Thursday, 30 January 2014

"strike me pink" (2005)

Song of Art Brut 53310761
INSTRUCTIONS OF CONSUMPTION:

brandy
tequila
brandy
whisky
lager
chilli in vodka
ouch
brandy
brandy

the music: everything you say and do during this process
the rhythm: the movement of your feet during this process

That Jesus, He’s A Bit Of A Card, Int He? (2005)

Song for Art Brut 53310761
That
Jesus
He’s A Bit Of A Card
Int He
Eh?

I can’t help feeling
If he hadn’t had a Gang
He’d not have got into quite so much trouble

And maybe found a nice girl
Settled down into a nice job

But, heck
At least he knew better
Than to wear socks
With his sandals

Fair do’s too
That thing he did with the fishes
And the loafs
Was pretty smart
Even if it was an allegory
For something

It probably was
In many ways he was
The Derren Brown
Of His Day



chords: C - Aflat6 - Fdim4 - C
:
bridge: Cmin - Abmaj - F
:
chorus: drums only

C is yer basic C in da bass with the major C-E-G triad on top

A flat 6 is inverted so you have:
F in the bass with Aflat - C - Eflat (and maybe F on top) (which is pretty much Fmin7 too innit)

And from there the Fdim 4 is also inverted:
Bflat bass with Bflat - C- F and A on top as a passing note that resolves back down to G on top of the C minor bridge chord thang

Brian Blessed Sings The Blues (2005)

Written for my Art Brut franchise band, Art Brut 53310761




AAAAAAAARGHHHHHH HARGH HARGHHH
MY BABY LEFT ME
HOW VERY GAUCHE
AAAAAAAAARGH HARGH HARGH HARGH


12 bar in Dmin (the saddest of all keys)

Arrangement: Vox, Dobro, howlin', yappin' dawgs

Sight for sore eyes (a love song) (2008)

Written for my Art Brut franchise band, Art Brut 53310761

(*C maj)                                                C             (fmaj/c)
When a man comes home
                        fmaj
From his working day
c
With a heart that’s crying softly
            (fmaj)              G / G7
For the ghosts of yesterday

(c )                               C
When the soulshot world
                        Fmaj – am7
Shrugs and turns again
                        C / Cmin
There’s a shiver of surrender
            G                                 (cmaj)
Hidden in the whisky’s flames


chorrrus
            C – F -C
But youuuuuuuuu
                                    C – F -C
You’re a sight for sore eyes

Since I metcha off the train
                                                G / G7
I’ve been feeling twelve foot high
                        C – F -C
And youuuuuu
                        Fmaj - Amin
You’re a sight for sore eyes
            C                                             G – G7                                    C(7) – F(maj7) - C
Gonna pin you to the floor and stick me head between yer thighs


When I sit alone
And the sky scums black
And I’m smoking my gormless way
To a heart attack

Cause there’s something wrong
All my hope has gone
Through these years of treading quicksand
With a bruised and broken back


But youuuuuuuuu
You’re a sight for sore eyes
Gonna love you more tomorrow
Than I loved you yesterday
And youuuuuu
Hope you don’t think I’m bad
Cause when you went down on me I was thinking of your dad

And youuu
Hope you don’t think it’s queer
Gonna wait till you’re asleep
Then I’m gonna wank into your ear

And youuuu
Hope you don’t think it’s wrong
You know I’d marry you tomorrow

If you weren’t such a fucking mong

Foul Mouthed Sweet Potato Chips With Tarragon And A Dipping Sauce Of Sour Cream And Pepper And Salt (2008ish)



Buy a cunting sweet potato from your local bastard shop, you twat.

Prepare baking tray in the oven, yeah, to fuck of a hot with extra virgin olive oil in it, or if you want to be a right fucking posh wanker, add some splashes of cocking chilli oil as well.

Slice sweet potato into thin chips. WITH A BIG FUCKING DANGEROUS KNIFE. Mine was hand forged by a Japanese swordmaker. Yours probably wasn’t so you’ll just have to fucking make do won’t you? Tit.

Parboil chips to soften for like, I dunno, about 5 minutes or something. Then, for fucks sake, fucking drain them, you PRICK.

When the oil in the oven wot you whacked up to full volume at the start is smoking like fuck lob the chips into it and season with FRESH tarragon. Not DRIED. IT WILL FUCKING BURN AND YOU WILL LOOK LIKE AN UTTER ARSEHOLE FOR FUCKING THIS UP CAUSE IT IS A PIECE OF PISS. Twat them about a bit and they’ll go fluffy in the middle too, obviously. This, if you were wondering, is why they were parboiled, you disgusting turd-eating mong.

