If Logic's First (We're Coming Second)
Is no one watching? Is no one listening? What does it take to stimulate us? Visionless lines that dictate where boundaries lie, we shadow fools without observing. We trudge beleaguered en masse and with each head bowed. If logic’s first - we’re coming second. Show me stills, show me files and give me signs it’s peace you’re yearning. I’ll show you fear, resentment and pride. And this your cause of which you speak in pious tongue has one conclusion. You call it just - I call it control. Some games hold fortune. Some claim illusion as an art. This game you play - controls our senses. And as with progress - we find more snakes than ladders. The board room rules revised to suit your purpose. Try and you might. Don’t and you most certainly won’t.
Question rules and their conclusions.
Sonny
Sonny said he’s got a job to do and distribution don’t come nine to five. The perfect advocate for persistence, from hand to mouth approach to forward strive. The salesman of the street’s upgraded from the bankrupt chairman of the bored. The real life Robin’s out to do more shopping and to show the retail market’s flawed. Sonny’s got a phone in each pocket and his notebook coudn’t spare a page. He makes concessions for the penniless yet to cross him only fires this rage. Supply and demand dictates every move and his movement’s always fast as light. The back streets wizard’s even out in blizzards, but you wouldn’t know - he’s out of sight. Sonny deals in lives. A real life Jesus for the ever needy. A game in which he thrives. You wouldn’t cast the first stone if you’d just be true to yourself. Sonny’s doing fine. He’ll see you through until the gates of heaven. Don’t come to me shouting morality and put yourself upon a higher ground. I’ve seen the looks you give to those with less, you’re selling life belts while the struggler’s drown. And Sonny’s finger’s on the pulse, a true magician with his sleight of hand. He’s never static in his retail attic, and his dependents grow across the land.
Book Cooking
One set of rules once qualified. Blinkers came supplied. Once rearranged they mystified left thinkers, side by side. Logic’s lost to the art of bluff. TV’s used as art, painting over cracks, turning dark to light. For closure - see start. Gotta feelin’ that the reelin’s set for prime-time vultures. Gotta figure out the walk on parts. Lead role’s name in lights whilst we view transfixed. Ambiguity nullifies - choose your propaganda. Opposition ends pacified - use your propaganda. Education to suit ideals - abuse your propaganda. In the name of God and land of free? Fuck your propaganda.
Dry River Fishing
Rivers crying - Forests lying. Barbers mutter - Flags still flutter. Great minds talk it - The unsure walk it. To mention this lie just means that you’ve bought it. These days, these days are passing fast. This time cannot be sold. This is a bait I have to take. Dry river fishing but I think I’ll get a bite. Powers driving - Endless striving. Shadow chasing - Thought erasing. Patterns questioned - Senses sectioned. So writing this song I thought I’d just mention.
Scale Climber's Revenge
Yankee searching for your isms, why haven’t I learned from you before? Getting fat on your process, eating your willpower to even up the score. Don’t look to me for solace, as fellatio’s never been something I’d turn to, the liquid lunch is out as the scale climbers revenge crumbles. It’s not the punches to the jaw that end up softening up the champion, it’s the pats on his back. Back to front, upside down. The world of your values ride the merry-go-round. The things you’ve seen and what might’ve been. Don’t look for solutions as you’ll never know! And labour saving days that saved Labours day now seem so far away, you championed the masses yet compassionate fatigue can find its way. It doesn’t take a genius to take the feet from under a blind man. Don’t look to the saints you’ve never seen, just find the man you’ve never been.
Is this illusion? The scale climbers revenge crumbles.
Leech
Here drives the janitor to refute range, so gently rendered to illogical strains. Within its path lies a coat that turns, where once intent is now rendered infirm. This is the haute couture of the leech that preys upon its subject in an eminent way. I can’t play the Roman fool and die of my own sword. What fool the beggar when he gets no, gets no reward. Fuel my revulsion with a nerve so strong, so vile. Here comes the rain, here it comes again. Ride your own waves and waive the rules of fair play. Who keeps a straight bat when the umpire turns away? Play the frail equal as the tide turns towards you. But tea and sympathy has never been one of my strong points.
