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.

COG#2

sunk down to the bottom of the motorway,
found a very expressive 'work of subways,
but still not a whiff of city breath.

city of glass will end up smashed up,
so throw the seeds down and stomp the ground until they grow,
drag the saplings up by the scruff of their necks.

all of our churches and temples and mosques;
we turned them into free museums.

all of our football grounds, loved and hated, so outdated;
converted into women's prisons.

come along and see what we can offer.
state-sponsored, backing-track, street-buskers.
pay a pilgrimage to one of our seven quartiers.

you can sit her down and earnestly express
biggest doesn't always equate to best.
but these london girls know better than that.

I stared across the river misery.
I thought I looked to new york cities.

this was the renaissance with no resistance.

c.o.g.c.o.g.c.o.g.c.o.g....

(and this quarter,
we're gonna hit our quota
of ten romes a day. ten romes a day. ten romes a day. ten romes a day.)

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.

the blues empire

I got
me a lonely plot

and I built it.

from column a to column b,
rolled out like a canopy,
the monopoly on misery,
the blues empire.

girls up against words,
TKO-no-contest.

I was here first
with trademarked hurts,
copyrighted curses

and verses
with patent pending.

reserves of misery
that are never ending.

and I,
I will stick my oar in.

and send my profits soaring.
soaring,
soaring,
ssssoaring.

the sun hit bellecour, rifles won't stop singing. j. moulin, nuns and monks offer themselves to the ether and "blue eyes" won't stop stinging. the rudderless plebs of the provinces. we tried to forget, but the scars won't let us, or the books. and so was born his generation's loudest voice, a word carpenter. sat next to an empty seat forever, staring into the irish sea forever, wondering if his…heroes ever felt like this.

pretence, pretence, pretence, to clearing out his desk. reduced to selling his bottled sweat on the internet. he's in his 3rd choice home talking loudly for everyone, sipping tapwater, straddling the typewriter. and when he's done his rotten, his rotting soul, smashes into the s..southern pole. and there..he ..thaws the….icecaps…….thawss., glacier NOIr and glacier..er ..bLanche,
and the rest of em.

it was blues man, it was blues.

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.