lady on the radio; don’t play the avant-garde noise act promo nothing I knew is true; I just want to dance with you lady on the radio; there’s more to life than being blue grunge is tough to twist to and I just want to dance with you you don’t need analysis when you have spring in your tennis shoes so drop the axe and start anew; I just want to dance with you…

COVID widow says; “they just do their best”, leaning out her fried flat window, banging on the Reynobond® “no-one in the whole flat earth speaks to us like landed earls” (them what whores to magazines features on their dynasties) “no-one meets my burning needs like a centre-right MP” (him what rarely ever shirks, but to ‘beat the kids’ at work) rabid, fatty jingos’ meat-heads shaved; Aneurin Bevan spinning in his grave and no; none of them heard - the pantomime is over… and it’s not dumb for number ones - looking out for having fun… hark! a doldrums chorus rings: wooden spoons and whisks on tin will its revenant impact come? wake me when, Mum… ‘is it fucking over yet? ‘can we go to Tenerife? ‘what d’you fucking *mean* get in the longer queue, you cunt? ‘is the boredom over yet? ‘where’s my fucking PS5? ‘what d’you fucking mean get in the longer fucking queue, you FUCKING *CUNT*?’ COVID widow says; “we all did our best” leaning out her fried flat window: flesh glued on the Reynobond®

what’s a boy to do? you’re beautiful - but I’m two years too young everybody knows nineteen’s too old to my seventeen years and eleven months oh, the chasm of age I yearn across for a thing so sweet as your name sung is epically vast it’s carved to last - my love’s two years too young I’d not mind were you to die and I allowed the time to bridge the gap and age my years to parity with thine no, I’d not mind were you to die and I allowed the time to bridge the gap and age my years to parity with thine well, what’s a boy to do? you’re beautiful - but I’m two years too young and you would be a fool (it’s against school rules) to go below rank in search of love chronometrically doomed and out of tune we’re untenable; we’re far-flung would’ve loved to be your sweetheart, but I’m two huge years too young I’d not mind were you to die and I allowed the time to bridge the gap and age my years to parity with thine no, I’d not mind were you to die and I allowed the time to bridge the gap and age my years to parity with thine

four boys in a room, a sluice of tunes, a following comprised of flatmates and friends whose arms were all bent whose lives were writ inside all those several songs (all two minutes long; all cynical; all wry) all voraciously sung and solo’d in glorious lo-fi! I remember the night of the Geography ball and being asked if I’d cover Coldplay I had not contemplated a murder before I can’t believe we were paid (less so that anyone stayed) across from the hall, anaemic and droll: another band of boys, with nothing to say all knitwear and hairspray (pale redundant shoegaze) beloved of all for nothing at all, their win eclipsed our skill how I’d love to forget the amateur quintet sounding oh-so-wet! I remember the night of the derby finale and their fetid version of “How Soon Is Now?” and a shallow, white gospel shit-show did ensue morons applauded the sound of impotent pandering clowns

I did not like “For the first time” that new take of “Sunglasses” was castrated by the removal of the ‘fuck me’ line “Athen’s, France” was a source of buzz vengeant; atonal; now? doleful and again it’s thanks to scaredy editing all the new singles they’ve dropped from album two are self-interested in the extreme, sadly ‘and Mother; I was swept on a frothing, enraged wave at the black, satanic heart of their reviews: so consumed by the red mist I was, that my Fitbit exploded with the health warnings known only to boomers and masochists: that I was the wanker!?’

no one takes me seriously because I’m a girl everybody’s frightened of me and the on-screen kisses I am an enigma machine because I’m a girl everybody’s frightened of me and my consensual urges and that’s fine, as I find no sacred, black degree of your assent can satiate me I’m with the Vitruvian man because I’m a girl everybody’s frightened of me and the codex on flight I’m with Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni and yes - before you ask - it’s because I’m a girl and that’s fine, as I find no sacred, black degree of your assent can satiate me because I am a girl in love and you’re a thief who’s jealous of me it’s fine; I find no sacred black degree of your assent can satiate me because I am a girl in love and you’re a thief who’s jealous of me…