Don’t fuckin burn the fucking things because you will fuck the fucking thing up AND YOU WILL LOOK LIKE AN UTTER ARSEHOLE FOR FUCKING THIS UP CAUSE IT IS A PIECE OF PISS

When they look ready, fucking eat the fuckers HOT with a dipping sauce of sour cream, fresh ground pepper and sea salt.

EAT THEM FROM A BLOOD-ARSING BOWL OR SOMETHING. DO NOT BURN YOUR FINGERS CAUSE THEY ARE MUCH BETTER DEAD FUCKING HOT JUST OUT OF THE OVEN. OK? COCKFACE? OK?

THEY TASTE FUCKING NICE. YOU CUNT.

Reverend Joseph T. Shooman, Dip.Mus, BA(Hons), Singing Grade 5 Distinction, L.Vis


Sunday, 5 January 2014

Vaffan Coulo en Espana (1999)



Galicia.
Gigio rownd, ag ymuno a Punks a Mutants
sy wedi chwarae efo U-Thant.
Meddyliais I, "Mae nhw fel ni,
Yn byw mewn gwlad sy'n cymryd yr piss pob dydd".

Cofiais eiriau D.R.E
pan dywedodd "Cymru. Oedd. Yr. Coloni. Cyntaf."

Coruna.
Aros mewn squat efo'r hippies a'i freuddwydd.
Ond wrth gwrs, y mae'r council 'na
eisiau tynnu'r lle I lawr am adeuladeu carpark,
neu rhywbeth.

Dywedodd rhuwun, rhywbryd
fod pawb eisiau prynu,
ond neb eisiau talu.



Sweatdreams 1&2 (1999)



1. I walk down greasy steps, dark and spidrous concrete roughly set, collarstained rats and scabrous bone, patterned with the chaos of half-witted Friday Afternoon accelerated idleness. My hand grips the lightermelted formical rail that is ripped off from the cold and rusted iron clasp. I walk down these steps, coming away from a meeting, or a party, in dusk and nervy of the rectangled dimtodark below.
I sense behind me another who walks in my footsteps so I speed my solefall and breath, dare not to look back and whisper to myself tuneless minutesoaking distractive parodies of dull tuneage.
I reach the first cornerlanding and as my pace once more quickens I feel the thudding follower’s five-yard backstare, so I step to a jilted job and through my mind sneaks the proposition of being followed, and though I shrug it away I can feel fear stronger than my feeble faith. I twitch a look back and eyes flash back at me in smirk of shared knowledge of my lies of my transparency, of my spud-doctor spasticity, bared translucent to my liver I jog faster and down and launch round the next corner with my shadower solidifying into a demon and the faster I run the more solid and horned he is but I jump not run now with my biceps straining to pick my too-hefty body round and down as the light of freedom, of daytime is tantalising through a door I fear not to reach.
One more flight and now I am exhausted, a spinning threnody of unbreathable danger and terror as my ghost saps from me all energy all confidence all hope my sandbuilt career and turtleneck gesturing presumptuousness.
I sense the last corner is near and can see the Exit Door ajar where sunlight winks but in sight of freedom I am caught by my shadow my ghost my past the figure the form of my doubledealing, ignorant, posturing watertreading gelatine past and present and I feel in this moment that I know I realise that I’ll never reach the daylight break into freedom burst past myself because the terror of the past assaults the present and I scream silently one two three times and though I am now awake I cannot draw out any noise more than a gargle.
And my room is filthy, dark, the neon numbers of the alarmclock are a jumble and I shiver and I swear because I can’t won’t give way give myself away to this finality because somewhere I still hold on for the exit door all the while.
So I chide myself and turn on my side and do not turn on the light because it is too easy and I have to conquer these shadows and I try to drift away but am mortally scared to look over my shoulder for fear that another shadow is forming in a pernicious heart spotted rotten hell.


