Night bus And the pug nosed guy in the suit over there Staring me down Is a thousand broken dreams And the young girl down there Who looks weird But my kind of weird Is a thousand unexplored And the ***** with the cap trying to finish off his crossword Is Gil Scott-Heron And no one sits next to me as I spill my poison through the keypad into a cracked screen
Me and my brothers We are raised tall and defiant We are rallied and railed against An apathetic world at which we spit We spiel our ululations to the night sky Our candles burn at both ends
We rise to get broken Here comes ocean Icarus wouldn't be a legend If he hadn't aimed for heaven
Life is like the M25 Circular and eternal Covered in tarmac With little skid marks And Little Chefs Life isn't really like the M25 Nothing is really like anything
No sleep and I take my dark eyes to the streets and the membrane separating the subconscious is weak People become angels and demons Screeching metro wheels are symphony orchestras and emotions bump, collide and vibrate like particles in boiling water No sleep but it's going to be a good day
I can sense a great sadness in you You may wrap a large jacket around your shoulders And curl up into a ball at night But the sadness shines through The tight ball And the large jacket You bring it with you to the streets And you cut slices of it off for the people you talk to
I hope that one day The cork Holding it all in there Pops out
We stood infront of each other Ripping off chunks of flesh Mixed with matted hair We gouged eyes Struck bone Tore strips of skin As pools formed at our feet And kept going Clawing at cartiledge Pulling at intestines Until we got to the core And we were both bare That was our love
We are born with the capacity to love everyone To find anything sexually gratifying We are conditioned otherwise **** condition Seek to deregulate Seek to push Seek to love
If you leave me I will send you poetry And if we marry And you leave me I will send you poetry And alimony And if your new guy beats me I will still send you poetry Your bones could leave this sad world baby And I'd just switch to elegies
I am tired of the Americans chasing their opaque neon dream I am tired of well tailored speeches justifying wars I am tired of the dusty remnants of a roman lie striking fear into the hearts of many and an absent god forcing his framework on an apathetic world and I am tired I am tired of constipated museums and the few dictating the sonic landscape of the many I am tired of horse meat scandals and frenzies over crashed planes and I am tired I am tired of globalisation being an auction for the lowest human rights rather than being wasabi peas at Tescos And sleep is the cowardly death of the feelies and TVs of the world
On monday I will have to brush shoulders with artless people in an artless world but for now I have Songs from a Room and Dave Bixby and the stumbling hours of a Sunday afternoon
If you say I sound bitter Well, I'm not your baby sitter I can't tell you that Eden awaits in the clouds That the perfect one Is out there And so forth
We have to sift through the shadows To find the light my friends
There is genuinely a poem on here Called "My love for you is Like Violin Dubstep" And it's fine that people don't read my **** If it's the people behind such artless crap
The poetry It has spilled Like the blood of a great massacre And it has diluted To a near transparent film Over the 21st century Over Miley Cyrus' *** Over grotesquely distorted salaries It lingers in the grey concrete behemoths of utilitarian cities It's on your cat It's in your parents hair It's in Angela Merkells teeth And this omnipresent film That only few can see Is evaporating into a backdrop incandescent beauty It's vaporising into an intoxicating nectar It's what slavery was to the blues Or the reconstructions of war to bauhaus Or what the crusades were to the renaissance So twerk on Miley Your artlessness Makes art stronger by the day
Yesterday I heard a street preacher Ask a man If he had found god And he replied "I have money and health I don't need god" This struck me as very true And I wasn't sure who I hated more Out of the three
I know all these people who life pulls by the hand Life never let's them get any rest It tells them to sit up straight But then gives them good chairs to slouch on It tells them to be sociable But then puts beer down their throat And makes them sociable only sometimes These people get no rest And if they slip they just get dragged along
And all these people need to dig their feet in They need to make their life go at the right pace Or the right direction
As I puff And and **** sadly On carbon monoxide, Nicotine And 5000 others I think of Nixon, Maggie And other incarnations of the devil And realise That in the end Time Is the greatest dicator
I used to turn up late I used to take the long way home I used to stay up in ecstasy or agony until the first lights of day But I woke up today and found myself trapped By the 6:45 alarm By a bowl of Musli By brushing my molars By the No. 27 bus By my desk chair Colleagues Targets And slowly you smile And nod As they take you away From yourself Somehow
It's crazy how you can be at the right place at the right time And become a millionaire Or the wrong place at the wrong time and die In a gutter And how arbitrarily these people are chosen And how many things we can invent To make it all seem like it makes sense
Just the dull sighing of cars As they float by my window Projecting trailing shadows across the wall Just the pale gleam of the moon As it barely lights up the earth And just a small man In his bed Seeing this Hearing this In this But incapable of grappling with this And what this is
Glassy eyed and Lost in utilitarian cities With a low-yielding love And a useless imagination With the bad art And the public transport seat pattern blues
There was a saint at the bar last night He wore a battered shirt And had uneven stubble He cradled his beers Peeling the labels off out of boredom If you looked closely you could see the early signs of a receding hair line And bags under his eyes All he had said in three days Was "beer" and "thanks" He didn't look like a saint And no one went home with him that night And he ate 50 aspirin And he wasn't at the bar the next day Or the next But he was a saint
We two boys together clinging Absinthe drinking Paradise garage dancing Old people alarming Tower top gazing Hands clutching Discordant steps searching Sound of you falling Giovanni's room emulating Stop the lift kissing Separated Then returning And turning Swinging Dancing 2-stepping Laughing Crying In Bars Clubs Roofs Rooms Corridors Parks Shops Seats Cinemas Streets And then returning Hands clasping Lips locking On our mattress Fulfilling our foray