1. |
St Tosh the Actor
07:49
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I heard the towers
Twelve elevators
The smoking rotors
Winching the actor up into the pyramid’s caw
There acts the elder
Stock ill grandfather
Spittling orders
Spitting reflections that break up the flood’s murky top
He builds on order
A clear forced order
Exile and border
But I’m hot in the day and I’m hot in the night
I’m here for colour
Market pigments
Parks and fragments
Squeezed and boiled and run through the finest of cloth
And that’s my dollar
Colours for dollars
To paint such squalor
Bog land yes festering open and un-bordered swamp
Heteronymous, the painter of fire
Burning colours being squared into style
Little darkness in the corner
That aisle of ferns
It’s umber-ochre green and officially banned
I’m followed
I comb the stage
For my friend the actor
Jonah St Tosh from 10,000 muddy miles away
He speaks the truth, man
Skies open up
Torrential cameos
Rain run amok
And then for one minute
Glory the world wobbles
One stunning minute
The play that never stops comes to a sunny-stop
We watch the light beam
St Tosh cries “A new scene!”
All hail this new scene
All hail the sunbeam golden and sent from a God
All the players start their praising and chant
“Welcome sunbeam, you shall wake up and plant
Holy seed into a city that slants
Into the shimmering image that it seeks to supplant”
Out in the forests there are priests who alone keep a chant
They congregate
Around a golden bell
A crack in its crown: no longer a hanging golden cup
Their tsar, he did frown
But lo and behold
Wet angels
And the concept of redemption puts my cheek upon the ground
And I’m moaning and furiously gnashing a foolish longing
And I’m fine, and I’m done
Exit the city to let it run
I won’t fret at this world, I am too much for this world
I am followed and hurled into a deep raining pit
And in the darkness, I envision a light
Questions golden and infused with my light
Light is inner and it lights up the heights
And people gather and sing, I was an angel
That’s right
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2. |
Here's Where the Sun Was
03:29
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Here’s where the sun was
You can feel where the sun was
Put up your palm on this eucalyptus tree
You’re reflected and renewed
The attics are singing
The hangman is singing
His contract’s renewed
I’m a poor boy from the siltland
Second singer in my uncle’s band
When we play the night right
Silver sounds right
From the devil’s nuclear moon
Swirling and swirling
The world’s wet swirling
In the fabric of the loom
And the beat is a temptress
She shall tempt us to tempt us
Into relations trapped in a tempest
Of the unanswered gloom
Green mists are rising
My violin is crying that my Uncle’s gone too
And the band is adrift, their wine I shall grift, and offer offerings
Up to the moon
Yet there’s some left for the Empress
I saw a postcard of her green dress
Apples and gardens and lanterns for the bards
That float on towers that bob on pontoons
Singing sweet songs in Spanish I long for a world in its noon
And the sun has done set and the courtyard I’d wet
And I have to be
Swimming on soon
(I hear the roar of)
The engines
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3. |
Andre
04:57
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This town’s a fascist collective
And that’s why I live alone
This marks the end of our kisses
And look what the wind has blown
I don my apparel and step out
Into the drenched unknown
My boat is adrift in the lowlands
I’m stuck on this floating groan
I’m ground ashore, broken and bereft
Of the will to appeal
The sense of injustice
That coats the dying gladiolus leaves
Andre’s gone
He was my only son
He stepped into the mist and cried
“Dad, there are wolves on our lawn”
White mist, white piss
White laughter, a bell as it clips
Its shrill lamentation into the echoing grift
A resurrected and demonic gift
Lonely reactor’s sunken top floor:
Is this Jesus’s home?
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4. |
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And I crumpled their names
I screamed and whipped parchment into the womb of fire
And ashes from my once sputtering fire
Climbed higher and then higher
Spotted by three fast men
Who followed me into this fen
Wyld thyngs
Green mists they are rising
White laughter reprising
Demonic enterprising
Wyld thyngs
Everywhere wyld thyngs
And then for one minute
Glory the world wobbles
Swirling and swirling
The world’s wet swirling
In the fabric of the loom
The world’s wet wobbles
Under the devil’s nuclear moon
I hung my paintings in trees
I dreamed of cold, clean, green seas
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5. |
The Party's Still On
01:52
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The green, the white, the gold, the hot light
Rays from the sun
Does anyone believe the pure shit that falls naked from my tongue?
A fountain of lies, a cachement of flies
Buzzing along
A doctor might cure this condition of echoing song
The reason I believe in flight is an angel in the storm
Knocked on the roof of my mouth and said
“Shelter me in warmth”
And on and along I’ve always maintained
That there are blessings in the rain
For the seraphim shall appear and supplicate
Before the vastness of our pain
The party’s still on
Until the break of dawn
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6. |
Spartacus, Please
04:56
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“Spartacus, Spartacus, please,” our angels cry in unison
A play that they play to please: codifying nature’s warring songs
Spartacus, Spartacus, please, you could have laid your weapons down
Suffering plays to please, and makes the breeze feel slightly warm
And the light of this morning shall rest on the shoulders of nearly everyone
And the hooting of this owl reminds me of a saxophone played for the dying sun
Wine equals rage and life equals rain, and the storms still stun
Senses no longer can register bitter from fun
Spartacus, Spartacus, flee, the troops will throw their throwing bombs
Angela Angela pleads, “Run to my father’s town!”
