here's a tape cut
for running deep out-West,
full sides o' records thrown down
none of that ‘pick-n’-mix' hot-stamps
all ripped of the tree
like time daddy came home drunk at Christmas
here’s an extra O2 diving-tank, astronaut grade -
type you’d use n’ different planets
diff-o-rent at-mo-spheres
I’d say inside the head-bell
gonna’ be just like that, anyway…
that and weird pictures of food in gas stations,
all backlit like some sentient hamburger
gone worked out it be hungry too
the menu ain’t explicit
‘bout who be doin' the eatin'
deeper West you go
hell, when you dip your toes
in that big salt called
the Indian
reckon' there be just one 'fella left
(be it person or burger by now
none can tell)
but i bet 'ya it got the twitch...
all wrong n' meat-sick,
the wrong type that
comes from eatin' kin.
remember
don’t stare into the sun…
don’t think about drugs, when you see that
long-white-line stretchin’ out forever
and that thought…
one with helicopters in hot pursuit,
while you scream down the Highway
and make your break for the border…
it’s all in your head.
Stockwell - May 2026