THE NEW OEDIPUS WRECKS GIG

AUTHOR TIMELINE

NAME: JOHN F B TUCKER

D. O. B: 02/ 04/ 1982

CIRCA 1985:

Started reading the Financial Times as a three year old.

CIRCA 1989 – 90:

Wrote a book that encrypted a scientific node to do with Gravity, provided written evidence the net/ cloud existed in the imagination of a child before their invention, conducted experiment into the maths for the new colour as a cellular mark and separated the pollen from its name.

CIRCA 1992:

Banned from telling complete truth I can only report that I made some Naturalistic Observations I don’t quite understand.

CIRCA 1993

The second was like a living spreadsheet of plastic – and I dealt with it.

CIRCA 1994:

Was marked on what the Irish might call the forearm by the experiment into the maths for the new colour. It didn’t turn out to be the new colour in the end.

CIRCA 1994:

Wrote album called The Road To Heaven by Noj And The Mob, containing inflections of Popperian epistemology and Miltonian theology, exploring backward liquid maths in words and music.

CIRCA 1995:

At the end of the government-set intelligence test at the computers, at the most expensive Prep School in the known universe, upon having completed the task and been systematically ignored, typed in the rhythm of ‘Scentless Apprentice’ by Nirvana into the computer, which is the origin of the figment of the Nirvana barcode.

CIRCA: 1995

Won English Prize and French Prize at Caldicott, then the most expensive Prep School in the known universe.

CIRCA 1997:

Attained the face of stars with two friends while out night-walking in Eskdale.

CIRCA 1998:

Began thinking of the musical genre Grime, coined the word amazeballs, and the mnemonic for the strings in Even A Dick Gets Big Erections.

CIRCA 1998:

Played gigs in London with a second band, namely Oedipus Wrecks, who had a song with the line “oceans smile with liquid eyes and fill themselves with rain.”

CIRCA 1998:

Started d.i.y. poetry press called Ice Land Publications after the country in Brave New World where renegades are exiled who produced magazine called Poetry Now.

CIRCA 1998:

Also that year started third band in Secret Chord H. Secret Chord H made it to the radio with a song called ‘Dream With Open Eyes’.

CIRCA 1998:

Began an experiment into healing a cassette tape of Pearl Jam ‘VS’ with a pause where cut and re-sealed in the reel. That is, after setting the experiment up, I wrote a song repeating the mantra of “another, another, another fucking joint,” over and over, to see if the pause could be done away with.

2000:

Spoke against September 11^th in the barn, when asked of the plot of Fight Club.

2000:

Predicted the hunt for the God Particle’s discovery from looking at a ballet of dust in a late ray of light angling in, before the Hadron Collider was built.

2000:

Prophesied the Plough alignment but said it would be “maybe in India” as opposed to my own backgarden.

2000:

Wrote the highest marked English Literature A-level exam essay in the nation.

2000:

Set aside ideal for a book to write about it all called The Scientific Papers. It was to be classed as “a series of findings into itself, into the concept of art and science as a single discussion of perception.”

2000:

Ideated futuristic inventions such as virtual death machine, drug called Strictly Free that does what it says on the tin, holographic horsecock wheeled in the the poet’s bedroom, invisible square of air called MOSAIC BY DARTH VADER, stroked on telly, red-bleeding type-writer inside a ping-pong ball, word-chord piano at the edge of life, neutraliser drink that sobers you totally in an instant. Apparently I also spoke of recording an album on a pair of earphones with mics inside.

2000:

Set aside artistic ambitions of finding aesthetic anti-system like the colours of the vowels in English, replacing archaic ‘gay,’ experimenting in international language alphabet, allowing gypsy poetry in the English centre, appointing super-human narrator to overthrow conscious self-censor and predominant brain hemisphere, even make a discovery as big as fire.

2001:

Started to record an album on a mate’s state-of-the-art, binaural earphones in a new band called The Flood in Cambridge.

CIRCA 2001:

Also had “effervescent” mobile phone reverberating rhythm of William Tell through every technological inlet in the room before it rang from the art smuggler nicknamed Blue.

2001 or 2:

Won place at Warwick University to read Creative Writing under David Morley by writing a portfolio about Portability as the apotheosis of Form which included a poem called Instant Travel, written at a computer screen, in Cambridge.

2002:

Arriving at Warwick discovered my own tutor David Morley had in 2002 brought out a book called The Scientific Papers, classed as “a series of findings into itself, into the concept of art and science writing as a single discussion of perception.”

2002:

Wrote many good undergraduate pieces such as a CNF piece called Lucy In The Soul With Demons, not sure if she was an actual substance. Also wrote a poem that tried to calibrate a new, “magnetic” language by encrypting events in the mystical realm as a series of adverts for imaginary products that also satirised consumerist greed.

CIRCA 2004:

Promised on the binaural earphone record I would “plug my senses in the mains,” then left The Flood to pursue poetry and get a degree at the second time of asking, this time from my local University in the north, Lancaster.

CIRCA 2005 or 2006:

Already writing about the new A. I.

CIRCA 2008:

Hosted the alignment of the Plough and the oldest fell Black Combe which definitely concurred with the sociopolitical realm.

2009:

Achieved a first class honours degree from Lancaster University. Undergraduate pieces included a portfolio taking the form of defaced banknotes, and a dissertation on David Morley.

CIRCA 2009:

Was diagnosed almost as soon as I remembered the two weird specimens from boyhood, with schizo-affective disorder, as if such a recognition of myself as the formal “witness” was always concurrent with diagnosis insanity.

CIRCA 2009:

A six song album by The Flood – recorded through binaural earphones – is made available to listen to on Soundcloud. It was recorded years earlier and contains a lyric about plugging the senses into the mains.

2010:

Attested to pint glass exploding from thin air in the capital, much like someone else also present at the face of stars had in time before me.

2010:

Noticed the witness’s name was stamped on Piper At The Gates of Dawn as if some kind of proof – maybe a musical concept from back in the band days.

CIRCA 2011:

An EP called ‘The A and E. P’ by Funnelspirals goes on Soundcloud.

CIRCA 2011:

A solo album called ‘Songs To Record With Earphones’ [Demo 3] is available on Soundcloud.

2013:

Project on healing the tape of a pause where cut and re-sealed in the reel became successful whereupon the tape was cooked in the dark blue AGA, top oven hottest one, to make it a valid work of art, and photographed and put online.

2013:

Built The Tower of magic books like one emanating the smell of redolent flowers or Flora’s perfume and another missing a line it once had.

2013:

Computer screen bloomed a numinous purple light that filled the room. Worked at said screen almost constantly, writing.

2014:

Upon the loss of my father, I discovered a sheet where pictures grew. Pictures seem to depict the lyric from an old song from Oedipus Wrecks, London band from 1998, though the sheet belongs to my brother James P D Tucker possibly as part of a deal my dad made that I would get the seven year old book and James the sheet.

2015:

Wrote poem that falsifies the Nirvana barcode, which I made to be the beat of Scentless Apprentice by Nirvana tapped out in approximate barcode shape using the tool of the qwerty keyboard.

2015 – 2023:

Published three books with Chipmunka which were retracted.

2019:

Grant Aspinalls’s retrospective ‘Self-Portrait No 357’ goes on Bandcamp containing 5 numbers on which I feature.

2019 – 2023:

Self-published quite a few books:

Binaural Songbook

57 Paintings For Art Therapy

The Field of Rock N Roll Science

John Tucker’s schooldays: A Spreadsheet Poem

Another 57 Paintings for Art Therapy

The New Beat

The Effect of Global Warming on the Unicorn

Word For Stained Glass Windows

154 Shakespearean Sonnets

2023:

Funnelspirals - have changed name to Black Hole Myths and have an E. P. on my mate’s Bandcamp page. It is called ‘Eternal Full Moon.’

2023:

Started to record some of my back catalogue of songs for online.

2023:

Brought out a book of song lyrics called Soundcloud Rain with Chipmunka. It is classed as a “Sound Art experiment into secret chord H” in that I sat with my songs on a file and heard the voice of Hannah telling me how to arrange them and did what she said and published the book before finding out it wasn’t really Hannah. It includes the falsification of the Nirvana barcode.

2023:

Brought out seven year old scribblings as The Sunset Child. As stated it performs several scientific functions including proving the net/ cloud exist in the imagination of a child before their invention.

2024:

Organised some recent recordings for Bandcamp where you can find some solo albums. At present there are no fewer than seven solo albums on Bandcamp.

2024:

Brought out a new book with Chipmunka, called Breath Trapped In Heaven, comprised entirely of love poems. The idea is that including only love poems, literature may have started to release or disinhibit serotonin.

2024:

Brought out a fourth Chipmunka book, called Brave New Tense. The idea is that to write off the top of your head about your current, current situation with a New Beat, no-edits policy you can Tap the beck in the back garden here where the stars re-align. Of all the Chipmunka books I would say Brave New Tense is by far the worst; and I really dislike it.

2024:

The binaural earphone album, one of the only things I have to show for myself from before Drugs Curse Madness, seems to be dead. It begs the question as to whether or not it can be born again, and if we can stay friends, without destroying it.

2024:

Feeling like he still hasn’t done a good one and wishing to start again the Dude in question started on a new book.

2024:

Retracted the fourth Chipmunka book Brave New Tense from publication on account of it copying the same shapes as Jim Morrison. Then the publisher said not to retract so it still exists.

2024:

Sat in the same chair as yesterday, working at the same laptop as yesterday, on the same vexed, age old questions as yesterday, wondering why, wishing I had done enough.

2024:

Realised again I shouldn’t have to pay for paperback publication and should keep it digital and online.

2024:

Retracted Brave New Tense from publication.