The Prize
Monday’s looking at Tuesday, but the problem is he’s looking behind. Tuesday tries to pass Wednesday with a feeling he’s left at the line. Thursday going steady, the bounce in his stride’s the sign, and Friday’s the date that they congragate, when everybody’s feeling fine. Vicar seeks a congragation, the hopeful on a wing and a prayer. Teachers looking for angels, but they’re swinging like they just don’t care. The vain look to liposuction, weak just looking to survive. The clockmaker knows when it’s time to go, but the clock is saying ten to five. Today, today beats yesterday. Just feel the rush it’s out of sight. Today, today flee yesterday. This dawn brings life into the night. Monday can never quite catch Tuesday, and Tuesday’s out on his own. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday’s the same. But they each call their houses their home. All looking down on Monday, yet they all have a goal they share, but the prize at the end is the big weekend, and he’s never been the type to care.
Bitter Vicar
Bumped into God just the other day. He had a pair of jeans on. I said “hi” and he said “yes” and told me I was right on. Said he’s been watching I’d lost my way. I took a step back, I looked him up and went to walk away. “Hold on, you’ve been running for far too long. Give me some time.” I gave it, he took it. Bared my soul - and he nearly shook it. But I had to go, last orders - round’s mine. Sometimes I get the feeling someone wants my clothes. Sometimes, sometimes he comes unstuck but he knows heaven knows. He sits on stools and preys on one. The bitter vicar. I’d sympathise, but he’d get me drunk then tell me I’d been sinning. He’s got his wit, I think he’s lost his frock. “This is your life!” “Yes I know, but I’ve got to go.” When all plots fail I think he’s here to shake some guilt emotions. I think he’s sad, though I think he’s got - the best devotion.
But to drink or heaven? I really don’t know.
Prey
There’s always full stops at the end of stories, there’s always lines that turn a tale upon its head. This one goes for the unbelievers, turns honey into acid and turns joy to dread. The clean pair of heels, they showed replaced compassion and destiny showed up vowing to never leave. Here’s to the silent who succumbed to hatred, here’s to the gullible that life deceived. And walls have a history of keeping secrets, for secrets - look to history of innocence. Doors can bring fear, guilt and hurt when opened and ceilings there to cover what the devil sent. Moments seem eternal and this hush is defening as the power of the cloth consumes the innocence and after hands clasp as he prays forgiveness, an act that’s well practiced by his reverence. Is this the power that you craved when once meek? Your strangled frustrations fostered sick desires. You prey on the vulnerable and scar forever, and go back inside the church and pray for sanctuary. The mound under blankets left alone to tremble, he silences the sobs to halt the father’s return. To sleep in isolation’s a distracted comfort but distraction’s just the thing this frail child yearns. One thousand hail marys can’t erase your conscience, as you abuse with the power that’s invested in you. Don’t look to your heaven seeking some kind of solace, don’t forgive them father for they know just what they do.
Come My Hour
Memoirs sat upon a dusting shelf. The writer’s now moved on and this is his legacy. Draws me in, against my instinct. I take down this dusting book and so begin to read... Born into regret of a mother, and father taught him lessons that began with fist. This slip of a kid could walk egg shells and slept with one eye open thinking Jesus missed. These never ending days can drain the life away. But come his hour he will be dancing on the coals of despise. And growing pains eased as father weakened. The abuse became now verbal and the hurt was raw. He ran at fifteen - alone with rucksack, sat in doorways watching life pass, thinking “what’s this for?” And into his life she came creeping, gave him feelings never felt before and held him tight. They grew with their love, now isolation’s dead. He’s conquered all his hate and this he had to write - ‘These never ending days can drain my life away, but come my hour I will be dancing on the coals of despise.’ He wrote and carried close these feelings on a note.
“Now life’s for living and I’m looking to the future” he cries.
Grip
My colour is yellow, my number is one. My purity’s black but my anger has mellowed. And to lose my footing on the slopes of hope. And to lose my grip when I had enough rope. Here I stumble, here I fall. Here I stumble, here I fall... Losing that final, the score still rankles. My life’s ninety minutes on a dodgy right ankle. Flying on rusting wings, swimming with a stitch. Running on blisters, swooning with an itch. I’ve fallen out of love, you’ve fallen out of hate. I’ll pick a brand that’s good to find it’s out of date. An angel on one shoulder, the devil straight across. I think I’ll win this day - but I don’t know at what cost. To be a walking shadow of a man once was. This grand facade’s another river we’ll cross. So don’t lose your footing on the slopes of hope. Take my grip, we’ll find enough, we’ll find enough rope. And here we stumble, but we won’t fall. And here we stumble, but we won’t fall. No we’ll never fall.
