vertical village

digitally detoxed
in vertical villages
digitally detoxed/detoxed
in vertical villages

twenty eight storeys
of desperate luxury

digitally detoxed/detoxed
digitally dexoxed/detoxed/detoxed

we are living monuments
to all the many hidden documents
and the microscopic moments
in the chemical toilets

neural connections on a virtual pilgrimage
extinguish all existence through his ritualistic showmanship

limited sphere of ignorance
invade all the districts and
play spot the difference

in ruinous pit
of rabid beauty
there's nothing
left to do but
you civic duty

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.

book of beasts

you will beg for the army.
make your pitch as you're leaving.

they bashed in your head for a pack of cigarettes but
you are looking younger from the trainers upwards

you will beg for the army.

he said,
amenities and luxuries
never meant that much 2 me

consider the ant, consider the bee.
forget your centre of gravity and
throw yourself at the lion's feet,

take your cue from the book of beasts.

soap factory

i play bass in a band,
we practice in the place
where my dad's dad lost his hand.

it's great working here,
you stay late and you get
free pizza and beer.

as i told her this,
she rolled her eyes and said

"is this some kind of sick joke?
we get paid more than that
working in a mexican sweatshop"

here they come, the super groups,
everybody always says they're good
at what they do and between black
walls of marshall stacks the drummer asks:

"SHOULD WE PLAY
IN BUSH AND BLAIR MASKS?
IT'D BE THE BEST"

i went through the north and the west and nobody gave a damn.

and the asbestos halls just laughed.

i always dreamt of peeling the lids of off tin sheds,
holding companies folding, moaning low in pomona...
in clippers quay, in merchants quays, in exchange quay..

where rows of condemned souls - unfit for purpose -
are all lined up, waiting for their turn to be converted

and every click of the mouse
is enough to feed a shanty town yeah.

soap factory, soap factory...

and if you ever stop to miss us,
just wish us back into existence.

soap factory, soap factory, soap factory.