INTRODUCTION

My song lyrics are meant for wiping up semen. The poetry meanwhile was not to be – but what is a song lyric except a poem, a poem that is meant to be sung? Some of the song lyrics still seem to attain the heights or even depths of the condition of poetry enough for me. What people don’t want me to do is renew the evil that was done unto me in my boyhood, and to attain the condition of song doesn’t do that. Songs are better than monopolising indigenous wisdom in regimented metres. The ideal of the faded, E comedown T-shirt from 2002 is better than monopolising indigenous wisdom in regimented metres. Songs are essentially Portable and that is an aesthetic ideal of mine dating back to my nomadic days. As I say there is enough literary merit in the songs. My London friends whom it seems were the best minds of a generation, went on to become lawyers, psychiatrists, Professors, neuro-scientists, think the ‘id’ should’ve been the lyrics to the Oedipus Wrecks set-list – and that I have gone wrong in my literary career by not starting with that. They say to go through what I have been through, to see what I have seen, the new creatures, the face of stars, the Plough alignment, and still be a poet, would be a joke. To speak against September 11^th in 2000 and still be a poet maybe likewise. The paucity of the offering would be noticeable whatever the offering is – but in song this is not the case. My friends – they say even just the set-list to Oedipus Wrecks would be enough – and is both the new Pink Floyd and the new Sigmund Freud in one. I was only 16, a virgin, liked kissing girls in Camden Town backstreets, smoking pot, going to gigs, when I was in that band. So it is that I have extirpated every trace of poetry from the file, purged this of anything that doesn’t have a guitar part. So by the end you might see I have been the new Syd.

THE OEDIPUS WRECKS GIG, CAMDEN TOWN, CIRCA 1998

I

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]

II

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)

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.

IV

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.

V

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?

VI

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.

||||.

[Note: when years later I discovered the James P D Tucker sheet where pictures grew, and the pictures seemed to depict the lyric to one of my old songs, this is the song.]

VII

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]

VIII

MURDER 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.

Murder is dead,

murder is dead,

murder 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.

Murder is dead,

murder is dead,

murder is dead.

THE WISH OF NIGHT

Madness swirls deep in the heart

A butterfly resides in you

A tragedy of feelings lost

surrenders to the wish of night

& in this world I can't explain

I know exactly where I am

Inside a crevice of desire

In the dreamy air of a lover's scent

Wherever you take me, that's where I'll be

In the weeping skies my mind gives up

& falls into the arms of sleep

I'd fade to know I thought of you

& the world has risen to my hands

& the earth murmurs beneath my feet

& the light of all that's good is true

if believing is the dawn of dreams

I guess that I'm afraid to tread

The purple skies for the risk of a word

But at least I'm sure of fear

As she gives me the strength to feel afraid

A whisper fathomed deep in mine

Well I don't even care to cry

& I don't care to face the edge

& plunge into the oceans dead

& the flame of love has lit my candle

& the sky has echoed my desire

& all the air is drawn into my lungs

& I know the secrets of the shade

& I know the wars that come from peace

& I know the mystery of love

& I know the resilience of the soul

& I'm sure that knowing you is true...

I KNEW THAT SHE LOVED ME

I escaped last night

into a heightened dream

from a dull and longing sleep

and the stars murmured

their cool ballad

to the approaching sky.

Secrets hung like ghosts

in the corner of my wanton world

all blurred and drugged too deep

and I knew that she loved me

from her invisible motions

and the dagger in her soft reply.

The questions concealed in her eye.

Her smile a luring prison.

Her blink a beautiful danger.

Her breath a poisonous magic.

And I knew that silence

would soon let slip its whisper,

knew that fantasy

had never been so real

and I knew that she loved me

because I knew everything.

I knew.

DREAM WITH OPEN EYES

(by Secret Chord H originally and used as radio jingle circa 1999)

Last night it seemed we couldn't

sleep but maybe I was dreaming.

The world expands inside my

hands it's getting heavy.

Of all the treasures I could

choose I can't seem to decide.

Today the shade was washed

away where I would hide.

Dream with open eyes, come

below and we can fantasise.

Now that I’ve stopped telling lies, come

below and we can fantasise.

Last night it seemed we nearly

died but maybe I was dreaming.

It made me feel sooooooooooooo

alive and soooooooo in love.

Dream with open eyes, come

below and we can fantasise.

Now that I’ve stopped telling lies, come

below and we can fantasise.

TELEPATHIC ELEPHANT

Another, another, another fucking joint.

Another, another, another fucking joint.

Another, another, another fucking joint.

Another, another, another fucking joint.

Another, another, another fucking joint.

Another, another, another fucking joint.

Another, another, another fucking joint.

Another, another, another fucking joint.

Another, another, another fucking joint.

ALAS THE DAY

Alas the daaaaaaaaay doesn’t matter anyway

for there is a Night and heartbeats are bold

and hold me tight and Night is blessed

and filled with questions can not guess

what will happen next O maybe death 

then of course we’ll lie under fertile loam

but for now we’re miles away from home

O electric street I’m feeling New Beat

I feel the heat within my sensory atrophy

take out your eyes and see in all directions at once

the infinite cocks are fucking the infinite cunts

then of course we’ll know who sees something strange

and he will know when it’s time for a sea-change

TEACHER OF MY HEART

I have found you you're the Teacher

of my Heart there's only one one

and though my mind is endless old

my tender heart is foolish young

and my timeless impassion'd battles

of emotion have sooooon begun.

You have lost me in a Teachers

whisky bottle drinking down down

down the shipwreck IS the treasure

harboured in my pirate undertown

where visions of the real Unknown

await us there when we drown.

They have told me it's a T-shirt

that's the body worn by the soul

O to have to discorporate and wash

our eyes in the Fairy Liquid bowl

it's good for you to know a goal

there is no music from a black hole.

NO DEATH ONLY CHANGE

Don’t be afraid/ there is no death only change/ let’s pretend, let’s pretend/ there is no end of play/ tonight, tonight/ I only believe in tonight / so for once/ throw your cares and travel with me/ travel with me/ travel with me/ travel with me/ I for one/ have long gone/ out the door and far away/ down south/ mouth to mouth/ to exhume a brighter day/ live for this/ chance at bliss/ this kiss that wants to form/ on the air/ everywhere/ as the fungus sun beats down/ on the nervous under-town/ planes are the shoes of clowns/ yeah yeah yeah /

THE WARNING

(recorded through state of the art binaural earphones in The Flood and now online)

Going to meet with the Otherness,

best go get a party dress,

play a stone, live in the wilderness,

I'm going to beat with the Otherness.

Suddenly their brain is an alien visitation,

suddenly I am the imposter againe,

lying in secret wait of myself,

knife ready to treat the pain.

SAD HYPOCHONDRIAC

I know she's only a phone call away...

maybe she's got something to say?

Anyway by now her number's probably changed...

seems even numbers can't just stay the same.

You always used to say to me

“to love someone truly is to set them free” -

you always knew better than me

you always knew better than me.

I know she's only a daydream away -

transient rainbow not made to stay -

only made of sunlight and tears! -

beauty like that should last for years.  

You always used to say to me

“to love someone truly is to set them free” -

you always knew better than me

you always knew better than me.

I’m just a sad hypochondriac.

Just another shooting rock star in love with the black.

Don’t want to die of a sudden art attack.

I’m just a sad hypochondriac.

I'm just a sad hypochondriac.

I'm just a sad hypochondriac.

I'm just sorry for everything I lack.

I’m just a sad hypochondriac.

BAD DAY AT THE OFFICE

Such a bad day at the office

down the pub to get pissed

though I can't afford it

we'll never get a pay rise

stay up till sunrise

call in sick in the morning

spend the whole day mourning

underneath the covers

where the fuck is Batman

Sugar Candy Mountain

waiting for some action

heard it brings good fortune

papers want a scandal

tell them the truth

if you can handle

what a fucking headline

where in Hell is Tinkerbell

somewhere alone and dying

dawn calls in sick in the morning

what's the use in trying

don't believe in dying

it's shocking and appalling

it's four o'clock in the morning

and Paradise is boring.

PRIVATE DETECTIVES AND SECRET SPIES

I sleep in a hole for the Hoover tonight

there's always something not quite right

look at a wall it's not too hard to see

all the cracks and flaws beneath the paint

maybe all we need is to decorate the place

private detectives and secret spies

seem to have uncovered all of my lies,

scars and birthmarks beneath my skin,

should I sever my face with razor blades

to show you some ugly truth w/in

well maybe I should but I'd prefer to

score your flawless body with sin

like two new humans made for life

with default buttons to wipe any slate clean

and one of them man and one of them wife

in Crufts as it is in the black angel’s death song

INSTANT TRAVEL

[warning: contains voices]

Not far away in Magic Faraway Land,

there’s poetry written on the bank notes,

sadness gene is smitten with dreaming gland,

the God Particle foreseen in the dust motes...

I. T. might stand for Instant Travel too,

NHS for Lucy in the soul with demons,

H20 stands for your hypothalamus tattoo,

ESA for Extra Sensory Allowance -

so how about we take a long holiday there?

You buy yourself a ticket with the opposite of bling.

You’ll see through the frame of angel hair,

and might just need a love-song to sing.

Yeah yeah yeah, our love is the answer,

spinning in a circle around the tired sun,

waiting for the cure or vaccine for cancer,

seeming to be dreaming of the mid-day moon…

TRUE LOVE DOT COM

Dead clock plodding play a different song // we're waiting for some action and some change to come along // been waiting all night at true love dot com // you're only just starting to notice the mushrooms are still too strong // dead pedestrians thinking fumes stay in and get fat in your new chat rooms // we chase the wave forms of the dusky dawn w/ black shadow cat-prints going backwards on the lawn // and I confess my open heart is lying w/ her legs apart // and if she said she's in love w/ me I wouldn't go taking it personally // for love has no ego as everybody knows  and something inside me she's given me grows // and a playground swing on the vexed edge of life sighs empty and forever and out falls a leaf // and not into love does that green leaf fall where wet Westerly winds swoop and call // we are the glitter on the Christmas trees and not the litter in the filibustering breeze // and the E comedown has no value in maths // and the loonies all walk on the wrong paths // and the grass is green on the Other Side // it pulls the ropes of the evening tide.