I was invoiced 60,000 Sterling in the end, since then I’ve made small contributions to the interest gained I was then made to take intention from behind… …with borrowed wire cutting in, teary-eyed me stood garrotting and the social sector calling (happy, happy, happy days) I was invoiced 60,000 Sterling in the end

you’re woozy - well, what a gas high art in a ludicrous hat you’re woozy, and so are they hey, nonny… nonny, hey oh, why? god, you’re dry so dry so, you’re woozy? well, good for you where did you poach your friends from? they like looking up to you - they think you’re cool they love the non-event things you do but why? god, you’re dry so dry

it’s not a ‘beautiful circumstance’ that you came to meet you might have met anyone - you’d’ve been just as keen it’s not profound, this thing you’ve found it’s just two new actors, same old scene don’t be deceived by your belief in fates oh, won’t you just stop pretending he’s your ‘one and only’? it’s nothing you did well you just co-exist it’s happenstance it’s for astrologists it’s not a ‘beautiful circumstance’ that you came to meet you tremble at anyone - all of them kiss your feet so, it’s not so strange; your ‘epic pain’ happens at least three times a week… don’t be deceived by your belief in fates oh, won’t you just stop pretending he’s your ‘one and only’? it’s nothing you did well no; you just co-exist it’s happenstance it’s for astrologists it could’ve been anyone (it would’ve been anyone)…

take your sleaze; swipe left, please I am the antitheses well, hey - ‘hundreds of women in [my] area ‘are just gagging’ to send me low-res photographs… worms-eye views of caked-on hues ask: “you, bemused, could better use a book club, couldn’t you, ingénue? let me do things to you…” “no,” I wheeze; “swipe left - please “lest you be Mephistopheles” get-in! ‘thousands of twenty-somethings want [me] now!’ why wait? here is my pin and mother’s maiden name… leave it running while I’m reading who - oh, who - aspires to one moment’s fancy? true - yes, true - I’m yet to have success, I guess but you, all tease; all ease; all venereal disease swipe left; please…

I’ve been thinking all this through: frankly, I can’t stand you I’m still ill; you’re still so ill too Who owes me a living? Yes; it’s you I decided (whilst bitterly en route from Keflavík to primordial soup): even the Romans took one look and sighed: ‘abeamus alibi…’ Just look at the sordid state of you I think I’ll pretend we never met… I decided (whilst miserably en route from anywhere to London Luton): even the Nazis weren’t sufficiently enthused to make a winning move…

pretty paisley thing wrapped around your shoulders sitting at the festival in the tiny town friends of yours and friends of mine flanking each side, it was the very first time… I had met you (having never seen you before) I wished the night might last a few hours more a gorgeous rosey haze around my recollections of sitting at the festival in the tiny town you and I set face to face and talking the night away until they called us now, that I’d found you I had to say something before that moment vanished for forever more ignore the band - take my hand don’t think me foolish please I’m a hopeless romantic in disgrace I hope you might just set me straight and you eyed me with suspicion it was the first time I met you

I lean very hard into a thing you’ve told me flatly you can’t do a thing about (but who said anything about me minding your reaction to both me and my sheer topography? supermarket lingerie takes the teen boys’ breaths away…) let’s get out of this place - we could drive anywhere oh, the places you’ll go in a hijacked Renault as you lift off the yoke, feel me raking your hair I don’t mind if they stare - we can drive anywhere… I lean harder still into that thing you claim you only do when you least want to (oh, but who said anything about reluctance?) and you are so enthralled as Jericho’s off-white lace walls - stretched and heaving - fall, bearing you my porcelain all…) let’s get out of this place - we can drive anywhere you would be quite remiss to deny me this tryst; to not rip off these reigns; throw me down and - ensnared - lift me, shaking, on air… drive me anywhere…