2. I am in a dance club, and I’ve been here a while, and it’s great, and the drink is great, and it’s chilled and energetic at the same time. I walk around alone though my mates are here somewhere, but soon I realise I’ve lost everybody and I have no hope of finding them. So I decide to go to a different club but before I leave this one I buy some Ecstasy from a dealer who refuses my money with a shake of his head and a too-wide-boy smile that I take initially as friendly but is also somehow sinister.
I neck the pills and start to walk up the hill toward the new club with a small crowd of people, jiving with myself ‘this is cool, like Glastonbury’ as people queue for cashpoints and shortcut through fields. Two of us take a new shortcut and stumble, arms round each other’s shoulders, over a stile. In the distance two massive hounds of hell are circling; but they are far away and their hoary sillhouette fierces with the treelined hillscape as my new mate runs ahead to get us tickets for the new club which we can now see is not so far away.
As I reach the hilltop I can see and hear the slavering wolfdogs running closer and closer as my heart races and the world itself shifts to shit and scrub as I start to feel the swift and malignant drugs take hold. The black feral fuckers are very close now and are superrottweilers, horrendous, spiky-backed insectdogs, mutant woodlice, bloody of eye and dribbling from coarse-tongued, black-breathed, scum-yellow talon-teeth andI realise I can’t escape them the way I came, and I pant and slide and my brain siezes and shakes andjumps inside my sprocketted skull as it tries to find an escape from htis poisoned protoplastic skeleton. I try and snide away down a different part of the hill but the devils and cackling barking shitting spiderlice spin on six-legged lice-limbs  and follow, and though I scrabble and scramble to hide in tawny trees one of these irradiated monstrosities is now a woodlousedogsnake which is black and red and luminous green with eyes that have no pupils or pulse, and I kill it before I kiss it.


inflection of someone else’s accent (2000)



Roots.
             Stone.
                        Petrified.
            Roots.
Limbs reaching for yesterday’s incoherency
I sit and abuse my mind

which looks to youth,
and seeks lifeline to yesterday’s despondency
in its obtuse hunger to find

the
            sluggish
                        yesterday.
                                          Roots
petrifying, a wrecking succubal legacy
which loosens my surge to blind

future. Though horrified,        mute
hymnsinging    for      tomorrow’s     cruel   ecstasies
sees fit to                     seek                struggle           inside

            with the overloaded                heart                 burning                      to
 balance
             these                                  bizarre unpowering           crimes.
    And though a                      painful                 reduction
and reminder                       of     this              human        shell -

it             will  

            succeed.

Stymied 1 (1998)

Too much fags and coffee I think to myself, awake in a sweat at 5 a.m.


Sulphate agitations, exploding away from a conscious past I lie troubled by work yet undone. Dislocated body from racing mind. Gates wide open, all rushes through a crowded muddyspace and I cannot now view anything in clear focus. Another irony of course - usually it's to coax coherence from its huddling terror-stricken corner that's the problem
A palpitating heart that rebels against this urge to rest, unable to wait for the dawnlight; wanting and worrying; loving and lusting; considering everything within immediate reach; when everything is possible - but eight hours away. A trick of physics over synapse, because half a voice knows that come the carhorns of daybreak, the pieces of me that now clamour to exist, exult, sing, will snooze, swear, slide and slink away.
Far away and deep.
I am singing tuneless, taunting phrases of indeterminate register; stuck in the same incomplete groove of panicladen peacelessness: got to feel electric sometime, but uncommunicative, dislocated. And no reason but these greyscale days that sludge into identical plodworsening weeks like Norway. And so very sick of this energyless hopelessness, too tired to hold at abeyance remembrances of beauty, caress, happiness. Somehow I want the black hole to swallow me into its crushing finality forever.
What’s totally immoral about tonight is that I see no reason to be so awake. Not weeping or festering, just annoyance at my lack of understanding of why rest is so important. These seedy, sullen hours are deflowered by disillusionment.
A tiny voice is holding me though in this Iceworld that rations out scrawny morsels of sociability, sensibility, sexuality. I got so many clouds in my head that I just wish that I could let my eyes rain and be done with a violent torrent. But of course the downpour will never come.
Directly through my brain drives a monstrous truck with headlights on full beam. The shockwave of the electric eruption spreads through every synapse and I fear I am losing control of my bladder. My fingertips and the soles of my sweated feet crackle with this split second of magnesium. (For at these moments I am full of immaculate dread that I am losing my mind, that I am speeding incompetent. Terrified I at closing my eyes else this crackspark assault returns with cheap menace to create a compromised fool).
And blast goes the measly frustration at the annoyance at the biological tribulation of the need to sleep. And yawning my body whilst my mind can only concentrate on the subtle changes in timbre & pitch of the clickclackclod of the clock from Superpound in the High Street. I try for tears at the corner of my reddened peepers again, but only manage to remind myself that again I am making plans for fitness and physical dominion – when all I am really capable of is to lie.
Bulbous ideals sneer from tonight, sidewinders of incontinent memories. Spill your seed on the ground and be damned. All art is masturbation in any case. There’s no uproar in printed self-aggrandisement, just egotism and lazy half-truth.
I declare (rictusly) that independence is not all it’s cracked up to be, because you lose mollycoddle and happy idleness. And all you really gain are a few new ways to fall, new cliffs over which to totter, new earthy dung upon which to chew. Dull indulgent complications masked as butterfly excitement and anus adventures. Pushing deeper into whatever rut in which I choose to live out these days of scabby dilution.