TEST MONKEY IN B

We’re aliens looking for life on Mars

aliens trying to make life in jars

aliens homesick for the stars

trying to find home in the all-night bars

in a world with no more la di da’s

the sunset silts its knickers and bras

the night is bright with white guitars

the fat cats smoke their fat cigars

the wall inside is still the Tsar’s

I watch the passing of the cars

I’m through with reading inveterate scars

in a room resounding with loud hurrahs

THAT BLACK NATURAL E

[spoken word narrative for B minor]

Where once I wandered far and wide 

on a field-file, a file-field, 

a fenceless farm without 

security alarm where all hearts bleed

and all arts breed, now Hell

is very quiet, unadvertised.

McBreastmilk, 

McBreastmilk, 

don’t feed your kids.

Gentle face erasing cream,

smear it in and let it sink

down through the pores of your skin

to erase your deepest down dirt.

O stars the government

that truly speaks for us!

Get an extra kid for free

when you spend 99p.

Freefall 0800 down

your own black hole pupils.

Maybelline you maybe only make-believe

you may be the true mating queen of the hive,

may mad vampires stalk you,

stalking walls walk through

your vagrant dreams.

I see state of head

is more than Head of State.

Monster Munch can

always gobble up your food.

Cancerel can always 

sweeten the stewed-

carfume coffee we sip in 

this liminal afterlounge.

It’s getting cramped

as a tin of beans in here.

In emergency please 

break glass and exit.

Credits at the end of innocence

are falling like numberless lists

of fallen autumn leaves.

Snatched handfuls of light

come to nothing in the dark room.

There must be a use for 

this dust amounting.

There’s nothing like digging 

a meaningless hole as if to cure the 

spiralling lethargy of Hell...

and when I went into the 

woods to bury my soul, 

all the trees knelt down.

O perpetual orgasm of the sun! 

Privation is the mother of imagery.

Prayers, ghosts and 

e-mails chatter on 

the ego-loss breeze.

The chitchat in the solipsistic

kitchen of fiction is 'phatic'.

My new, motley fridge magnet

letters contain no question 

mark in the pack but the first

qualification of Modernism

is enquiry and furthermore

wilful ignorance is a sin.

Meanwhile outside the 

fallen Autumn leaves 

are where bears have 

dipped their feet in pots of paint 

and danced across the threshold 

of the paving stones.

Water clears its throat from the tap.

Gunpowder was only invented

for fireworks and a firework

is a champion sperm nosing up

blind to explode bright and wonderful

deep-sea creatures in the Ancient Night.

The world is a cool, bejewell'd

marble snug in Holy Orbit

suckling on a mother sun.

Supposedly there is soon

to be New Atlantis on the moon.

The cure for cancer 

sustains your heart.

Robbed by a bastard vending machine,

somewhere a tramp drinks paint-stripper 

to cleanse the doors of perception,

a drunkard attacks a wall

on an otherwise empty street,

a policeman forces himself

to come with a gun.

Hey salesman 

slow down 

with that

fast-food. 

I don't mind

waiting here

for a year. 

(2002)

LUCY IN THE SOUL WITH DEMONS

(warning: contains voices)

I no longer know if Lucy in the soul with demons

even happens to be an actual substance

but I know that acid can alter personality

and when home-made and strong be very scary.

Do not flinch at your own shadow when

you take its dark receipt into the glen

for panic in a wild stallion horse’s eye

can spread like wild-fire across the madding sky

where a digital wind of blue and green

blows in fake and chemical as glycerine

and the derangement of the senses can go

hang its head in shame, dear Master neo-Rimbaud.

AIR RAID SHELTER

(originally recorded on binaural earphones in The Flood but not used for their record)

Air raid shelter, we're in it together,

let's not get entrenched too deeply,

fear and pain's our only motivation,

got to break free from that habit apathy.

Clinging to loveless, sweaty, rubber limbs

won't cure your heart, it's a painful art,

air-raid shelter, we're in it together now,

wrap me away in your wombs and duvets.

See this world from outer space minor,

saaaaaaaaafe distances have found

all our solid, common ground,

echo grammanon habeo amore.

Won't your spaceships come to find me,

pull myself right back to the centre,

attack on all sides, hold you soooooo tight

now that there is noooooo time.

I’m just trying to forget how to smell acid,

and still it seems acid isn’t flaccid,

but I think that you’ll find I still

got there in the end somehow.

LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOUR

(recorded on binaural earphones in The Flood but not used on their album)

Love your neighbour till your girl gets home

I’m fleeing the town in my neighbour's clothes

love your neighbour in her underwear

I wonder what goes on under there

and you’d better repent

for all the money you spent

now you’re dove has been sent

Love your neighbour when you're all alone

I left my message on your answerphone

love your neighbour with her tricks and lies

ask no questions hear no lies

and you’d better repent

for all the money you spent

now you’re dove has been sent

Love your neighbour till the war is gone

I think they think that’s not fair on John

love your neighbour when the war is over

treat your neighbour like your long lost lover

and you’d better repent

for all the money you spent

now you’re dove has been sent

HUNGER

(recorded through binaural earphones by The Flood and now online)

I e I e I e have I e I e I e have

I e I e I e have I have Hunger

I'm a sick magnet I e I e I e I'm in want

maybe all I need is a new pair of shades

I'm a craving slave for you

your pleasure's dust your pleasure's just

your pleasure's just your suffering's bait

it's a sucker's fate for you

escape escape escape escape

your home your clothes and all you know

leave no footprint in the snow it's just a photo

escape escape escape your name

your stain your skin your dead routine

for the pristine dream for her

I'm going to get your freshness back

plug my senses in the mains

it's just a bloodrush to my brains

I'm going to get pretty much f***ed up

flee this world on a midnight plane

dance with the aliens and the insane.

[Note: opening riff co-authored w/ Mark and Tommo]

KUNK

(spoken word narrative to go over a drone of E)

Portability still seems the Apotheosis of Form: sometimes I can be walking along on a sunny day when I jump from the jungle to the Arctic to the Sahara. Mutation in consciousness itself, truth too simple to understand, these are gesture-without-motion-bones, like sadness gene and dreaming gland. It's not impossible to write an anti-poem. Love is not a mechanistic set of rules. Love was once aligned with madness, fever and intoxication. Love became grouped with language not God. Love became a tough word-combination. Love has no ego as everyone knows, and so it goes and so it grows. I for one think Lucy in the soul with demons may happen to be an actual substance. Travelling south, as I read Rimbaud, a rainbow smashed a railway train window. A baby cannot trip without memories... I remember “every atom ate our eyes.” Our eyes: they are ingrown in the ocean's bellyful of wine, down in the seabed-orchard. There is angelic music inborn in the inner ear; but those whom the Gods wish to drive mad are sent the end of ‘Bike’ in their heads and madness is not something to be Romanticised as a return to Purity. Impunity seems more what the poet wants. He likes to float on the artifice of organic emotions through synthetic sounds, and is into exploring alternative histories suppressed by the overarching meta-narrative. For plastic surgery of the soul there are libraries. Poetry is the bike riding itself. Monopoly money will get us well, Monopoly money will get us bread, she picks the blue tac off the wall and says “my T-shirt is red”. I put my wounds up on bright flags; I take the angel up the arse. To plug my senses in the mains might engage [!00 %] of my brains. It’s all about a permanent reactivation of the Glastonbury Festival spirit. John Tucker is taking acid again. Money shags in the dark. Thoughts of one’s greatness only diminish one’s greatness. Skunkfoot is putrid demons excreted through stone. Love an army of fire. Fire needs some incentive to rise up. Shall I touch my heart with a red Bic biro? When all the air in outer space is consumed… The bed in the wood, it was definitely a whore’s, with solar spike I can use the Force, with R2D2 I cleanse my doors, I’m just trying to win my Star Wars. I’m starting to think in five musical parts at once. The Anon Throwaway as a new form could become an alternative currency to rival with money for the role of the real. Formal education is not for everyone. The yellow DogMuckels M atop the pole in the industrial park is the postmodern churchspire in the spiritual vacuum. Postmodernism is theme dissolved into message. Giant killers are frozen peas in the microwave. I look into the mirror though I shouldn’t pool my sources. I’m not going to die at the age of twenty seven, watch the dreamtapes on repeat from a golden seat in Heaven. The heart beats to the rhythm of one. A fiver is surely cheese and onion flavour. Cataclysm is catalyst for the old cat that sat on the map of sound, just because the world is very round. If there were paper under my heart there would be writing on it and it would be art. I might ding it in compressed Space Age seconds.

(2002 - 2003)

SPACE IS BIG

Space is big

space is big

space is big

space is big

space is big

space is big

space is big

space is big

and the edge 

is the middle

and the middle

is the edge

is the middle

is the middle

is the edge 

John is gone

John is gone 

John is gone 

John is gone

John is gone

John is gone

John is gone 

John is gone 

and he left

his pink pyjamas

pink pyjamas

pink pyjamas

and he left

his pink pyjamas

they were on 

find a bridge

find a bridge

find a bridge

find a bridge

find a bridge

find a bridge

find a bridge

find a bridge

or we’ll never

live forever

live forever

or we’ll never

live forever

live forever

SYMMETRY LIPS

Symmetry lips   symmetry lips

kiss me quicks  need a fix

make me feel  natural and real

cuts heal  with a plastic seal

I’ve been in your heart  and danced in hot rain

I've been in your heart  and danced in hot rain

now consciousness  is everywhere

now consciousness  is sentient air

the sky falls  apart into place

I crave to sleep  behind your face

everything in its  proper place

live where the sky  and the river freely give

live where the sky  and the river freely give

BINAURAL EARPHONE MEDLEY

(some lesser known numbers by The Flood, some of which may have been recorded through binaural earphones but not used on their album)

Mumrah Greenback Skeletor Shredder Texas Pete Mr. Burns Deceptecons Vader Vader they were all there they were all there // you're playing you're messing you're fucking w/ the real // away away away away in farthest Spain, log on your brain, execute the plane // free the sparrows from the hedgerows nests and cages dissipating off to Africa calm equator sleep in frozen rock wake in sunburn I am the wind-cry robed in shadow // drug me sideways, drug me sideways, drug me north and south, drug me east and west, drug me all around, drug me sideways, // space is big and the edge is the middle and the middle is the edge and John is gone and he left his pink pyjamas on //  apple juice apple juice and sweet little pretty pink things apple juice apple juice and sweet little pretty pink things.