Spartacus, Spartacus, weave, your cloak has a hole in its flank
Angela Angela leaves, her eyes cast down to the river’s bank
And the light of this morning shall rest on the shoulders of nearly everyone
and the hooting of this owl reminds me of a saxophone played for the dying sun
The audience weeps
The stage set is steep, and the nails are long
Islands there are where you might buy a sleep for a song
I really want to be the lead actor
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7. |
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I pay no heed to the signs
At least the ones that don’t float
I hid the body in Rome
And jacked up the legs under my body of work
I need a backpack of rope
To jack my paintings in trees
Dark umber visions of foul gluttony
Flickering fires are floating in the fens
These are not visions of hope
Still, man, I try to be better than
Devotional poetry
Seven quick knocks and you will know that it’s me
I come from over the sea
But only floating angels can float over our sea
Howling that the children have been seen
Raiders raid the salons and the salons are steamed
Roll on, you band of free
Flickering fires floating in the fens
These are not visions of hope
Still man, the same as it ever was
Distress in my chest, the same as it ever was
There’s distress in my chest
But try to be better than
The falconer’s mom (or)
The falconer’s arm
But still you can’t always run from the freeze
But you can’t always count on the breeze
A prom is a dance only for teens
And you should always, always, try and get ahead of the freeze
To the falconer’s sweet mom
I say, “flee from harm”
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8. |
Rope off the Tigers
04:01
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Rope off the tigers,
They'll spill the tea
Their roaring upsets
Congeniality
Punish the waitstaff
My breath's the breeze
Turn your face towards
The filament of the East
My hope lashed to the lash-tower
Floating and free
Cracked caresses of a black storm
Alone in calamity
Rope off the tigers
They've drunk the tea
“Lash down that crate, man
You'll spill the cream.”
It dripped from the mist fronds
Of Galilee
No more light trading
No more green feasts
Rope off the tigers
A whim of my liege
Their wildness is soaring
They're on bad E
Their wicked slobber
Has infected me
I'll crawl to the doctor
And suss out his sleaze
My hope lashed to the watchtower
Such things as birds borne on the breeze
Danced and twirled as the sun beaconed strength,
Employees in the mangrove maze,
Unhinged with hospitality
Rope off the tigers,
Their “freedom” is an affront to those that are free
Rope off the tigers
Their freedom shall surely spill your tea
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9. |
The Angels
02:51
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Behold the angels upon thy head
Watch their jester’s dance up on your worshipping bed
Their joy drowns out the marching chants of the worshipping dead
Not dead but death a figurehead of profit, he said:
Well, I won’t be alone
I am the crossbeam of your home
I’ll ingest grass and confess to a stone
The waves wear off, and I ascend into the tower again
Your sister prophesized your lost hand in mine
Nestled in the armpit of the heart’s lung I sigh
There are riches, there are floods, there are ways drowned in time
Call this an order: you get the men out of the mines
We left them alone
We had to turn our heads to the Minister’s ringing phone
They let the Ironworkers fall into the sea
Deeds, writ and recalled, in the books said to burn in the fourth internecine
Crumpled their names, screamed and whipped parchment into the womb of fire
Rang, I rang, I rang the bell to retire
But ring, ring the alarm: something emerges from the womb of fire
Rang, rang, I rang the bell to retire
When something emerges can I lay my head up on your lap
Run my hands through my hair and sigh...
Am I tired
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10. |
Wyld Thyng
05:01
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Storm is dying and the shingles shake but do not quiver
The waves are known to slap misting kisses down by the docks
And the world is awhirl with the faces of the weeping reporters
And the wind is not quite calm and given to gusts of wrath
And I’ve worn the wrong coloured shirt to your fancy supper
At the other end of the bridges the children whip stones at the cops
Their shields held still and reflecting the sky as it waters
The streets are yours but allow me a permit to walk
You who would wait inside
You might just be waiting too long
Don thy apparel and glide
Out like a swan dressed in a song
And the cans come crashing through the windows of a stained-glass apartment
Glittering teeth of a gold burro skitter and stop
That reminds me a of a story of a man who once had a library
And strung it up on his favourite donkey’s back
Luis who snapped his leg falling from his donkey to a pothole
Bandits in the branches, oh rubbing their hands in expectant glee
Luis who snapped his leg falling from his donkey to a pothole
Trying to ride his library down to the sea
And I who should be outside
I who should be throwing those cans
And I who have always weighed sides
Should throw my prodigious voice into the stands
Wyld thyng
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