Wonderland
Patience will come, to those who find it’s too late, now it’s lost its use - it’s redundant. Hear the wail of machines minus rung emotions, hear the clunking of the soul taker. What was an object now has you down as its subject. Welcome Malice - this is Wonderland. Though I’ve never seen a swagger on a puppet that’s lost its strings, you come closest, but what if this machine from which life gives you purpose suddenly was rendered obsolete? Where can you turn? Who can your bigotry bear arms to? Once again I think it’s Wonderland. To love and to hate, to give and to steal and to get just what we’ve always wanted - but do you know just what you’ve always wanted? A life that’s based on greed, and not on what you need, is doomed to fail and still you choose to flaunt it. Tho’ methods are tasted - Solutions lie wasted. You once had ambition but quickly erased it. Observance is one thing, but ignorance another. Don’t fall on your own sword as it’s harder to recover. Where you once raised issues with lucid persistance. A poignant reminder to once was exisitence. Now all that is left is just an effigy bewildered. How hollow the figure that trusted fate with Wonderland. A life based on greed - Not on what you need.
This is Wonderland.
SPLIT 7" WITH FIFTH HOUR HERO
(Newest Industry / No Idea)
Pollute and Polarize
Justification should acknowledge facts
so talk of retribution's deemed absurd,
you plan for bridges when there's no river
and you implement without a word.
Your "real solution to this growing problem"
takes extremities to places new,
the blind and bigoted can board your bus
whilst traditionalists will form a queue.
Well what was it gave you this phobia?
What triggered hatred and a lack of sight?
Your bible advocates a colour strong
with its rhetoric stating "white is right",
your talk of stock and breed and ancestry
come in the same breath as you utter pure,
you come diseased... spurning cure.
It's here today
your ignorance of culture, with a will to blame.
It's here today
the armchair racists rise to lay another claim.
It's here today.
You see yourself as chief protagonist
thro' ambiguity you cover tracks,
you claim allegiance to a flag that's steeped
in supremacy whilst weakness cracked.
Prey on emotions of the insecure
and inconsiderate to cause divide...
Your aims... pollute and polarize...
Your railings are failing...
And it's here today
your ignorance of culture with a will to blame.
It's here today
uneducated ramblings that "we're not the same."
It's here today
well your union's hijacked as your facts fall short again.
...that's it today.
The Eleventh Hour
You can't seperate life from fiction, your pondering you deem conviction,
no choice but to question why,
and you the prophet of the insubstantial - a wick can't burn without its candle,
no choice but to question why,
your social groups so anti-social but all points made have to be focal,
no choice but to question why,
and you come recommending dosage but please spare me the prognosis,
no choice but to question why.
The pisspoor dramatist is here, the autocue's jumping but his voice is clear,
and he fills his chest then he spills his bile... here's to posterity without the style,
and he's still waltzing as the music's stopped,
this is pantomime with the background chopped,
and he begs accolades with absolute power.
Sanctions equal deprivation, military escalation,
no choice but to question why,
corporates before health and welfare and further education - just too far,
no choice but to question why,
shackled as the divide grows, how can we reap when we can't sow?
no choice but to question why,
now turn your hand to world policing - global fleecing's corrupt.
Brought to you straight from the land of good teeth and bad irony.
The pisspoor dramatist is here, the autocue's jumping but his voice is clear,
and he fills his chest then he spills his bile... here's to posterity without the style,
and he's still waltzing as the music's stopped,
this is pantomime with the background chopped,
and as he begs accolades with absolute power,
he takes us past the 11th hour.
This is your hour, this is your 11th hour.
CUT
lights flash, a smile that almost seems sincere,
the nonchalont gaze disguises the need for you to be seen here.
the painted faces, quintessential hair,
these empty vessels sail thro this shallow rivers sunken glare
lights, camara's, action, infatuation starts from within.
scenes cut for distraction, 'till clapper board reads...losers winning.
and you soak in rays of opportunity,
you deem this shallow show of opulence so necessery.
and kudos reigns high above concience...
so what do you deem fulfillment and just why are you worth it ? say !!!
lights, camara's, action, the adulation is your lifeblood, scenes cut for distraction,
you ache exposure yet scream intrusion.
lights, camara's, action, to climb up credits...how low will you go ?
scene's cut for distraction,
'till fallacy is truth, then its a wrap.......cut !
i gotta check all spellings tho', so dont panic mr mainwaring !
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