WE COULD BE SO HAPPY

(played at a gig on a rooftop in London, the last gig by The Flood)

Serotonin dopamine

no Codeine or Diazepam

I got ruin'd you got wrecked

let's just say yes to each other’s plans

we could be so ha ha ha happy

we could be so ha ha ha happy

Buproprion and Fluoxetine

a toooooooootal loss of all

language-is-thought-control

it's just some sedative we'll

hide away under snow

I wake up dying for some

junk food to save my hole

when all the money has run out

and our housing contract expires

and the pigs come to track us down

the night will be filled with burning fires

the night will be filled with screeching tyres

the night will be filled with burning lyres

we could be so ha ha ha happy

in the future that ain’t what it used to be

on a drug called Strictly Free

on the loss of the cannabis battery.

DOWN IN THE PATCH WORK QUILT BELOW

I like the light and the flight of arrows

I also love the sound of running water 

Down in the patch-work quilt below 

Where the river of sadness used to flow

It’s easy to trip up on a daisy 

Lazy of us to let it get this way 

Down in the patch-work quilt below

Where mad children splash and play 

Art gets to its feet like a cartoon Bambi 

She might go veggie for reasons of Disney

Down in the patchwork quilt below 

Where the ego-loss breeze can freely blow 

Heading down to the sea can free you 

No-one knows how to free you but meyou 

Down in the patch-work quilt below

Where we’ll inevitably have to flow

[N. B. co-authored with a little help from my brother Dr. Robert L G Tucker]

CHIEF OF THE BLACKBIRD SPIES

Well I fell up a sycamore tree

and nearly spilled my glass of wine,

and though nobody came for me

I didn't mind it I felt fine,

for I was trading stories

w/ the chief of the black bird spies

amongst new leaves and old branches

that don't know how to tell lies...

He said to forget the job,

sack the boss, and hang the cage

which containeth all your rage

for but the minimum wage.

I said it's easy for you

in your neighbouring Otherness -

be Nature custodial or frightening? -

to avoid the mad enemy Stress.

He said he finds it fun-loving

to tense-hop all around

for cataclysm is catalyst for the cat

that sat on the map of sound.

Quite soon he spread his wings

until his wings were spread

and flew to Morrisons supermarket

for a tamed and manner'd head.

He’d said he thinks privation

is the mother of imagery,

and inconsiderate violation

at the root of the creation of beauty.

We’d bemoaned a lost society

w/ all its malaise and cheap talk,

its word-ways no better than

cheep cheep squawk squawk.

We’d spoken in no uncertain terms

and out in the great outdoors

where Mother Nature operates

according to her natural laws.

When he left it grew quite quiet

for he was a tremendous talker

and had a way with words

and had said I would go far…

when I left his sycamore tree

I was glad to see my own home

and return to my own kind

near the beach that’s full of foam

but I remembered that black bird

and his eloquent influence

performing from the end of a branch

in ways that just made sense.

THE INDIVISIBLE KING

(a psych-trance number written on returning from The Secret Garden Party)

Who do you think’s the indivisible king?

His name is writ on a butterfly wing

A fireface moon and a frozen rock sun

Collide in a dream and the dyes start to run

But Hamlet’s been healed by a shaman with spells

And vowels are our souls and words can be cells

You are who you love and not who you are

So set the controls for the prettiest star

The wings of a butterfly will bear my weight

One can be savage and one can be great

My temple is simple it’s inside your brow

Each day is a new religion now

To sleep on the ceiling w/ feelings of love

Or sleep on the feeling w/ star-tracks above

Say is the wick worthy of the flame

And as play dies and becomes the Game

Is ecstasy mc squared or a dove

Is numbness to love just as painful as love

And while I’m uttering crushed butterflies

If you ask no questions you’ll hear no lies

LOVE ON SICKNESS BENEFITS

You'll bet I say this to all the fit girls

but I look at you and see only purple, silken swirls

I'd buy you troves of redolent flowers

the useless proof of a thousand hours

get out of my head, get into my bed, (baby)

To word/ hope/ dream you is not enough

you hit me w/ the pollen it has to be the real stuff

I'd sip from your eyes and taste your very name

like mother's home-made strawberry jam

get out of my head, get into my bed, [baby]

and we can chink pelvises like champagne flutes

atop the fell wearing leather walking boots

I see that your eyes are under-sea green

and dream I'm on some yellow submarine

get out of my head, get into my bed, [baby]

If love on sickness benefits can be done

it requires I imagine more co-imagination

and while I heard a poem is the opposite of bling

I don't need power just reasons to sing

get out of my head, get into my bed, [baby]

THE GREEN BLUES 

I read through the news, 

hats off to your blues,

a chimney falls under my head.

I stomach the wood 

that tastes very good, 

better than Jesus’s bread.

I glow for the coal, 

don't bury your soul, 

backwards in spire I get high.

I'd change for the house 

that's quiet as a mouse 

and emblazon my name in the sky.

I'd slip through the skin 

of a thesis as thin 

as the Rizla it's in and be born.

I'd light it and write it,

I’d burn and unlearn,

I’d even hairdress the dawn.

I'd sip on White Russians, 

on white and South African, 

and dance to 360 vision.

To take out my eyes and

see in all directions at once

is but one general direction.

OPTIMUS PRIME’S HOMETIME

(by Black Hole Myths)

The chainsaw of my heart has come undone, / blanes is a liquid knife by Mars, / winners are allowed fucks instead of FACE, / transphiloquising adimals and stars. / Clocktick clock being clocked off by clocktick, / clocktick clock not being clocked off by Time, / The Universal Mind’s moon meat man met, / and he said a little lamb being fed a bottle of milk is being chainsawed in the face by Optimus Prime. / Well the sun hanged himself from a length of daisy chain, / and it’s too late to sheathe your liquid knife, / Barnes has scored a chicken in the wood, / and wingers are allowed bikes in the afterlife. / You can taaaaaaaaaaake a horse to water but / you can drink the horse, drink the horse / and did those feet in ancient times / raindown and walk the sun? Of course. / Raindown and walk the sun? Of course.

WHISPER

(originally by Black Hole Myths when we were still called Funnelspirals)

I wanted to hear musac from a black

hole by Judas Priest but the guys

sent a parrot after a carrot and

through the conch to outer space

singing 'I won't always be an orange

just because you've sectioned me,

no I won't always be on Orange

just because you've sectioned me

but at any given time I'm working

in a crane' and Jesus said 'Syd by Ray

in a way Spiderman's handwriting

has been too obscene, I rake the

blade over the wishbone of my

legs Breakfast All Day/ gay

teachers can still lay eggs and

I won't always be a lemon just

because you've sectioned me,

no I won't always be on Lennon

just because you've session'd me

but at any given time Oedipus

is spying me up in the shower,

why I'll break the speed of speed,

rendered squander never priceless,

I'll never speed againe, at any given

time I'm a rare aquatic insect.'

(Hackney)

GROG LADETTE IN G

Baby we create the dawn

behind a veil where silence is born

and dawn conspires with the sea

and everything untrue recedes

and down into sleep with no dreams

and all that’s left is you and me

and all that’s left is you and me

no-one knows how to free you

eeeeeeeeeeexcept for meyou

no one knows how to free you

eeeeeeeeeeexcept for meyou

horserace books in traffic light

colours through the ancient night

in the end it’s all white

in the end it’s alright

ONTIMEY

If this thing were a woman

I’d be in trouble by now

and if it wasn’t I’d

be in double by now

like a witch she says

take FACE instead of fags

and then I put my

wounds up on bright flags

READING THE LESSON FROM JOHN IN ETON COLLEGE CHAPEL

Once upon a time there was an acid-rainbow

that struggled from a black hole and smashed through a window

of a big cathedral and landed on a page

and rearranged the sermon the vicar was enraged

O but then he found it bore a strange notation

and it was so profound he needed medication

and then the paper bread turned to acid which was nice

and everyone was singing music from a black hole by Jesus Christ

all the congregation gave their neighbours a nudge

and asked if every good boy still deserveth fudge

the wine it came in buckets through the back of the song

and even the vicar too, he started to sing along

3484, 3484, what do you need one of those for?

I was at the beach I threw a stone to the sea

to rearrange the day and the deity

no-one was beside me except the pretty dog

oozing and exuding uncomplicated love

voices from the city they were heard between the waves

like lost souls trapped in the cracks between the paves

then I saw the mystery of the single shoe

and knew that it was time to drop a line to you

you were off your face on something by this stage

said there’d been an accident and were hiding in the cage

and Barnes has scored a chicken and blanes is a liquid knife

and wingers are allowed bikes in the afterlife

3484, 3484, what do you need one of those for?

IN A FIELD KNEE DEEP IN GRASS

Lovers and tools are breaking their own rules in the game

mad children play unaware of the guilt and the shame

pirates are looting the world and riding the breeze

angels and thieves are kissing at the tips of the trees

and I’m in bed against you

wouldn’t bet against you

I’m in bed against you

shouldn’t bet against you

if all that I’ve loved is a bunch of telly snow

still you can’t take away the afterglow

Science says don’t touch your dreaming gland

it’s all Thumper to you VS Edward Scissorhands

and I’m in bed against you

I wouldn’t bet against you -

I’m in bed against you

shouldn’t bet against you

and I’m in bed against you

I wouldn’t bet against you

I’m in bed against you

and b equals d

[Note: this song seems to be concerned in part with a tape of Pearl Jam ‘VS’ that has a pause where cut and stuck together in the reel.]

BIRTHDAY OF I. A.

You’re not a knock-kneed hummingbird, / you’re not a birthday of I. A, / and who you are I’ll never know now, / and if I did I’d never say… / I am your med-banging elephantine, / and I cry on the windows of trains, / and maybe all I need’s a length of, / need’s a length of metal chain… / and through it all I wish you rainbows, / made for two and very strange, / and somehow what’s most familiar, / is what really can estrange you, / rearrange and slowly derange you, / oh yes it most definitely can. / So don’t run in the corridor / or you’ll sin in the eyes of Santa / as he watches on.

