraculous happenstance
miraculous happenstance

fulfil your attendance with no hint of duress
at the festival that never lets you forget

miraculous happenstance
falsified in electric light

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

it's a fifty thousand year lease hold of the soul
no amount of lying down is ever gonna resolve,
stricken with a lethargy I would not wish on my worst enemy.

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.

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.

la danza

our guests are knee deep in la danza,
dazzled by my most impressive palabras.

if you are unsure of the angle:
bring all vacant units back into utility.

a new dialect for every weather,
stripped of all diphthongs and silent letters.

silent letters.