rise rise like lions he said we've pursued every pound poisoned air, sea and ground danced as the future roared burning cold truths were presented realised and resented but the dance had no move with a turn in a storm isn't coming it's already here and yet still no abate to the dancing leaders distracting push hating, sell fearing to dance their own dance to the polls so estates count their numbers but don't number our counters and we audit their fictions and failings ye are many he said they are few now we say we reckon on a reckoning for the future generations to have air, sea and ground and time for a masque and a dance of their own

A man of military metal. mentally melted by his repeat vision Another BBC ‘another chance to see’ the running soldiers buried Drowned under baking sands by laughing comrades military mental bulldozings are Diesel’s psychotic hell vision Fuelled by Pyridostigmine glue. Sticking hot head in hotter sands The only card listed in his bleak mid-wintered asylum visitation. His family’s gone, his military’s gone so only the books will save his mindings. Oh I’d love for him to find a book of thievery to thieve to leave for another to find too hot to dust like sands. So saintly Elise lost the love of her teenaged eye Spent to the burn in the new twisted heart of those sands All she clutches now is the fading sun-bleached dream of a soldier’s wife’s last dance before. Let’s have your attention the RSM would shout. We all saw hallowed Elise on the mental train. I sat opposite on the day following Following her secret being freed by her lost lover’s lost love Salt on her cheek and grit in his eye (he said) so so sorrowfully and here, today, another woman dies inside just another carved victim of callous national pride A national pride in a house of lights named after Alighieri’s dark. Seats down, lights down, heads up, joy and tears. A time of future endlessness when words were lost and found A time when light in darkness did away for needs of sounds A time when week’s end finished with a sojourn and the bank A time when a lone armed robbing was made to pass a thank Time she stops and time stopped her and now the town must pay The military, elementary frozen sea that day. Frozen time till the deco dream dies So now the town is forced to watch droog Alex and Billy ever frozen in lost myth of L’important est de ne jamais désespérer Khorosho the vision for all mankind’s unkinds wind-bent unbending we, unkind time… this is our void and this is the form – in our void. So as the crooner legend ever sings See their feathers and see their wings. In my first attempted critical crucifixation If there’s to be fall from grace. Then let this be it freed.

because everything burns the heart it’s like (it’s like) finding the canker worm spitting hairs, or those clogged, dirty nails on the allotments of some stranger's father so I'm driving back slow through the pissing rain I'm not coming home not after the salt dried for the second time since those boys wore pearls around their necks Since the black rain reigned grey Whilst remembered in 1939 the arc light's scaffold split the skies and showed us where to drill through the sick fog And the children could witness our machine was choking of itself off itself and on itself at the time before before after they trusted their elders When the whores of war came suited for the start of the last wedding reception The groom kicks the shit out of the bride's father (and in public) And nobody stands up 'cause it's all hawsers and stock bonds... just book tokens All our fish, they've fled and all our rivers, they've bled And a mother is screaming grief for a child that won't be born the Choking smoke and dust hides the flags at high tide and The boy with no hands just drowns in that brick machine it was Here that the girls wore gold around their necks like good tincture of guile, and you'll never know we ran away Failed and cowardly in some race to the comfort of the pillow dream of the security of blakeys and three TV channels it's NOT a world where friends tell you they're on the way out, Because we've earned a masochistic streak that's as wide as god's sadistic streak and that road will more be filled... bumper to bumper, kerb to kerb, car park to dead end , and what can you say? , what can you say? And what can you say but sorry So sorrow wrings its sorry hands and bends them, cuplike, upwards Me? I furtive seek burning opportunities because it's a soft comfort while all the silent poor wait for the lead to be placed around their necks again Now they're pulling out dad’s old razor and running it round the greasy stain where the watch stop was A singular slice - but no blood - because it's all been already taken and we all expected it anyway didn't we? Besides... nobody ever stops them We are so qualified when it comes to the burning of cities & dreaming of the paid servants holding a knife to their master's necks Apparently there's a world waiting for you the bastards There's a world waiting for you alright and when the smoke floats through the street leaving a waxy room to breathe You'll find it waiting round some glazed brick corner knife in hand and spit at the back of its throat ready for the lost like ready for the found and then and how, now all are stretching rope collars to their necks At school insistently they taught lithium was JUST a metal that tarnished black And now the monkey is wired to the mains Pumping varnish through tarnished veins to insistent whims of the latest boffin x thesis And me and monkey do spastic varnish drink dance