ICE CREAM VAN

(by Black Hole Myths)

Here comes the ice cream van

selling songs for the deaf

vanilla flavour or bitumin #

and liquid crystal meth

Here comes the ice cream van

he'll give you a gun for a grand

and everyone queues up

to join his merry band

CHEESE DREAMS

Di di dit di di dit di di dit dit dit

Di di dit di di dit di di dit dit dit

Di di dit di di dit di di dit dit dit

Bring bring

bring bring

“Hello?”

Gold member, you're the one,

the one with the heart of gold

Vowels, pure vowels 

Immanuel Kant

will come to thee 

with immanence

You come home smacked up you come

d/ d/ d/ down

grooving up slowly

d/ d/ d/ down

grooving up slowly

d/ d/ d/ down

grooving up slowly

yeah yeah yeah

yeah yeah yeah

yeah yeah yeah

boom

boom

boom

boom

boom

how did we get down here from flat-top

wide tunnel cities self driving cars

bears in the moon and liquor and drugs

and whisky baaaaaaaaaaaars

boom shanka, you're the one,

the one with the sonic boom

knickers knickers faster than lightning

skin up fall out of bed

and did those feet

in ancient times

rain down, rain down,

come on raindown

and walk the sun

fatter, hippier, less well connected

always walk the hallways

down to create my own

and in the meantime

and in the meantime

I'll do the monkey bars with my legs

manic depression has enraptured my name

don't know what I want but I just want shame

don't know what I want but I just won't shave

rainy waif, rain always,

lay back and dream

on a rainy waif

now I know how Kurt Cobain sang

oh now I know how Kurt Cobain sang

no more laaaaaaaaaa la's

removal van canes will be turned into furniture

we're thinking of putting Tricky's name on the front sir

you never see me dead near an inch of closure

|| | |||| | || | |||| 909 and 693 are wings

“and a record made of sound

goes round and round, conveying

music to the speaker through the stylus,”

says the radio as I turn it on.

Well, although there is no

such thing as the Nirvana barcode

it opens up a discussion about

the Telepathic Walkie Talkie, how

if barcode is rain barcode is phone...

and at least I have

the grace to come

back and say that the

extinction of consciousness

has no monetary value.

It is past dawn

and I see that

that first mobile

phone has gone.

THE NEW BEAT

Door the case fluff the line feel the last dull the white hone the drift dawn the most deaf the ear

grope the bread fee the seat blue the ticket dream the lemon boat the weed I watched myself today in postures of raw decay because there was nothing else to do mine the brick dwarf the vote peace the bull D the random renew the two widen the road steal the wings gate the lane mean the scene send the head rend the Hell roll the ball I watched myself today in postures of raw decay because there was nothing else to do visual radio was on in the car and bike and train and bus and lorry and van visual radio was on in the boat and tractor and plane and train and truck

(C/ Em/ G/ F/ G/ C)

THE POWER-BALLAD OF MARTIN VICIOUS

[warning: contains voices]

I can see death and see flippers

coming out of his senses and say

“come closer you f***ing terrorist,

come closer you f***ing terrorist,

come closer you f***ing terrorist.”

It's because I live a life of all time leisure,

all drugs pure and the radiance just right.

I might be wrong but then I might.

Score some dodgy crack and die

here alone with nobody for a name.

I can be Proust and fathom ten

or eleven types of ambiguity and

rue them all cantankerously,

rue them all cantankerously,

rue them all cantankerously.

It's because I live a dream of my still

working, all love pure and trust in the night.

I might be wrong but then I might.

Score some dodgy crack and die

here alone with nobody for a name.

HOW TO BREAK THE LIGHT SPEED LAW OF NEUROPLASTICITY

You're The Juggernaut that's what you are

walk like an Egyptian and wriggle your little wing

like a winged chainsaw flying up in the cloud

swoop down and seal my soul and everything

For I'm the witness of this scene

I've read the pages of orange and green

I've got to keep my new yellow T-shirt clean

otherwise I'll offend the mating queen

On Grand-darth's Ship I went off a-sailing

suffice to say your horror-packet is served

and when I get back I think I'll give you a ring

for it's the least that you my demon have deserved

For I'm the witness of this scene

I've read the pages of orange and green

I've got to keep my new yellow T-shirt clean

otherwise I'll offend the mating queen

and when you score such a radical goal

it stays w/ you in your open, Holy soul

and you get no money and get no headlines too

but you've done what someone's just got to do

THE SUPERSTRING GUITAR

Cool white is the highnote if it's up to me,

cascading down to the deep blue sea -

will blue trousers over the trouser blues

fall down on the Excellent News?

Music penetrates is-ness,

renovates sensation's quest.

Out in the desert the pigeon-stars

ripe w/ new creatures won't bring out the Tsars.

Water splits but the desert's dry.

Stonemouth silence chewing gums by.

Why the high note seems to be white

is the sideways gravity in the smile of night.

The Super String Guitar was electric and was smashed.

Transcendence is the dream of anything squashed.

“You're going to get a dog w/ a laser brain.”

L to the pregnant snorkel = mc squared.

Impairing the wild pear tree to tears.

Impairing the wild pear tree to pears.

Flutter in the sideways gravity of the smile of light.

Phew for a minute there you lost the screen.

E = L to the pregnant snorkel.

E = L to the pregnant snorkel.

L to the pregnant snorkel = mc squared.

Flutter in the sideways gravity of the smile of light.

ONE

If you dabble with the alphabet

You swallow the frogspawn of O’ Neil

If you follow sweetness-sweetness

You end up in the back of the real 

If you fall asleep with Ulysses

You might dream of a new song

If you ever wake up againe alive

You’ll see song is where you belong

If you ever get stuck on a verse 

There’s always tea and then the bat 

If you deem this to be your quarter of

The pancake mix then that is that 

If your dream’s too full of imagery 

You might need to wake up fast

If you’re on strong medication now

Your demons could be a thing of the past

If we deem your dream book trite

We’ll put some thought into it

If we rename the days of the week  

We might go more slowly through it 

If it’s ten at only ten to seven 

Then it’s still getting to be eight 

If we’re still on the road to Heaven

Let’s not be early, let’s turn up late.

THE TRIAL

(by Black Hole Myths)

It’s typical to get stuck behind a tractor

when there’s somewhere else you’d rather be

with someone nice that’s a Strange Attractor 

as they call them in Chaos Theory 

then the smell of muck-spreading fills the air

as you’re overtaking the slow coach 

back down in town it’s a cruel situation 

it’s a rush to be going nowhere fast 

around about here they call me a seer 

and my squalid squat is a thing of the past 

I miss the city when I’m up in the Lakes 

I miss the country when I’m down in the city too 

I’m always nibbling on mother’s fairy cakes 

I’m happy moving on to something new 

the grass is always strong on the Other Side 

but it’s not good for short term memory 

even up here where the light is so clear

there’s a dealer whose clues can enlighten 

it’s been said before and I don’t wish to bore

but the heart of the sun can frighten 

man I love the supple light in spring 

I love the beck and the birds and flowers too 

I cannot wait for compress sans everything 

but I love dawn’s hundred hues of blue 

to meet the wheel and sing of synchronicity 

and laugh at Flarf in the meanwhile 

even the eel is learning to feel 

and the lay of the land is a playground 

come with your team into the hot dream 

when the band have found their true sound

[Note: co-authored with my imaginary friend Matt]

ICARUS UNBOUND

(a finger-picker in the drone of G)

I really love you my friend Mark,

don’t get me wrong I am not gay,

it’s just a way for me to start,

it’s just something to say…

placing bets on raindrops running

down the opaque window pane,

I have been a melting robot,

then they said I was insane...

there you are across the water,

living on the Isle of Man,

if only my attention-span could

be more like Peter Pan...

you’re the one who taught me de-tunings,

stairs down to The Velvet Underground,

I am the one in love with Flora,

and that fertile map of sound...

you say it’s got too late to make it,

I hear you crawl through new air,

but I was never one to fake it,

I for one don’t really care...

in your room was a very high ceiling

and I remember it was bright,

I can almost taste the loving feeling,

even though now it is Night...

you could not tell if the vocal

in Aphex Twin was a demon

so made us listen to Nick Drake when

on another easy comedown...

lines are blurred in drug-slurred idiom.

lyrical streaks now open up.

I’m thinking of youth which has now flown.

but I’ve still got a little plastic cup.

THE SWITCH THROWN

Blessed may be the end at last

under the sea

below the soul

in the upside-down

Oceans above us

(all that heaven sends is rain)

and blessed is the rain that heaven sends

it is the life for the gilly flowers

some might say

it even falls up

and you’re going to have to think againe

for a clock’s only as fast

as a wounded cheetah

who knows how to

get drunk on cold Wifebeater

but gets drunk instead

on the rhythm and metre

O love thanks

for coming round,

O love cherish

your map of sound,

O love I dreamt that

we were drowned

I made such a mess it’s wasn’t cool

but at least I didn’t

give it away

that music is

the sacred pool

or whatever else I had to say

it’s half past four but then again

the Night is young

the switch is thrown

whatever could

the poor boy mean

he means his heart is yours to own

(N. B. co-authored with my bro Mr. James P D)

THE POSTMODERN ID

I’m thinking about the old days,

how the hippies are not ageless as the sun rays,

I’m thinking about the ideals of 60’s,

and though I don’t believe in pixies

the effect of global warming on the unicorn

succeeded Piper At The Gates of Dawn,

the summer rain falls with as many hands,

as there are names for new rock bands...

I’m thinking about the imminent future,

there has to be a place still for Nature,

thinking about the state of poetry,

the young light has dawned on me...

the effect of global warming on the unicorn

succeeded Piper At The Gates of Dawn,

the summer rain falls with as many hands,

as there are names for new rock bands.

I’m trying just to think about the present,

and how my life could be so pleasant,

don’t want to be distracted in daydreams,

by a woman as lovely as the sunbeams...

the effect of global warming on the unicorn

succeeded Piper At The Gates of Dawn,

the summer rain falls with as many hands,

as there are names for new rock bands.

