THE WASTED SHIP

By Anon 

OEDIPUS WRECKS

My friend Dr. Calculator Ptom named the band upon hearing my songs. He used to say gnomic things like “the universe is a projection of the mind.” “The G note is green on the guitar fretboard.” “Born Slippy is evidence dance can have a soul.” “Poetry is untranslatable because of the music.” “Death is God.” “Early Oasis is good for bittersweet, comedown energy.” We boarded a train not knowing where it was headed in the middle of the Night in London. By now he is Dr. Calculator Thomas and the song is ‘Born Slippery.’

THE OEDIPUS WRECKS GIG, CAMDEN TOWN, 1998

I

OCEANS SMILE

Oceans smile with liquid eyes

and fill themselves with rain.

The tide goes out and leaves me

lost, the last thing a glass gene.

Follow me to the resurrection

while the blind get crucified.

My weapon’s only loaded in my eyes.

Death will come on silky wings

but I for one will not go.  

A soul is endless, oceans open

and keeeeeeeps a perfect O.

Follow me to the resurrection

while the blind get crucified.

My weapon’s only loaded in my eyes.

Go drink the ocean with your tea

cup, give your heart far out.

If oceans smile with liquid eyes

then they'll give you a shout.

Follow me to the resurrection

while the blind get crucified.

My weapon’s only loaded in my eyes.

Too drunkenly I sail the water

on Rimbaud’s smoking boat.

With whiskygills primed in fire

I sail the waves to Boot.

Follow me to the resurrection

while the blind get crucified.

My weapon’s only loaded in my eyes.

(reconstructed via the new, synchronised word)

MEANWHILE

In the meantime, Dr. Ptom liked the movie La Heine, where there’s a gorgeous bit of urban poetry about society falling from a high-rise building, thinking to itself “so far so good, so far so good” all the way down. I had some poetry myself, or thought I did, inside me, as well as writing what I thought were good words to the songs.

II

VITAL SIGNS

Smile like a smile just to smile,

cast to Heaven for a while...

let's rip holes in the boat,

throw the captain overboard,

throw the angels off the bridge,

death comes and stops me getting

bored of life's soul-machine.

What we need is energy,

show me all your vital signs,

what we steal is what we need,

what we need to feel alive,

for I'm alive with vital signs.

Back to Hell to plunder wings,

let the ritual now begin,

come and ride the waiting beast,

ride it gone into the fire,

ride it to the waiting feast,

my baby's waiting to get higher,

to get higher, to get higher...

what we need is energy,

show me all your vital signs,

what we steal is what we need,

what we need to feel alive,

for I'm alive with vital signs,

yeah feel alive with vital signs.

Come again there's much to do,

don't you know that I love you?

IN THE MEANTIME

Meanwhile, Dr. Ptom and I were part of a group of intellectuals, a circle, who watched weird films like Eraserhead and The Warriors. We even kissed so willing we were to try new things. We would have tried out a new alphabet had we the opportunity. Dr. Ptom was a poet too… he had one about Zeus and the conjunction of souls I liked but knew I did not understand.

III

KILL

My eyes sting,

my teeth are bleeding raw,

too much thought

to make me sick.

Stinky clothes

and mouth become

my skin and all

these fruits I want to kill.

Give my hope,

surrender to the tide,

you can take

my remains;

but I must go,

to wash the poison

from my eyes,

before, before, before I kill.

THROUGH THE WOODS

On the night we boarded a train not knowing where it was headed, we fell asleep, and were woken at dawn, in Luton, by the conductor, who let us off not having a ticket and sent us back the same way from which we came! We ended up sleeping in a suburban wood, under leaves, when we got back to Radlett! I remember mostly that it was cold!

IV

SECRETS IN THE MUD

This is the sound of getting totally fucked.

Of when you first get your notebook sucked.

Of changing gold into Glastonbury mud.

Of lying down in a field with your bud.

This is the music through whom we aspire.

This is the rule book that is thrown on the fire.

This is the jam where the trousers are down.

This is the wine-shop on the edge of town.

Chorus: Glastonbury, you should be free, and all you have in your big city,

you hit my G, you make me see how I want to see,

lights go down, lights come on,

and all my sadness seems to be gone,

although I still love to be what I dream I am.

[guitar solo]

QUOTING DR. CALCULATOR PTOM

Dr. Ptom had one poem handwritten in his portable, analogue notebook that quoted Nirvana:

Rape me, rape me, rape me, my friend.