A country song lyric (1995)

 My momma told me when I was young,
"You gotta use your mind like a loaded gun,
cause there's a million cowboys in this land
who'll shoot ya in the back soon as shake ya hand."

My poppa said, "Hey listen, son,
You'll never ride a hoss to the horizon.
Be wise to the poker and the women and the drink -
you can lead a man to whisky, but you can't make him think."

But I never listened to the Man In Black when he said:
"Don't take your guns to town, boy,

leave them guns at home".

It wasn't very dignified (1997)

 

I saw this girl in Amsterdam
Sitting in the window of a shop.
She had beautiful eyes, and beatutiful tits,
And a beautiful twelve inch cock.
It wasn't very dignified.

My friend Billy's got a two foot willy.
He showed it to the lady next door,
so she sucked him off.
It wasn't very dignified.

"FUK OFF YOU TWIT",
screamed my mate Nick
<The referee was being a prik.>
It wasn't very dignified.

I was out on the piss
And really feeling sick
I dropped my kebab on the gravel
And next to the kebab
There was a big pile of dogshit
And then I really was violently sick
And the kebab paper started to unravel
But cause I was pissed
I didn’t give a shit
So I picked the donner up and started eating it
The fucker was all gritty but I really enjoyed it
I was puking for days to be honest
It wasn’t very dignified.

But it was fucking worth it.



Examination Of The Eternal Mystery Of Human Self-Rationale (1996)


My life
is often shite
(but on Giro Day I’m pissed

so that’s alright)

Elvis works in B&Q (1996)

"You lookin' for a shovel
You came to the right place"


Other Kingly occupations:

Demolition specialist <rubble>
George Michael's Barber <stubble>
Alex Ferguson <the double>
Astronomy expert <Hubble>
Sunday Sport editor <nipples>
My mate Wyn <Ribble-Dibble>
Basyl Fawlty <Sybil>
Sybil Fawlty <Basil>
Civil Engineer in charge of A55 improvements near Penmaenmawr and Conwy <a tunnel>

Ah fuck it.

Early retirement (1998)


I’m taking this fucking guitar back to the shop.
It’s fucked.
It keeps playing the wrong notes.

Funny thing is,
My bass is the same.

And my piano.
And my harmonica.

They’re all fucked.
They all keep playing the wrong notes all the time.



Dole (c) (1995)



You BITCH----------------------------------------
You closed-eared WITCH-----------------------
Sticking me into your fabric of ratpiss
floating spreadsheet
cheated statistics
and quotas



You dumb, fat, fuckless BITCH----------------
You small-tit, dried twat WITCH--------------
All I wanted was a cigarette
and to be undigitised
and to remain carbonic
you made me electronic



You loveless---------------------------------------
scum-cunt------------------------------------------
pig-collecting--------------------------------------
aids-infesting--------------------------------------

BITCH


Dole (a) (1995)



It's a form of Zen meditation---------------------
The gentle plague----------------------------------
The warm sofa malaria----------------------------
This glaze of TV pics moving unwarranted----

THROUGH THIS---------------------------------
Limbless, gormless, pleasureless, poisonless--
Timedenying, stupefying-------------------------
Vegetation------------------------------------------

I have stopped the calendars of the world and thrown my watch in the face of the world

And I have seen god----------------------------
In my whirl of fags and farts--------------------


AND I WASN'T EVEN LOOKING

Dice Dancers (1998)




We are weeds; we spurt up
untrimmed, and flecked by wild sun.

Planted by happenstance,
by blind, buffy hand of chance.


Awaiting days of grime and glue
then nights of sex and seppuku

and splashed seeds; I kiss luck,
a whimsical simpleton,

I bless the buffy hand of chance
that shakes the dice, that shapes our dance

in joyful ugliness askew,
aflare and chasing seppuku

through dank deeds, buttercup
seditions with viscous ends.


The dice still crack their vicious dance,
and siren crunching, blind romance

deludes me so I fail to see
my happiness when I was free:

When I was free, aflame, askew,
awaiting sex and seppuku.


Birds (1996)

If only my back would bend a little bit more, it'd save me a lot of hassle.

Football, isn't it. (1997)

Barry Town 3, Bangor City 0: FAW/BBC Invitation No-Chance-Of-Euro-Places-Alright-Arthur?-Stick-To-Rugby-Mate Cup, September 1997.