I’m thinking about the doors of perception,

how literature is beautiful deception,

you might find the bedroom is hidden,

you might find the dawn is unbidden...

the effect of global warming on the unicorn

succeeded Piper At The Gates of Dawn,

the summer rain falls with as many hands,

as there are names for new rock bands

so try to pass the gravy over

Facebook now and be free.

Don’t know what a Dorian Mode is,

but I know who Toad of Toad Hall is,

and the lady in my life is all missing,

and the music’s only meant for kissing.

SONG OF THE NEON DAWN

X-ray specs don’t lead to sex

and mobile phones don’t have gay undertones

and television is a big decision

and the internet can’t just forget

and laser beams are born in dreams

and digital clocks don’t come in flocks

and Ableton Live is my nine to five

and the latest App is an angel’s lap

and I sing for Kate whose always late

and I write the Night until it’s white

and my vertigo lives down below

and my neon dawn will be reborn

and we’ll renew the morning dew

and Google our senses out there like a tide

and dream of love aloft on wings

and try and forget the nights we cried

and the alphabet is the suicide note

of Nelly the Elephant if you deem it true

and love’s gone veggie over Disney again

and the grass is green and the sky is blue

and E is a bet with the myriad mind

and I’ve seen so much I’ve gone blind

and a poem’s a seat where you sit and eat

and a driverless car has gone quite far

and a use for dust is a beautiful bust

and the wheel of a bike is a map of the Lakes

and a rugby match is quite a catch

and an abandoned band is written in the sand

and a red skin cell is a state of Hell

and sadness seems the mother of dreams

but maybe that’s the other way round

and a flower grows just for your nose

FIZZY POP

I’m a clown, I’m a clown,

a clown in the circus of death.

I had a mate who sent the words

“Liquid Crystal Meth”

into space, into space,

and I was underneath it,

shower down, shower down,

make me feel alright.

No-one knows, no-one knows

what I went through in life.

The sadness shows, the sadness shows,

the trouble and the strife,

but under the stars, under the stars

I dream of love eternal,

shower down, shower down,

make me feel alright.

Fizzy pop, fizzy pop,

gets drunk in Monopoly Jail,

time goes slow, ever so slow,

as slow as a garden snail,

but ecstasy is a teddy bear

back in the garden of Eden,

I don’t mind, I don’t mind,

if you let me off my chains.

HOPE

(part of a spoken word piece by Black Hole Myths)

As I lie around careless of a map of sound

I love the lie of the land

where quiet gilly flowers

curtsey like ballerinas.

Streaming is vision.

Bees pollinate the garden,

birds pepper the lawn

where you let your flowery

blouse come all undone,

and a ray of light

soaks us all around.

The sky is a blouse of blue

hanging on the line.

Harmony thrums and

the sentient air is everywhere.

I lie back without a care,

sunlight blowing my hair about,

without a grey shade of doubt,

and deem it lazy of us

to let it get this way,

a day of careless play,

a carelessly radiant day,

all my troubles float away.

FLOWER-PRESS LOVE POEM MUSIC

If a flower-press ending on cannabis 

could seem to equal a dialysis 

then a love poem hoping to impress Flora 

could seem to equal more a motor 

but giving up weed in order to be free

I can’t see how this really matters to me

and if it’s a system I just love you still

and love has not gone under the green hill

if all the noise in the world would be quiet

I’d hide in the cupboard during the riot

if systems rule with fear not love

I’d half it and laugh it with an imperfect dove

here I am at the foot of Sea Ness

this anagram of boredom is in a mess

I’m all set up for a walk on the beach

to watch the waves rolling out of my reach

I trust my family and I trust my friends

I hope my dog’s life never quite ends

the kitchen is clean because I cleaned it myself

my father’s philosophy is up on the shelf

if all the greed in the world would go away

I’d still be Bede at the end of the day

if power is wrong at least it’s transient

a birthday came and a birthday went

and this is the me we all want to see

and this is the way I know to be free

and this is the Now that is in Eternity

and this is the leaf that came to the tree

if the wording of this little contract is mine

alas you are not but I’m still feeling fine

I’ve seen the stars that are out tonight

I’ve tried to forget exactly what colour is white

I’m drifting to E on the end of a stick

I’m searching my memory but it’s just a block

if only I could hold you in my arms

I’ve fallen for all your loquacious charms

CHOCOLATE DOG

MY DOG HAS GOT NO BRAIN,

MY DOG IS A TOTAL PAIN,

HE'S GOT THREE EYES

AND A BIG FAT NOSE

AND GETS HIMSELF TANGLED

WITH THE GARDEN HOSE,

HE ONCE TOOK A PILL

THAT MADE HIM ILL

AND EVER SINCE THEN

HE'S BEEN STANDING VERY STILL.

PRIVATE

Squawk squawk gaggle gaggle,

squawk squawk gaggle gaggle,

squawk squawk gaggle gaggle,

squawk squawk gaggle gaggle,

bongles has still got the stones,

bongles has still got the stones,

bongles has still got the stones,

bongles has still got the stones.

Squawk squawk gaggle gaggle,

squawk squawk gaggle gaggle,

squawk squawk gaggle gaggle,

squawk squawk gaggle gaggle,

bongles has still got the stones,

bongles has still got the stones,

bongles has still got the stones,

bongles has still got the stones.

(1994)

FRAGMENTS FROM THE ROAD TO HEAVEN BY NOJ AND THE MOB

L to the pregnant snorkel + Ossie the dog, he should be sleeping like a log, goes round and round, chasing his own tail, only goes upstairs for a trail of Maltesers, nice, round and pale... “we’re on the road to Heaven, happiness awaits us there.” Flutter in the sideways. Flutter in the sideways. Bring your brief fling with the politics of flight. There’s no such thing as the Nirvana barcode. Sullen, silken sulks, we drink the same rain, spit is clean and so is dirt.

THE FIRE-DANCE

The fire-dance dwelled in electric drums

where ecstasy fell soft fathoms to clap

and bells let peace form in blue notes

and peered at deer in the wood and ate of it

and wet let excellence sound out its criticism

and dawn let sting its unsheathed sting

and chloroform in the heart let see

if only Game Over was seen in nights.

A SMALL ADVERT FOR FREE SEX

My name is David Bonky,

I'm a knock-kneed hummingbird,

there's a tear up my jacket

and I heard a very strange word:

Trans/ philo/ quis/ ation.

I fly through colours and shapes.

Lightspeed is my passport.

The countries are for apes.

A knock-kneed hummingbird

table on which to land and read

does not seem to me to be

such an unreasonable need.

I'll breakfast on snooker colours,

spark a dullard cigarette,

sail the wind of change and

have no room for regret.

I deem it quite Romantic

to go do the monkey bars 

with my legs into her open

chamber underneath the stars. 

I think love is both the all-

seeing eye and love is blind.

So wear an emotional condom

before you fuck my mind.

For that’s what language is,

the emotional condom of

the world into which we’re

all thrown in search of love.

Soon I must fly on, from

this gnarled treefinger perch,

and heal the glitch in the soul,

and join the Giant Search.

I don’t know what we’re

searching for but it’ll find us first.

Maybe just some peace and

quiet to slake the eternal thirst.

(reconstructed)

HIGH, HOW ARE YOU?

Oh high, how are you? I’m high and I’m new.

Oh high, how are you? I’m high, and I’m through.

Here you come with your candle eyes

and your big horizon and your higher skies

here you come with a beautiful smile

I’m going to talk to you for a little while

oh high, how are you? I’m high and I’m new.

Oh high, how are you? I’m high, and I’m through.

Here you are with your hopeful stance

and your lucky star and your backward glance

here you are in the eye of my mind

let’s hope we don’t go completely blind

oh high, how are you? I’m high and I’m new.

Oh high, how are you? I’m high, and I’m through.

There you go, with you angel tear,

and your brand new car getting into gear,

there you go, with your perfect skin,

can’t wait until you come back again

oh high, how are you? I’m high, and I’m new.

Oh high, how are you? I’m high, and I’m through.

[reconstructed]

POETRY BUTTONS

Smart guitars between the stars

allow the ladies burn their bras

I don’t ask for whom the beck

puts a necklace on her neck

let us have a go then, you and I

when we are tired of getting high

piss on the dawn when dad is dead

poetry buttons are in my head

poetry buttons for endless revisions

and helpless self-derisions

got to keep the quavers at bay

got to make the monster go away

the monster is not me

he lives beneath the deep blue sea

when all the air in outer space

is consumed without a trace

through a prodigious systematised

detuning of the strings we rise

would you compare me to a tramp

now my face is on a stamp

the poet makes himself a tea

now he’s a mystic visionary

poetry buttons for endless revisions

and helpless self-derisions

got to keep the quavers at bay

got to make the monster go away

the monster is not me

he lives beneath the deep blue sea

voices voices everywhere

and yet not a drop to think

think of England when you’re on

drink of physical hyperlink

all the world is on a page

where we spend our petty wage

engage with the dark night of the soul

that dreams in meaning like a troll

poetry buttons for endless revisions

and helpless self-derisions

got to keep the quavers at bay

got to make the monster go away

the monster is not me

he lives beneath the deep blue sea

UP IN THE SKY

I heard the one about the mad, stifled witness,

taking a bullet for any old her,

he took a long flight over the ocean,

had to change flight while up in the air…

don’t you know that’s not technically possible -

a dog is a dog is a dog is a dog!

Maybe the gap between us is impassable

but I’d still upload my brain to your blog.

A bird now flies outside my window.

It must be guns that caused the dispute.

A waif in a safe is a bimbo in limbo

and a poet in Italy should wear a suit...

O don’t you know our love could be beautiful -

a dream is a dream is a dream is a dream!

Maybe the gulf between us is impassable

but I’d still go with you to the extreme.

My dog’s got dementia, my dog is insane.

My dog’s got dementia, my dog is insane.

My dog’s got dementia, my dog is insane.

My dog’s got dementia, my dog is insane.

