1. |
Lost Hours
06:20
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Lost hours:
I forgot what happened,
A life half-remembered.
Lost hours,
Working on nothing,
On nothing worth working on.
Lost hours,
Falling in love
And falling right out again.
Lost hours,
Watching late night films
With people I cannot remember.
Lost hours,
Stuck in some meeting,
Pen on paper.
Lost hours,
Rewinding a cassette
Then watching it all again.
Lost hours
In the shopping centre,
Looking for love.
Lost hours,
Lying on my bed,
Just lying on my bed.
Lost hours,
Listening to advice,
Ignoring advice.
Lost hours,
Drinking cheap wine
On a cheap Friday night.
Lost hours,
Throwing money
Down the fucking drain.
Lost hours,
Sat in the car,
Sat in the car,
Sat in the car.
Lost hours,
In the big bad city,
Looking for an exit.
Lost hours,
Drinking tea,
Reading about Brexit.
Lost hours,
Staring in the mirror,
Being someone else.
Lost hours,
Unthankful of past.
Here’s to the future.
Fuck the past.
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2. |
Formica Desk
07:09
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I have lost count of the days,
Wandering the four corners of each room in search of inspiration,
Writing notes on the gardening calendar,
Compiling a list of my favourite lists.
I have lost touch with the social scene,
The smell of fresh coffee percolating,
Snatches of low-level received pronunciation,
The feeling that I was going somewhere,
Although that was only ever a vague sensation.
A writ has been served on the globalised economy
By a vague assembly of the Left.
They are clad in donkey jackets and hold megaphones aloft,
Pointing like righteous cones to the sky.
The costs for the case shall be borne by the state, naturally.
My job deserted me:
It went to work somewhere else,
And left me sat a formica desk in the spare room,
Staring into space.
I have time now to contemplate quantum physics.
At least I have the time.
The physics do not need my consideration.
They carry on, unimpeded, ignorant,
A state of affairs that benefits us both.
Interdimensional puppet-masters
Rub their tentacles with glee
As they survey a century’s work.
Two glasses of red wine
And four cans of Guinness,
Two Fela Kuti albums,
A fine way to finish.
There’s one of them politicians on the telly.
His lips are all a-quiver with ambition.
I stare awhile at the lower half of his face
Until it eventually morphs into sickly green tendrils.
No doubt he is one of those psychopathic species
That inhabits a world far beyond our homely star system.
Best of luck to them all,
The liars, braggarts, cheats and traders.
I simply withdraw into the cool of the bathroom,
Trimming rogue nasal hairs,
Running a hot bath whilst naming French cities.
Two glasses of red wine
And four cans of Guinness,
Two Fela Kuti albums,
A fine way to finish.
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3. |
Time To Eat Again
05:17
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Remember now,
You have choice.
You forget,
You have a voice.
Remember now,
What you’ve done,
Them drunken nights,
Of endless fun.
It had to stop.
It got too much.
We fell apart,
Losing touch.
It had to stop,
It got to daft.
A million pints,
A thousand laughs.
Remember now
The way to go:
Down that street,
Join the flow.
Remember now,
You had a name,
You had a face,
You played the game.
Time to eat,
Butter bread,
Kettle on,
Feed your head.
Pace around,
Rain outside.
Time to live,
Time to die.
Make a mess,
Make amends,
Make or break,
Around the bend.
Make a move,
Make me mad,
Make you cry,
Make me sad.
Make a mess,
Make amends,
Make or break,
Around the bend.
Make a move,
Make me mad,
Make you cry,
Make me sad.
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4. |
Shop Soiled
07:20
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Seeing things every day,
In the streets every day,
I tell you it’s broke,
I tell you there’s no hope.
Just too many years,
Without any change.
Do I resign myself?
Do I malign myself?
Get to fuck, I’m busy.
Time’s running out for me.
Seeing things every day,
In the streets every day,
I tell you it’s broke,
I tell you there’s no hope.
Just too many years,
Without any change.
Do I resign myself?
Do I malign myself?
What’s going on here?
What’s going on here?
Shop soiled, my head’s boiled.
Shop soiled, my head’s boiled.
Going nowhere fast,
Going nowhere slow.
Time’s running out.
Time is running out.
Going nowhere fast,
Going nowhere slow.
Time’s running out.
Time’s running out for me.
Get to fuck, I’m busy
Doing nothing, right?
Stay home and drink,
Stay home and think.
Stay home and drink,
Stay home and think.
Stay home and drink,
Stay home and think.
Stay home and drink,
Stay home and think.
Two for one, three for two.
Two for one, three for two.
One step ahead
Of the living dead.
One step ahead
Of the living dead.
What’s going on here?
What’s going on here?
Get to fuck, I’m busy
Doing nothing, right?
Shop soiled, my head’s boiled.
Shop soiled, my fucking head is boiled.
Shop soiled, my head’s boiled.
Shop soiled, my head’s boiled.
Boiled, my fucking head is boiled.
Seeing things every day,
In the streets every day,
Seeing things every day,
In the streets every day,
I tell you it’s broke,
I tell you there’s no hope.
Just too many years,
Without any change.
Do I resign myself?
Do I malign myself?
What’s going on here?
Get to fuck
What’s going on here?
I’m busy.
Shop soiled
Doing nothing, right?
My head’s boiled.
Shop soiled, my fucking head is boiled.
Shop soiled, yeah, my head’s boiled.
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5. |
Dataland
06:21
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Feed the data in,
See the knowledge grow.
Enter in the numbers:
We just need to know.
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6. |
Empty Streets
07:41
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Conditions are favourable to some, under the atmospheric dome.
Daily team briefings are scheduled for the next one hundred years.
A murderous biotech claw lifts the prize from the box.
We watch it, gobs wide open in dismay,
Powerless to do anything except gawp at the screen,
Disabled, muted, neutralised, neutered.
Your life is now one singular debit payment,
Wired direct to the accounts of those who pull levers,
Those who push buttons.
Hyenas in flak jackets patrol the streets,
Mopping up the socially excluded.
They take their orders from the regional manager.
No point in appealing to lost liberal causes.
No point in doing anything.
Just stare at that screen,
Lost in someone else’s childhood memories.
Eat your Corporation Pizza, citizen.
Yes, the base is dry.
Yes, the topping is sparse.
Drink your Corporation Gin, citizen.
The taste is bitter.
You’ll find it to your liking.
The siren has sounded:
Underground, ye infidels!
Condemned to play online Scrabble for the rest of the fucking year.
Contact is limited to staccato sentences of profound triviality,
Typed out in anxious runes by bony fingers
Belonging to no-one in particular.
The Corporation does not recognise your face.
Your credit has been frozen.
You crawl into an abandoned shopping trolley
And disappear.
“Didn’t you see it coming,” says the freeze-dried Messiah,
“The day when we all shall live alone?”
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Dead Sea Apes Manchester, UK
3 person instrumental leviathan
Dead Sea Apes recommends:
Filthy Mechanoid
by The Jellyheads
Drummer Chris's previous ensemble
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The Acid Tapes vol.1
by Lead Acid Battery
More pay-what-you-like improvised rock music.
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Daphnellc - Youth Club dancefloorp mixtape LC017
by Larry Crywater tapes ∆ they/them
Dancefloorp!
go to albumIf you like Dataland, you may also like:
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