1. |
The Butcher's Knife
05:01
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the dogs of my enemy
are snapping at the heels
of children playing in the street
a pack of lies as bleeding meat
on the slab under a knife, all treated
heartless, but they say it’s ironic
in their eyes everything rests
on a gene, on paranoid alert
corrupted from memory
in forgetful hand, peddling
prescription fix, bathroom cabinet
yet any other is scum
splash on pages like blood
except their bullets are justified
like the past you can’t flick away
your shirts will never change colour
you’re out to lunch, as always
breeding webs of hate
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2. |
Every Silent Mouth
02:13
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use hearing protection
as the doors slide up
lit as chemical glow
seep through concrete
the prettily sick shine
of a rain soaked morning
the dawn floods austere
their words sliding thick
you forgot how the sky
fuzzed its way into the
cracks of every photo
the trains stream tears
hallelujah screams every
silent mouth in central
station striped cathedral
streets jangle as a maze
clouds stretch industrial
as the moors begin to echo
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3. |
Floor Show
02:11
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4. |
Uniform
03:54
|
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these faces on the wall
are the only ones i recognise
those through the grill
are spiders who trapped us
i smashed the furniture
with bombs and fists
outside the sun stares at me
borders the shadow of iron bars
to get me to wear your uniform
you’ll have to nail it to my back
thick skin as shield for years
stomach as knot they can’t break
rain through the window
rubber suits as if we’re ill
why do i need disinfectant?
i write in toothpaste
bones struck, they break
trees flicker as noise mouth to mouth
flesh they peel off
and parade as a crime
what hands could we bite?
what was i given?
i sang the words i meant
that’s all i had left
|
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5. |
Stained Glass
05:01
|
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i can tell you who’s going to win
before the starting gun is fired
trees sway like those carrying
coffins at huguenot funerals
on this charcoal flooded
street of my birth and death
which slopes as scales
you will not fly your flag
and they trail by 15 lengths
what lets you forget can be poured
into stained glass, improvised as
bombs through windows, boxing is training
from the tv slips insipid
deadweight glittering lies
which not even my corpse can
balance on a raining morning
favourite until the corner
they’ll break your legs and
lock up the playgrounds
euthanised in a ditch
the shovel throws dirt
as i open the door early
with the sun struck down
rising as dying flowers
|
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6. |
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standing in the ruins
of another’s life
and if it was all a myth
then it was big enough
to hide in, hallelujah
just a dream which
i fight for in my sleep
road signs twist like
pearblossom on breezes
all sits in different lights
as if all you ever had
drained in blue and yellow
tea-stained
as if the trigger had
been pulled before birth
where the roses grow through
and bodies sit oil soaked
phones half off hooks
rip newspaper up for letters
codewords in accents
standing in the ruins
of another’s life
and i leave flowers on
their grave with every step
with every step away
|
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7. |
In Psychic Defence
03:50
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nerves and cells imprisoned
like mazes as the streets on
which you were raised in the head
in which you inhabited it all locked down
under clouds like he said, lent back
against the wall, your funeral my trial
take a swig and snarl over the lip
of the bottle, life behind the mask
teeth grinding like bars of cages
as rows and rows of houses
trap you warm in their embrace
never having known you
that’s why i hide within my head
in psychic defence
to stop the past from spilling out
as it’s my psychic defence
walking over pictures in chalk
i never did it without a reason
says the cop who takes backhanders
better living in my head
hidden in the dark i act as if beaten
i did it for the ones i never knew
and in my head i did everything right
that’s why i hide within my head
in psychic defence
to stop the past from spilling out
as it’s my psychic defence
walking over pictures of chalk
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8. |
Sparrow Twice
04:34
|
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Morning comes as a sparrow flies
wish I owned one I've got to do something today
Someone wrote on the rug again
Consequences of Industry
You're not as old as you thought you were
The very worst poet of all
At least there's that mark on your shoe
It's not piss it's dew
Drive a circus on a whim
At a supermarket lighting rig
You can stop screaming now
He's pretending to drown
On bikes laughing at the night once again and
Migration for your mind to wander
You're a headache in that wine
There's no time, there's no time there's no time
Point sticking around, when you're lying in glue
But it's burning into you
The tongue bites into the flesh
Not much to say about language
The newspaper blinds your eyes
Still it lets in light
There's writing for the wall
Done by a kid in confidence
Carving out a hole for yourself
Which we might all die in
Sleep soundly at night
In the morning making eyes
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9. |
Avenues Of The Dead
04:00
|
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Avenues
i was born to hustle roses
down the avenues of the dead
the petals split and die
their sweat dries up
the gates high and inviting
vines twist from stone faces
camera skips orange like
trains collapse as bricks
(chorus)
but i couldn’t tell you why
but i couldn’t tell you why
i leave their words like flowers
they stay drying for hours
it’s just something that grows
twists through bars of the cage
blurred in smoke and rain
from the places we came
i was born to hustle roses
down the avenues of the dead
and i leave flowers at all the graves
even if they die eventually
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10. |
The Fire Next Time
05:30
|
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and i knew less then
but i found what i never lost
who would care about tomorrow
when all there is is yesterday
i’ve been here before
as the grass bleaches easy
as sand from timer the light
drips from fading fingers
figures now as paint
splatter as leaves drifting
from the rain and concrete
to their own burning end
i never lost it
it will never lie sleeping
draped in fading orange
shadows hazard-striped
are a burial shroud
of chemical soaked denim
into sunset they flew
nervous half-light which could never end
the wheels came off
turning the final corner
i never lost it
it will never lie sleeping
the cradle slows in the heat
as the lock clicks shut
they’re all ghosts now
there’s nothing left to find
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Red Rosa London, UK
A post-punk band from South London.
Thomas Whittaker
Ben Tudor
Edward Wilson
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