HEARTBOOK

We’ll never take E on a green,

Glastonbury hillside ever again,

never see Love playing through dark,

aviator Ray-Bans after the rain,

we’ll never be young as we once were

and looking back I know it’s all gone,

the real E’s a she and she is not free,

but we can converse while you’re on a plane

flying over the Atlantic ocean

you message me online full of emotion

to say new material has emerged

I tell you’ve never done anything

which you need to apologise to me for,

you kept me in food when in Berlin

I spent my last money on a whore,

Everything happened back in the day

and we isolate bits to form a narrative,

everything that is except for work,

and we used to say live and let live

flying over the Atlantic ocean

you message me online the ball still in motion

to say new evidence has emerged

If work sets you free I will never feel

freedom not like I did back in the day,

the day we were young, you and me

playing in the band, whatever we used to play,

and only the songs seem to survive,

the poems don’t seem to want to last,

and I’m trying to learn Ableton Live,

and get your message like a blast from the past

flying over the Atlantic ocean

you text me online w/ a true notion

to say unheard music by us has emerged

BAXTER

I love my dog

he’s barking mad

when he wants to smile

he wags his tail

his uncomplicated love

is healing for the soul

he has seventy words

like the book with smell

I wonder what the others are

maybe later I’ll know

mashed potato and stew

and a Pizza Hut

and the waves of the sea

go round and round

swim in mystery

but do not drown

ice cream is nice

on Freedom’s shore

so is sugar and spice

and more and many more

and so it came to pass

that I sat in a room

with the dog by my side

and the music on

and I’ve got the dog blues

yeah I’ve got the dog blues

which only means

I’ve nothing to lose

and the stream of life

flows on and on

and a cup of tea

awaits in the kitchen

and the dream of love

has not quite died

and I feel assured

deep down inside

because I love my dog

he loves me too

what more do I need

don’t need to sniff glue

to feel all high

when I have fresh air

and the Emperor has

abdicated againe

and a nice long sleep

will reunite me

with planet earth

at the end of the day

what more can I say

THE STAIRCASE

Once upon a time I was spiked

and thought I could fly

jumped right out of a window

and fell through the sky

somehow managed to land

on my smelly size 12 feet

seven stories below on

the heaving city street

now I tour the public schools

giving talks to forewarn

all the youths about drugs

in the world where they’re born

taking LSD can change

your innate personality

take it from me please never

take the drug they call LSD

Splinter was the master of

the Turtles in the kids cartoon

and now he’s dead and he’s gone

beneath the morning moon

and I’m so sad to hear of that

for loss is painful in the heart

so may we all remember

him in our chosen art

Sitting at the back was a

boy whom I instantly knew

would do everything which

I had pleaded with him not to do

puffing on a cigarette

making all the others laugh

maybe he’ll grow up to be

a kind of talking giraffe

When I fell I broke both legs

and did some damage to my spine

but I can walk if only slowly

and am in my headspace fine

I can still sing but not dance

which I never did much anyway

and I sing about health over

wealth at the dawn of this day

THAT’S WHAT YOU GET WHEN YOU OPEN YOUR MOUTH

When the noxious toxins fade away

what’s left of the day is probably good

is probably you the self that’s true

the real feelings which the poet should translate

I spoke against September 11^th in

the year 2000 but I soon forgot

because of the drugs we always took

and now I don’t think I’ll forget again

Such helpless fecundity of prescience

went across the board (there were other things)

for I spotted the pattern before it formed

and the CIA have now suggested why

If your dad is an international art smuggler

nicknamed Blue it can become

a new sense through which you can read

of future events as I did many times

They were testing times the days of my youth

and I can’t see myself taking E again

and to look back makes me nostalgic now

makes me wistful for a day that has flown

The scene was a happening for a while

and I was a light, was a go-to man,

but for all that I’ve done and all I’ve said

I was still diagnosed and that will last for life

I’d say that to be on the crest of the wave

was very Heaven then and for a time

and I harnessed waves that have passed

through the Beat poets themselves in time before

It’s a battle now just to write the words

but back in the day they used to say

I was good at them, I was good at them,

and I think I improved when it became too late

Of all the lines I came out with back then

I still kind of like the Rimbaudian idea

that oceans smile with liquid eyes

and fill themselves with rain

But that one is probably just to give voice to

an ancient silence I have found

and now the ground is rushing up

to meet me as I hurtle towards middle age

Sometimes your ordinary speech is

surreal enough to qualify as verse and

sometimes your verse pertains to

nothing but the condition of ordinary speech.

Some have said that I am the lion

from the heart of Poem Records and

that my name has been tattooed on

Track Five of Piper At The Gates of Dawn

FAREWELL TO THE SEER OF SEA NESS

Farewell to the seer of Sea Ness -

see you later when the future is less.

What will you do about your trance?

Will you send a postcard from France?

I hope that you have a lot of fun…

I hope that you may find someone -

and the scenery streams by the train

and the world is small beneath the plane

Farewell to the seer of Sea Ness -

see you in the future when the past is less.

Will the future there be quite cold?

Will you feel sad and feel old?

I hope that your dreams all come true.

I hope that there’s hope for you too -

and the dreams stream beside the car -

and you make it Westwards quite far.

Farewell to the seer of Sea Ness -

see you in the light we might bless.

Will the visual radio still swirl?

Will you still blame it on the girl?

I hope that your heart will beat on…

I hope that your hope’s not all gone -

and the freedom you find is the best,

and the beauty you dream is a quest.

Farewell to the seer of Sea Ness -

see you in the middle released from the stress.

Will the sound of silence be heard?

Will they hide the mystic bird?

I hope that your love arrows down.

I hope that you don’t hit the brown -

and the light will puncture you

and the good life will still be true.

WAVETABLE IN C

I remember when my mnemonic for the guitar strings was Even A Dick Gets Big Erections… now I don’t need one, I’ve heard a better one from a fellow autist, high-functioning autist – Even A – no – er - Every Acid Dealer Gets Busted Eventually. At the moment I’m on James’ red electric. I remember when he got it for Christmas and I got an acoustic, a Fender, an expensive one, and I wanted to be Kurt Cobain so I was annoyed that I got an acoustic not an electric. I was upset and offended my parents. And now here I am playing on James’ red electric. As I say my mnemonic used to be Even A Dick Gets Big Erections, but this one’s in C. I’ll leave it up to you to work out what that means. Your guess is as good as mine. It could be for countryside. It could be for court case. It could be for caliphate. It could be for civilisation. It could be for completion of the soul.

WALKING THE BEAT

(impromptu spoken word piece)

Women can be very beautiful

they can be sharp-elbowed too

they think when we discern their beauty

we are being blinded by love

love is a banana custard to them

man’s highest emotion to me

but single is my jingle these days

I sleep on a single mattress

if I ever do sleep that is

the dog’ll be beside me

he’s a symbol of gravity

and humour and katabasis

it’s been a while since I’ve been in love

and what lovely dresses they can wear in summer

ones with floral patterns on

that come all undone -

it’s winter right now

winter has her compensations

I’m sitting in a coffee-cake dining room

there’s a Christmas tree

adorned with baubles and bright white lights

I suppose they should come down

it’s the 2^nd of January

Bertrand Russell’s History of

Western Philosophy is on the table

some chocolate from Finland

some baccy some papers

some of my mother’s driftwood art

Quality Streets which my dad

used to call Quantity Streets

and what else I don’t know

a toothbrush that hasn’t been opened yet

BONECHINA DRUM

Where has all my washing gone?

Maybe it has gone to Heaven!

Mirrors on the street rebound.

Everyone is happy and free.

My dream-meet experiment tended there.

Not the local DogMuckels.

All walks of life were gathered and one.

To wake from the dream is to die.

That’s when you put on your socks.

Unless they’ve gone into the sock void.

Don’t mind me I’m paranoid.

I’ve got some bizarre ideas.

If a clock is only as fast as a cheetah

I. T. might stand for Instant Travel

but I’ll pad downstairs and drink a cup

only at my own slow speed.

YELLOW MELONS

[spoken word narrative for lo-fi backing or maybe even Moogwash]

“I was staring at two melons in the fruit bowl, and thinking of an ex gf’s gorgeous breasts – like precarious water balloons - and getting turned on – and then I found two insects walking across the melons. Now there’s a melon for each insect – they seem to have separated as if Nature is playing out the roles we played in our relationship. Ted Hughes meets Darwinian science. I like a cheese Ploughman’s in the cafe in the Natural History Museum. Now one of the insects has gone. I stare again and ignore the insect and focus on the big yellow melons as if they were breasts. Her breasts were genuinely as big as these melons and beautiful. She gave great head on the double bed. Thought women should play in the Premier League. The Union Jack should be pink she thought as well. I never told her my story but there was nothing to tell. I never thought I’d be as turned on as I am now by a pair of literal melons and I feel nervous too. As if I am performing for a camera or on a stage. I might get criticised for example and cry. One insect is going for a walk on the left breast – left that is if they face you. I don’t think I am ever going to get to shag her again. Orgasm’s tides lap on sleep’s crumbling biscuit shore. Reconciling pre and post orgasmic consciousness you can fall asleep.”

THE NEW SNOWMAN

We are the velvet e’s,

we’re shitting in Cuntington’s letterbox,

the valley road below,

beneath us as we fly.

We are the velvet e’s,

we’re shitting in Cuntington’s letterbox,

the valley road below,

beneath us as we fly.

Blissful Lovingness is

where all religions meet.

On the corner of the street.

I am the Burger King,

I can eat anything.

Especially a Double

Whopper with cheese -

and in reality the killer

stayed up all night.

STAVING OFF THE WASTED YOUTH

Please wait while you are on hold,

your secret world will not be sold,

and while you work out what’s gone on,

we’ll treat you to a song.

A cow has sat upon the throne,

and said to travel by Smartphone,

for all connection should be long,

and the maths you do is not wrong.

Thank you for waiting while I love you,

thank you for searching for the truth,

there’s only one God above you,

w/ medicine for a wasted youth.

You’ve been placed in a long queue,

but everyone’s in love with you,

procrastinate and find your crest,

I think your love is best.