Rape me, rape me, do it and do it again.

Rape me, rape me, rape me.

“Do you get it?” he said to me, as was common practice when handing me a poem. “Yes,” I would say! But it would be the end of the conversation because I didn’t really get it. I could’ve guessed, but the poet delights in a wilful opacity, bats, black magnets, firking, encryption and code. Having got it now I know I didn’t get it at the time.

V

MOTHER IS DEAD

Fuck this, fuck that, fuck me yeah,

I wish that I had been there,

been there to saaaaaave Jesus,

I'm sure he meant to please us.

Mother is dead,

mother is dead,

mother is dead.

We're young and filled with semen,

we're going to break some hymen,

we'll make the cops turn in their badges,

we're going over all the edges yeah.

Mother is dead,

mother is dead,

mother is dead.

EMILY’S GARDEN

Emily was my first proper gf; and one night Dr. Ptom, another lad and I went round her house to see her and two of her friends. We were about 14 or 15; and as soon as we got in the house, Dr. Ptom and I went straight out into the back garden, where there was a trampoline, and started to send a green parrot through the conch to outer space, so to speak; and we started cackling like hyenas; and the end result was that it was the end of my relationship with Emily.

VI

SNAKE SNAKE BUTTERFLY

Snake snake butterfly, lay me dead & close my eyes.

Angel serpentine, she waits on the Other Side.

Give me your alibi; give me chains to stop me fly;

give me night to soothe my blinded eyes:

so I can see the secrets of the skies.

We must rise, freedom falling from our eyes,

unlock doors, it's a perfect time to die,

and it's okay ‘cause baby we'll go insane

but don't reach out too far for the flame.

Snake snake butterfly, lead me to the Other Side.

Angel serpentine, she waits on the Other Side.

FAREWELL TO THE DAY

I remember well when I had to say farewell to the day. We were down at Will Fenn’s holiday house in Devon; and I was tearful that I was moving on; and Dr. Ptom said “there’s going to be a massive, John-shaped hole in my life now.” I am 44 and still hear his voice on magic alphabet radio, or the intercom, or whatever you want to call it! Although he didn’t play an instrument or write the music, he wanted to invent a word-chord synthesiser to go in our band (which was otherwise a three piece.)

VII

THE GHOSTS LAMENT (THE GUZZLER MEN)

I'm the only one left, left to shoot my

own gun. This is the dead land. Crack a smile

and curse the sun. Death awaits to fuck me.

Give me bliss and give me kisses. Death a-

waits to save me. The ghosts lament, the ghosts

lament. Come on baaaaaaaaaby, you know it's e-

asy, don't say maaaaaaaaaybe, let's go crazy. Death

awaits to fuck me. Give me bliss and give

me kisses. Death awaits the same me. The

ghosts lament, the ghosts lament, no more ghosts.

||||.

TOAST

The latter song, looking back, sees the sublimation of The Lords And The New Creatures into a singular, pronominal act of Romantic, first person lyricism. “I’m the only one left,” it went; for I was smuggling The Lords And The New Creatures. But we have to look forwards not backwards.

VIII

HEAVEN KNOWS

Heaven knows and walks away -

but what it knows it will not say.

It’s impossible to make a cowboy film in space?

Heaven knows and turns its face!

Heaven’s filled with silver eyes.

Heaven’s hills all harmonise.

I hear its angels when they call...

Heaven knows and lets them fall!

[reconstructed]

TELEPATHY HAS BEEN PROVEN

Once upon a time, an interlocutor, possibly meaning my old friend and bloodbrother the philosopher Dr. Calculator Ptom, picked up my hands while I was at the screen in a different part of the country and got me to type:

He found himself on a plane.

He found himself on a.

He found himself on.

He found himself.

He found.

P.

But what “P” means we do not know. Wittgenstein for example would say:

P = ~ ~ P.

I later heard it said that the wing-shaped calligramme is the only good bit in the whole of my oeuvre, and whilst I contest this, it might still be true, depending on your hermeneutic autonomy and subjective taste.

My point, which I left out so far, is that I would say that the wing-bit is still mine own, in the sense that if you hear voices they are your own thoughts, and if you write them down you needn’t become Anon, thankfully. I imagine Dr. Calculator Ptom feeling (if only a little bit) peeved off that the calligramme is mine, but being a Liberalist essentially, he would I am sure retain good humour about it.