"That's It" slurred The King, as their 3rd goal squirted past Dave Williams in the City goal, "I'm taking my pants off, and going on the pitch.". At this Andy woke up from his stupor and swung possibly the slowest haymaker ever in the history of the world at Pruney, which missed, before he resumed his muttering all curled up at the back of the stand. It was an improvement in sleeping conditions for him because at the half-time interval he had had to be rescued from his slumber in the dirtyass toilets by one of the boys climbing over the cubicle door and releasing the lock which Andy had thoughtfully engaged prior to resting his eyes.
As far as I was concerned, ever since Diving Darren Ryan had curled them rich fuckers' second goal around our truckdriver keeper, I had decided that the best plan was to get my top off and reveal my new nipple ring. It was then, I felt, pertinent to invite the Barry Family Stand to enlighten me as to exactly which league position would they enjoy without the Chairwoman's millions, and furthermore where the fuck were you lot when you were skint anyway?
I recall a philosophical discussion was entered into as to exactly which orifice those cunting bongos that they insisted on playing wildly out of time would fit the best, and I believe I had some fairly strong opinions on the matter, which were no doubt shared by the silent majority. <Although the silent majority, by their very nature, and as their moniker would surely indicate, are a fairly timid lot>.

So I told Sharpy that these Invitation Cup games were bollocks, and we'd have the yellow bastards in the league anyway. I like to think that he was impressed by both my candour and my agility in a five-minute tumble over the advertising hoardings behind his dugout. You don't get that at Everton! No siree Bob.

And yet... (1998)

For better, for worse, for fucking, for fortune, for freedom; to love, lust, lies; to separate lives; where every touch matters; where no smile is serenity; so people suss us out, so people get it so, so wrong, so I can’t imagine what I’ve done; when a dream has changed.

And yet while we walk together, faces reddened by rain, you slip your hand into the corner made by my elbow as my digits freeze in sodden jeans pocket; and for all the passing world your gesture speaks of happy coupling.
And heads bowed alittle against the paintstripping wind along these canals we stride arm in arm past crazy displays of neon promising carnal carnival. We enter a sex shop together and look at pictures in gleeful disgust. The rest of the vultures and voyeurs are cocked; they see a pair of youngish lifers sharing a moment amongst the delusive array.
Inside a coffeeshop we study a menu, heads close and excited ears warming from our night escape; the great guy behind the counter comes up with a wisecrack and we laugh in tandem and his demeanour tells me that he, too, is caught in this horrible game.
The restaurant is a mixture of familiar tastes and exotic spices, and there is far too much to eat. We do our best to demolish the platter but in the end can only sit back defeated, conversation stilted by puffed-out cheeks and belchladen bellies. When the waitress brings the wrong bill, the three of us share the mistake with conciliatory giggles. She’s pretty as she walks off smiling to tell her workmates of her mixup with the satiated lovers; my eyes catch yours, but my gaze is destined for my feet because all I sense is a glassy wall.
We speak of past lovers and drink from small but potent lagers. The bottom of the glass distorts the faces round the bar but yields no answers. I vow to keep looking. Our chattering is chilliladen for sure, and though our voices are low we look round at intervals for eavesdroppers. There are none. As we leave this comfort together the barman wishes us good health. He’s friendly and good-looking like a ruggledy action film extra you say. The wind is still high, and I wait for your touch again; but you blow into your hands before dragging your sweater over your knuckles.
While you bathe alone I find football on the television. The bed is luxuriant, with just room enough for us to spend the night at opposite sides without skin sharing skin.
Time, I muse, has wandered on its unending path, and left me indulgent with memories. Your breathing is adagio now so I get up and piss; the man in the mirror is trying to tell me to speed to the next symphony.
I don’t want to listen.
But I have no option.
And so I do my best wrysmile, hold in my stomach and begin to construct a new potential; but the spot inside my elbow wants to hold on to the rascally recollection of the minutes not so long ago where we fooled the world, and ourselves.

As the TV burbles I sleep, but I don’t dare to dream this night; because night-fantasy can too easily debase daytime deception.

Alan Sugar-Daddy (1998)

You can keep Ginola's Gallic Flair,
And his silky skills, and his silky hair,
I wanna real man.

Forget the Frenchman's muscled thighs,
Cos he crosses with both feet, you can see it in his cobalt eyes,
I just wanna real man.

So,
Be my Alan Sugar-Daddy
Praise me on TV then sack me
Slag me off and then re-sign me
Back me up then undermine me
Alan Sugar Daddy Baddy

Daddy Baddy-O!