j.horrocks

hail to the house of lancaster,
you have always been the masters
of throwing your voice to any
fucker who'll listen.

i creep beneathe the foul food court
you tossed on top of market street.
it hangs above me like a terracotta
sword of damocles.

your pitches were delivered in a
tone so rich and familiar
i was half convinced at once
but now i'm drafting...drafting my response.

soup kitchen.

harness the power of the pyramid
in the job interview or the queue
for the soup kitchen.

harness the power of the pyramid
in the job interview or the queue for the soup kitchen.

i always felt slightly sick and nervous
every time i made an aspirational purchase.

you know,
there's nothing funny about an emperor or slaves.

its like singing about how fast your hair is thinning
or writing about the lines on your face.

you said this is surreal.
i said this is as real as it gets.
caffeine, bloated cadavers,
good people under the sledgehammer.

tilt your head and read my welcome mat, mate.
it says there's nothing funny about an emperor or his slaves.

i saw one thousand birthdays, bored.
awaiting delivery of a godless stick from luxor.

the whole experience left me very cross.

meet your new boss - king tutankahmun.
dines exclusively on millionaire's shortbread,
downs a pint of asses milk each night before bed.

he paid for the pavements and now he owns the streets.
this is known as thinking outside the box - delivering beyond the brief.

he never struggles to squeeze in his five a day..

she shuffles on a cane into subterranean spaces,
unto her cache of cattle with sellotape faces.

a remorseful chorus goes up,
'is this all we have to show for it'.
as though aimed at a film that
spits out his credits mid-sentence.

with sticky dreams
of gristle wet grit and brits abroad,
we kick up the dust in place de la concorde.

i pay them the blindest bit of notice,
its more than they deserve,
and set about erasing any traces
of triangles from my work.

we prayed you cease to trade in vagueries
and make your allegiances achingly clear.

still, you leave it in the hands of the overlords of chance.

book bins gutted,
insides scooped out like splintered giblets.

restuffed with
terminus, blinds, blue chairs that recline.

a serpentine of working men
all queue to see the boy who sleeps with one eye open.

i crack another can for
pubs, schools and post offices
as they disappear down the jewel-encrusted orifices.

blahblahblahblahblahblahblahblahblah.

flattened.

a demolition crew has moved in next door using
TNT and toothbrushes I said "hey, what you doing?"
but the foreman ignored me, implored his men to
restore the land to it's former glory.

IAN simpson's monolith
bringing paganism back to the people
handing mysticism to the masses.
some buildings round here will never need planning permission.

the plans from above belie the architects cheap lust for the occult;

broken pentagram avenues,
cement mixed with the sweat and shit
of two maidens from stratford-on-avon.
a loose cannon in planning tried to save em.

and now he's off with the stress.

so him in his name lets raise a glass
to that good old-fashioned dumb bravery.

AND STAND before the three graces in a hi-vis jacket
and choose your own incedental music.
and yawn in the face of the dawning of deficit.

from the mud something will continue to rise
I only exist to tell you which things and why.

secret shopper.

i
was
chewing on the script.
flavourless and fatty words.

I'm JUST trying to bring some joy into a joyless world.

he's content to sing to himself in the dark,
the musical equivalent of a subsistence farmer.

(what will they think of next?)

i recall,
it was back in 2003
when i first invented the slur
and the scream.

i'd seen desperate stanza-pop
before a queen victoria backdrop.

their words were so rich i knew i wouldn't sleep a wink that night.

all my hooks and barbs seem to signal
that i am forever doomed to be the lead single.

i can't decide if i need to be
deciduous or evergreen.

pilot whales.

listen, please listen,
i dressed my message in the most appropriate rhythm.
a new wave of fisherman, name dawkins & hitchens,
winter and whiskeys will make for a swifter existence.

but don't lose yourself in prudence,
blubber has a million and one uses
and mammals move so gracelessly.
tonight, on the specials, i think...i think i saw you and me.

bring me my readers, i need to see the order of service.
blake's verse reversed, dickie dawkins' work rendered worthless.

whale, badger, fallow deer,
the magnetic pull of the cull.
population control became the black hole in my conversations,
i determine as i cut the beast across the throat.

and our hunter begins to wonder
if that cough he can't shift is stress or tuberculosis.
he'll pay for the things he says, like how
when he dies he wants to return to the earth as a plague.

I'M GONNA BUILD ME A HORSE three times the height of the angel of the north
and when the people look up at the galvanised steel skin they will feel exactly what i want them to feel.

bulldozer

put the boy out to stud.
he was born to draw blood from the ground.

in samelsbury i've seen a snowplough with no teeth
aching for a ding or a chip or a scratch or a dent or anything.

in the shadow of eurofighter/hawkteam,
tremendous weapons =.
but.
we don't make em, we just sell em.

and i'll turn the mortar into mist as cranes and diggers do the twist.
over in a corner health and safety man having kittens.


see me limp in first - walking with a common purpose.
i am aware that i am aware that i am aware that i am aware.

i may be bored but i can breathe easy.
as normally service is restored
i learn that peace is the only thing that can please me.


i've had some work done,
bumper stickers and racing stripes,
new stereo system.
my own mum only recognises me by the eyes.

but i am aware that i am aware that i am aware that i am aware that i am aware that i am aware that i am aware that i am aware
that i am aware that i am aware
that i am aware
that i am aware
that i am aware.
that i am AWARE that i am AWARE that i am AWARE
that i am aware, that i am aware. that i am aware.
that i am aware,
that i am aware.

estate#4

without chains i felt so naked and nervous.
having thoroughly failed at putting being a man first.
i was unconfirmed and unbaptised
when i sailed to the land where sabres tickle the sky.

reject yourself and bet your entire hand
on a metre square of reclaimed land.
build your own palace out of mud and scrap iron
and name it 'abraham', or something.

this is a perfect backdrop for the rapture
gold, silver, hanging all coming back in fashion.

say seeya to the gatekeepers and repeaters forever
as we learn how to plough side by side together.
tax free, zombie chic, a plughole pulling me inwards.
something to talk about before, during, but never afterwards.

it's such a lovely day for a crusade.
and my office suggestion box overflows with
requests for another great war of the cross.
i won't be reading any of these.

but my friends all say i have william the conquerors gut
and my mum says i have richard the lionheart's cheek-bones.

will the cardboard condos belch forth a new breed of hero?
and will these buildings unlisted see the birth of a new kind of history?
his final thoughts were about sand in his lager and sex on the beach.
his last words were about bingo, booze and sex on the beach.

i think i know why they wrap us in scaffolding.
drip-fed us on panic, plots 'n' scandals left us
as potent as a mummified king (in a potted history).
the memos that you left for me said 'don't forget your guillotine'.