I’ll level with you - I know this all well I’ve cried at this fairground a million times at the niceties sold in batches of two at the beautiful people with beautiful hair and fanciful shoes at the rhyme of their flesh in a mangle of hands at the terrible twist of their saccharin skin at the lock of their arms in a foul French kiss all school year, I’ve been wishing for this some fantastic love - revered and adored I knew one before, but then she was bored and still I want more so don’t think that I’m desperately waiting for just anyone ‘cause that isn’t true okay, it might have been once but now, there is ‘you’ a fantastic love - revered and adored we had one before fragile and flawed and I’m no good on my own but don’t think that I’m desperately waiting for just anyone…

you and me - we were meant to be so much bigger than this our work will rot in this digital funerary plot: an emporium that flogs our sounds for free I realise we’re marginalised, but why we’re ignored I’m unsure but it’s alright - ‘cause we have a show tonight and all our friends - they will attend; they will dance until the end you and I - we are doomed to die in utter obscurity known by few; loved by even less - ailing to unimpress I realise we’re marginalised, but why we’re ignored I’m unsure but it’s alright - ‘cause we have a show tonight and all our friends - they will attend; they will dance until the end

fisting - I’ve never been a fan I fail to understand where the appeal lies it sounds so extreme - it’s just not my scene but whatever gets your rocks off, friends - that’s fine fisting - isn’t that a bit much? who needs double Dutch, when normal skipping’s sublime? it sounds so extreme - it’s a little too near the spleen but whatever gets you going, kids - that’s fine the beautiful love you share is defined by the intimate practises you keep but no screaming please; I’m trying to get some sleep

‘God, what did we do wrong? this is surely not another love-song? they only just released one… don’t you see a pattern forming? their palette of influence is just appalling their lexis is awkward; their themes are derivative their synthesiser reliance is spiritless ‘their accursed discography just keeps growing… ‘The Prolificists are cystic, hubristic shit; this is not music - it’s noise - an octology of records of noise! tape-hiss on every song God, what was it we did wrong? surely not another love-song…?’ ‘their accursed discography just keeps growing…’ the sad fact is this: that fifteen years ago, we’d have had hits put out on coloured vinyl discs by Domino, or some such subsidiary - my misery… that’s history! what did I do wrong…?

what’s the movement of this time - the stigma for the clothes and hair - the thrust of all creative cares? ambivalence, yeah! what’s the movement of our time - the stigma for our clothes and hair - the thrust of our creative cares? ambivalence, yeah! ambivalence…! where are the spokesmen of this age? the post-postmodern legionnaires? there’s only you in your swivel-chair; singing ‘ambivalence! ambivalence, yeah…!’

on Sunday February 2nd in the year 1975, San took to the stage in Niš one final time and there stood Predrag Jovičić, ensconced with microphone, mere seconds from the start of Tebe Sam Želeo… you know, he thought; ‘when all is said and done, ‘life could be so much worse than singing, dancing, having fun…’ as Predrag Jovičić sang his sweet Yugoslavian schlager, did a cloakèd figure descend from the stadium rafters… you know, he thought; ‘when all is said and done, ‘life could be so much worse than singing, dancing, having fun…’ ‘tebe sam želeo…’

maybe when the ennui ends when I’m unmedicated once again and when the ice thaws on this half-life if I’m still alive, I could be swayed… and if allowed again - well, I could crack a smile and maybe then begin to like your friends? and maybe then I could see you again… when pigs fly maybe I… …if I must again - well; I could crack a smile and maybe then tolerate your friends? then - and only then - will I see you again maybe when the ennui ends…

have faith - for you may fall in love one day and that day, well, it may just be soon she could spy your briefcase… it might make her heart race… and the platform attendants may well swoon; it would be discussed in waiting rooms… there are so few free hearts not signed away under the official secrets act your service: ‘uncivil’, apparently but what you feel is normal, trust me so, have faith - for you will fall in love one day and when this prophecy comes true you will spy a someone; and that liaison’s concluding scene will serve to prove you’re someone’s just-spied someone too there are so few free hearts not signed away under the official secrets act your service: ‘uncivil’, apparently but what you feel is normal, trust me…