The mashed potato that you ate

could sell for millions in the Tate,

and London renews sensation’s quest,

to put your mind at rest…

Thank you for waiting while I love you,

thank you for searching for the truth,

there’s only one God above you,

w/ medicine for a broken tooth.

ECSTASIA

Ecstasia, it will find you,

ecstasia will track you down,

wearing your bro’s blue T-shirt,

somewhere in a different town…

a comedown can be difficult,

a comedown can really hurt,

but it’s going to be easier

in your brother’s blue T-shirt.

Love, it will wound you

then forgive you all the same,

and one day death will find you,

and nobody is to blame...

I’m waiting at the foot of Black Combe,

I’m waiting for my true love,

and E has no value in maths

when you come down from a Dove…

FULHAM F. C.

Fuck you fuck you

we are the best

we are the best

we are the best

Fuck you fuck you

we are the best

we are the fucking best

Fuck you fuck you

we are the best

we are the best

we are the best

Fuck you fuck you

we are the best

we are the fucking best

Fuck you fuck you

we are the best

we are the best

we are the best

Fuck you fuck you

we are the best

we are the fucking best

Fuck you fuck you

we are the best

we are the best

we are the best

Fuck you fuck you

we are the best

we are the fucking best

FABLE

How much is that druggie in the window,

he’s washing off Steve’s holographic beard,

in the totally powerless shower,

he’s making me feel pretty weird,

blah blah black sheep

have you any wool?

Yes Sir, yes Sir,

ten fucking kilos…

How much is that druggie in the window,

I think he’s gone beyond the pale,

they made him a living art installation,

and he wishes he’d stuck to the ale,

blah blah black sheep

have you any wool?

Yes Sir, yes Sir,

ten fucking kilos…

How much is that druggie in the window,

the vision I had has grown dim,

I can particle accelerate Nothingness,

but I can’t write a poem like Jim,

blah blah black sheep,

have you any wool?

Yes Sir, yes Sir,

ten fucking kilos.

HEY MAN HEY

Hey man hey what do you

have to say about today?

These new pube-shaving,

lecky-saving times?

The air seems slightly strange

to me in all honesty,

but I’m just a guy

that plays hide and seek with rhymes.

I lost my teddy in the void

when I was paranoid,

now all I am is all I owe...

at least I dared to dream

unlike a mechanoid

of love the likes of

which we still don’t know…

Well scream is bad,

when you go quite mad

and you lose your dad

and the magpie gets down

into your bones…

and you can’t come down

from the under-town

like a decaying clown

and you know the truth

which nobody owns.

So you must obey the dust

in which you trust

and which lies at

the bottom of everything

and bore the Lord

with your secret chord

and your word-hoard

knowing not just what

tomorrow will bring.

LOVE SONG TO A LIQUID MIRROR

The night is alright under the electric light

and I am thinking of you

how we used to love each other

black and blue forever and ever

how I used to watch over you

while you slept and when you wept and

when we leaped and love was fire

now the light comes fair and even

hyperlink to very Heaven

just like it was when love was open

and it is still full of hoping

full of groping full of dreams

love has not gone stolen pollen

lustful London lips are swollen

and liquid mirrors still run to the sea

where the fish swim without insanity

even though they have fucked eyes

we already went there,

we already did that

sometimes you’re a willing dupe

and sometimes a doormat

PHET ACCOMPLIS

Love, love, good for the brain,

the more you eat them,

the more you go insane.

Love, love, good for the heart,

the more you eat them,

the more you break apart.

They’re dissipating energy

with spiralling entropy,

falsifying vision with

indoctrinated feelings,

colouring perception

with vague mysticism,

you’ve been plugged in

to the mental health system.

Love, love, good for the brain,

the more you eat them,

the more you go insane.

Love, love, good for the heart,

the more you eat them,

the miracle will start.

They’re dissipating energy

with spiralling entropy,

falsifying vision with

indoctrinated feelings,

colouring perception

with vague mysticism,

you’ve been plugged in

to the mental health system.

SNOWFLAKE SONG

Snowflakes are falling to the ground,

that’s why the door-mouse makes no sound,

I could sing in an imaginary tongue,

but I find Klingon is best for song...

then it’s up to birds to saaaaaaaaaay,

“hope you have another blinding day.”

There are no footprints out there yet,

but I might go out and lose a bet.

Sometimes I dream of mapless space,

a little place without X tattooed on its face.

So then it’s up to you to saaaaaaay

“hope you have another blinding day…”

snowfall was injecting smack

into the Universal Mind a while back,

and now I’ve nothing left but tea

still I think you’ll find it’s well enough for me...

so now it’s up to me to saaaaaaaaay

“hope you have another blinding day.”

MOVING ON

When you record on earphones and say you’ll plug your senses in the mains they become aliens, aliens from Hollywood films, like the Fifth Element where there is a blue alien that can sing in two notes at once.

When I hear the sound I think of Jess and her impeccable taste in musical tunes.

I’ve got a little bet that the next guy after me to attain the face of stars, to be enraptured and enthralled, will still write the line I wrote at the time and like I did too think it is his own.

My father knew the line and sometimes I think of him – he hasn’t gone so far – is only up the way – lying underground.

When I was a boy and we first moved up he took me out the back and asked what I could hear and I said I didn’t know so he said it’s the beck.

SEEING THROUGH PUFF

I think Deathot is a clown

had no mates when he was at school

grew up to be a perfect entrepreneur

but I still think him a fool

lounges out in the garden

while the bees buzz around

carrying their pollen home

to the mating queen

over an ocean of green

Sweet Successo was his brother

and sometimes they didn’t get on

O after all is the key of water

in the language of Anon

lounges out in the garden

while the bees buzz around

carrying their pollen home

to the mating queen

over an ocean of green

and I’m the one who lives

between the letters of the word OK

trying to enlarge the sky

wondering what else I can say

and I’m the one who gives

gives the game away

trying not to elongate my shadow

at the end of the Big Glass Day.

O.

ONE STAR LEADS TO ANOTHER STAR

One star leads to another star,

connected by a red guitar,

while fire burns and people dance

the whole stone circle’s in a trance,

I’ve lost my little plastic cup,

but still seem to be coming up,

the drums are conjured from the deep

where maybe baby monsters sleep,

the list goes on, I love my friend,

this holiday should never end,

and happiness should last a while,

intelligence should make you smile,

(I lost my blues at Glastonbury

when I called out ad-libbed poetry,

upon the coming of the night,

when secret worlds were found out,

I made it up on the spot

but what it was I soon forgot,

if Spot the Dog’s a constellation,

then there is still hope for the nation,

who play beneath the stars above,

for the stars awake to notice love.)

RENEGADE CREDO

Even A Dick Gets Big Erections

used to be my mnemonic for the guitar

for whom it is clarity to be in distortion

and I believe in music in a room with no door

and once upon a time I came to mention

a chain of music from star to star

Even A Dick Gets Big Erections

was once my mnemonic for the guitar

Now the mnemonic has come on a bit

Every Acid Dealer Gets Busted Eventually

and I have a jamalade in the seat where I sit

and as I say think distortion is clarity

and I like it when a song doesn’t repeat

but mine mostly do, sadly, inevitably,

and I’m almost in it just for the lyric sheet

Every Acid Dealer Gets Busted Eventually

and I like to hear the click of the light

late at night when I’m still playing

for my brief fling with the politics of flight

is not just for me and not for saying

and I think Syd Barrett was a fine poet

and sometimes I’d rather be tucked up reading

than recording a song but sometimes not

like now as I sit here, explaining and explaining.

TO THE MORNING

When the first, peacock morning

streams in after Night,

after voices and meds

I go out on the lawn,

press bare feet in the dew

and feel made of light,

very slight but in heart

as huge as the dawn.

When a car comes to pass

it is not sound only noise,

but still the air is so fresh

and then the beck can be heard.

There are tunes in things,

with tree-rings and joys,

and Mozart is better

than the prattling bird.

We can turn off the lights

because we have the sun

even if cloud-forms

have obscured its rays

and so many days have begun

with having so much fun

that we hope we enjoy

many further days.

Look around at the world,

see what we have found,

let your senses be Googled,

let hyper-vision smile,

let the beck tumble on

in the green background,

let the farmer with bad karma

have to come out in style!

AT THE FOOT OF SEA NESS

I come from the jungle,

I come from the jungle,

I come from the jungle,

I come from the jungle,

I come from the jungle,

I come from the jungle,

I come from the jungle,

I come from the jungle,

I come from the jungle,

I come from the jungle,

I come from the jungle,

I come from the jungle,

I come from the jungle,

I come from the jungle,

I come from the jungle,

I come from the jungle.

EVEN A DREAMWOMAN GETS BEAUTIFUL ELECTRICITY

A thesis as thin as the Rizla it’s in

can lead all the way to the loony bin

and make you forget just how to spell

Winnie the Pooh and get unwell...

but even a dreamwoman

gets beautiful electricity -

come with me, come with me.

The way she hugs my myriad mind

I’m flying through colour but colourblind,

I wish to escape the shape of the paper,

I wish to taste the waste of a flower...

for even a dreamwoman

gets beautiful electricity -

come with me, come with me.

Come with me love away from the violence,

I don’t want to take a vow of silence,

don’t want to have to conceal this feeling,

for feelings are not meant for concealing...

and even a dreamwoman

gets beautiful electricity -

come with me, come with me.

SONG FOR JAMES

James is amazing -

he is my brother -

when we were blazing -

we stole off our mother -

names are for crazing -

engage with the other -

when we were younger -

love was the answer -

Games are for lazing -

saith the author -

when we grow up

we’ll both be a soldier -

dames are for sharing

with one another -

those who must keep them

are soon to learn better -

frames are for breaking -

as saith the nutter -

and when we break out

our love is together…

aims are for reaching -

for further and further -

and love’s not for breaching -

and so it’s not over.

And now ladies and gentlemen after all this silence, I point you in the general direction of a new album of instrumentals called ‘AFTER GARAGE AND HOUSE COMES LIBRARY’

It can be found on Bandcamp if I leave it there, under the name John F B Tucker.

I have tried to encrypt nodes in musical truth without any words.

This may be what Jim Morrison meant when he said you can have anything you want.