love beyond the borders is so terrifying, isn’t it? never knowing what we’ll say or do it’s dreadfully uncertain - I don’t know why we do it (do you still want to?) don’t let me drag you screaming through the streets of romance (that’s uncouth) most of life is beautiful, and though you’re no exception to the rule I fear I’d fall in love again most of life is beautiful, and though you’re no exception to the rule I fear I’ll fall in love again life with you away from me is death-defying, honestly; the stinging whip of chances on the wind, to win against proximity (which seems to have it in for me) but you’re my only, so put our youth on hold and we’ll depend on baseless fantasies most of life is beautiful, and though you’re no exception to the rule I fear I’d fall in love again and most of life is beautiful, and though you’re no exception to the rule I fear I’ll fall in love again

I meet her in a university art workshop, finishing a trite pastiche of Georgia O’Keefe. In the shadow of a hangover, sustained from bitter teenage desperation, I overlook her very amateur style and venture to acknowledge her lovely eyes and beautiful laugh (knowing immediately that both will soon haunt those most shameful of short dreams our vile little bodies force us to endure…) Besides, I admit: her brushwork is actually quite nice, and the flecks of emulsion on her smooth wrists say something vaguely exciting to me about the human hand and ‘propensity’… I experience an appropriately internalised objective appreciation of her physical womanly attributes, and manage (well, I think) to park these alongside - and not in front of - her earnest, though admittedly cumbersome, connection to the artistic aspects of life. She says: “It’s so wizard when boys say sweet shit but I’m a masochist “I think you need something blander than me… “you need something much blander than me…” Head firmly patted, I drift back to my dormitory and cry for what seems like sagas. The eons of silent sobbing were, I’m sure, punctuated by some angry attempt at achieving orgasm, but I don’t recall either trying or managing (if indeed it’s true that I stopped shaking long enough to even consider it). Clearly sensing something amiss in the ensuing silence (especially since one can usually enjoy weird jazz emanating from my room), my beautiful neighbour - more beautiful even in spirit than her utterly flawless figure - raps on the door to check I am alive and not, in fact, Richard Brautigan. I tell her everything that happened, missing out of course, the part wherein she figures: another wonderful person I’ve met with both an eye and an excuse for the exquisite. However, it seems she’s second guessed that I’m about to admit as much, as she caresses my luckless hand and quickly intones: “It’s so wizard when boys say sweet shit but I’m a masochist “I think you need something blander than me… “you need something much blander than me…” screw this! I am just going to sit right here, playing my Sunn O))) records and wishing I was a eunuch instead of this shivering wisp without friends… oh look! ‘amateur hour in oil’ texts me saying that I am ‘2 nice!!’ just wait - you haven’t read the reply (you are going to die)

waxen, malnourished and argumentative - all our pensiveness for hire with genitals on fire, our synthesisers cry… we may well be everybody’s we’d still struggle to be someone’s we’re not even anybody’s no-one cares (they’re elsewhere) I’ve been trying to get it down: my celibacy diary but how can I concentrate when my peeling ceiling shakes with every manic spasm of their glee? waxen, malnourished and pugnacious, ungracious, desperate fetid, foaming, sad…!

there was cloth-board on the walls and a single out-of-tune upright piano - that was all but in my mind it was a white Wurlitzer organ rising through the theatre floor and one December, in the key of D# it came to me: a whistle soft as knocking knees and as the gestures in my wrists made permanent my silly wish to have you look inside of me… we put two pins through an atlas page and tied a ribbon to each one someone somewhere now has that old book of ours, but all our ribboned pins are gone in northern fields, the punching wind kissed my face and stroked my hair - it made me sick; made me aware your say is final - I understand - but in the annals of our plans, the music from the box-room plays forever and a day we put two pins through an atlas page and tied a ribbon to each one someone somewhere now has that old book of ours, but all our ribboned pins are gone there is nothing I can do - eat your heart out, Herstmonceux - nothing I can do no, there is nothing I can do… eat your heart out, Herstmonceux

your friendly neighbourhood billionaire now has the nuclear codes and the wit and the bricks and the mortar to (quote) ‘make great’ (unquote) your state (he won’t) see the new utopia, built on xenophobia… see the new utopia? well, don’t forget that you chose oh look who’s got the nuclear codes your friendly neighbourhood billionaire now has the nuclear codes he’s spreading hate and spreading disdain to “make America great again” see the new utopia, built on xenophobia… see the new utopia? and never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, forget that you chose sweet Jesus, Mary, Joseph - looky-look who’s got the nuclear codes your friendly neighbourhood billionaire now has the nuclear codes the actual nuclear codes

hair-raising hammer horror screams hurtle through the castle home; fly across the flagstones ubiquitous terror and gore: flesh-rip foley track; Carpenter synth score come now; you must be joking the smokescreen’s barely cloaking this budget shit evoking Ed bloody Wood or something “this fall - kiss the ones you love good-FRIGHT… “in Jackie Treehorne’s “Goodnight, Countess”…” come now; you must be joking the smokescreen’s barely cloaking this budget shit evoking Ed bloody Wood or something

Mel loves Jeff Jeff loves Mel watch it go to hell - watch it go to hell! Jeff loves Mel and Mel loves Jeff but both of them are dark and pained and soon there’s nothing left! they were betrothed! they were betrothed! but their brains were clothed in unfortunate flesh! he was a man! she was a child! their love was weird! the book is wild! Mel loves Jeff Jeff loves Mel have them rake your mind thank-you! thank-you, Stein! Mel loves Jeff Jeff loves Mel have them rake your mind! rob you of your time! they were betrothed! they were betrothed! but their brains were clothed in unfortunate flesh! he was a man! she was a child! their love was weird! the book is wild! M-E-L-A-N-C-T-H-A-M-M-M-M-M-M-M…!

it’s a sorry affair: the state of my hair; the terribly early hour you’d know if you’d awoken, but you hardly ever do; your rank breath builds as I tie my shoes is your housemate in love? (her suitor is here - his bicycle blocks the hall) they (leaning) made a really rather pretty silhouette, bathed in the light of the kitchenette all the letters I write are hurriedly phrased (handwritten - cursive - in blue) small authorial fallacies now consigned to a larger waste of precious time…

I don’t mind what love you like how you’re inclined; how you identify and I don’t care how you will spend your nights the stances you like - whatever feels right… but don’t you want to talk about something else - anything else? don’t you want to talk about something else - anything else? life’s too short; just do what you like, but don’t make this a fight no; you can’t ask what love I like how I’m inclined; how I identify want to know how I spend my nights? well that’s tough shit - live your own life but please, can’t we just talk about something else - anything else? won’t you please just talk about something else - anything else? life’s too short; just do what you like, but don’t make this a fight

you think you’re in love? you don’t know the half of it you don’t know the lovers that I do if you did then you might see what it is to be loyal and devoted, et cetera so don’t say that you’re in love - you are just not qualified you are still a novice at this game but you see, to be as practised as me isn’t necessarily the way well, I guess they have it all and that’s good; it’s far, far safer in their hands well, I guess they have it all I hope they get what they’re looking for… you know, you are not in love you’re just at the mercy of chemicals that gush between your knees they contaminate your art with a plastic sense of heart your progenitorial instincts start to plead (oh, please) well, I guess they have it all and that’s good; it’s far, far safer in their hands well, I guess they have it all I hope they love what they’re living for… you know, I was once in love; God, it was so beautiful somewhere in the past, it’s pretty still but I fumbled the controls and the radio tuned out into nothing again