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Nov 2019

Oh, a mystic dive into the night wreck,
Long lowering into the sea at night,
With the ghost of old Europe rifling by.

And the monster at the bottom of the ocean
Is already defeated. Don’t worry, child.
Just count forty-thousand sheep and go to sleep
Under the protection of the all-night light.

Don’t let your bad self sidle by.
Learn to love that guy.

And don’t feel depressed unless you feel depressed;
Sometimes the mornings are the worst first thing
But there’s always the worst second thing
Or the worst third thing around the bend, friend.

The terrorists of theory are standing by high windows.
The palaces excommunicating weirdos,
Their loose tongues waggling gospel fire.

And, man, keep stepping on toes.
You’re an ambulance waiting to happen.
You’re so ******* fine.

Don’t let me down. Don’t let me down.
You’ve gotten so far.
Don’t let me down. Don’t let me down.
You’ve gotten so far.

Trapped in a body that doesn’t matter.
Junk shop clothes will still be with you
When you decide to get fatter.
Your frozen pizza will thaw.

Don’t let me down. Don’t let me down.
You’ve gotten so far.
Don’t let me down. Don’t let me down.
You’re getting so far.

Bureaucrats of the revolution and poor technicians of desire,
The fascist in me is deader than ever, a hearth without fire;
And whatever’s left, a lit candle melting into a pool of hot wax
Under a furious sun.

Don’t let me down. Don’t let me down.
You’re getting so far.
Don’t let me down. Come back around.
You’re getting so far.

Escape the tyranny of morons,
With their cheap seated beliefs,
Their dog whistling and dead eyed truck rallies.
Their provocations veiling their mothers’ scorn.

Just learn that nothing here matters.
Winning or losing does not matter.
Don’t be swayed into that violent mob.
Don’t take the bait of despots in flux.

Don’t let me down. Don’t let me down.
You’re going so far.
Don’t let me down. Come back around.
You’re going so far.


Marx and Beckett held my head,
And placed nice clean sheets on my nice dry bed.
And they read me a story, but I fell asleep;
Oh, my baby doll darling,
Oh, the things you won’t keep.


A crack. The smashing of skulls on silver platters.
The sons and daughters of hungry ghosts in the half-light
All roughed around and battered.
Big ideas rain upon a helpless little fawn.

Don’t cry, because Argentina’s on camera.
She’s lovely and you’re flattered.
She’s lovely for all time.

Plastic shovels degrade on a rocky shore.
Are those phantoms upset that they must walk
These silent coastlines forevermore?
Did extinction come because we were evil,
Or did it come because we could not believe
In good or evil anymore?
Where will poetry stand in the fire, the front or back?
Should poetry be retrieved by inhuman hands?

I love my family.
I love my friends.
I love the people who told me,
It doesn’t matter where you stand in the end.
And if I could, I would make a living
From celebrating them.
And if I could, I would take this blow-up pulpit to sea,
Then sail it to Sacavém.

The image of reality projected everywhere
At the expense of reality itself.
Casios mass-produced in factories; songwriters as well.
And if you’re unfortunate enough to love me, baby,
Then poke one or two more holes in your belt;
Because I’m as good as words.


Angeles, yours to keep,
Mountain high, river deep.
Try holding on to nothing,
But nothing slips.
Oh, Angeles, more than this?


I draw a chalk circle around me.
I think of a number.
I see your face in the flames.
I give that number to your heart.

When that ghost flies into the room,
We’ll have some words.
We’ll talk until our positions oppose
Our original sides.

We’ll talk about going back in time
And living again as a boy.
We’ll talk about becoming so mean.
We’ll wonder if our beds have been made,
And how we’re both more or less already dead.

Already dead. It’s buckets of fun.
Already dead. It’s the grasping of something
That can not be stowed.
Already dead. The falling of the moon
And the disintegration of the sun,
And of course, the neutral snow.
Already dead. Already dead.


So, tank up. Get right.
That shining colossus in the sky
Has faded from sight.
And what’s art – your concerns?
Whatever ails or aids you,
Use it tonight.

Sheep’s liver. Beef tongue.
The gall bladder of a particularly aggrieved foal
Flops out into an otherwise deserted field.
And what’s us? Who’s they?
Don’t relate because they relate to it,
Or pretend to, or whatever they say;
Don’t jive around the issue in fear of shame;
You love some of music and you love some of life.

They said they had the inside lane over me,
I’d like to see them try.
They, like I, are caught in the status machine,
And nothing’s worthwhile until its monetised.

If you want to be oblique, be oblique.
Be cryptic, distant, formalist, and insane.
Your heart is a yolk? That’s cool,
My heart’s a yolk as well and framing it that way
Makes me feel swell.

They presented the wrong hypothesis over me;
I couldn’t write.
They, like I, buy and sell ideas until the ideas
Bend to the realm of most money;
Ain’t that nice?


Try to make ends meet. Every star is dying.
And the word on the street is a whole lot of crying.

Sample the fauna
With norma-sub-a-culture.
New ways of living are gross;
But the way things were ain’t exactly great.
Licking dinner plates.
Tickling the ivories until our fingers lock shutter shut.

Looking into your eyes was like a present
A birthday present from a ghost.

An idle fancy
Of a beautiful twisted fantasy.
A gun in the mouth.
A toothpick in the back pocket
Of a diabetic pig.

Love lights shine from heaven;
Seven operators (seven!)
Going wherever the Svengali goes.
Oh. Oh. (Oh.)


Made a killing in the post taste years,
My fears were their fears,
My qualms were their qualms
And we would quash them collectively
While I received money.

Now, my observations are the wall.
My ideas are what the latest ****** keep kicking against.

But once I was beautiful.
Once I was right.


And the garden will speak its last rites
And I almost won’t cry.

And the sadness will be like compost
With roses growing so bright.

And the gate will be fixed
With a fresh lick of paint alright.

And on each other we shall depend.


Stuck watching the same fifteen minutes of Ice Station Zebra,
Waiting for the future, waiting for the future to call around again.
A temporal nostalgia, a frozen dream,
Every image could be our new best friend.

And I lie awake in Ice Station Zebra.
And I lie awake in Ice Station Zebra.


Hey, green eyes. Hey, dark blonde hair.
You can lie as long as you mean it, I guess.
You can walk yourself down the aisle,
And you’re better marrying yourself alone.
Start dreaming again. Start dreaming of the sea.
Start dreaming of a head free of loose fuzz
And faceless waste.
Start working because you’re getting old.
Start floating fascinated by hummingbirds.

I wanted to see you because I wanted to see,
I wanted to see you because I wanted to see,
I wanted to see you because I wanted to see you alone.


Say what it is.
Say the fragments as they go.
Up the tube to the watching room you never see,
But it’s another somewhere at least.

And while hell is winning,
The autodidacts have no place to begin;
Their frames of reference shaking in the wind.

And while hell is winning,
The future and the past are two open empty doors;
The ghosts of your life blow wilder than before.

Drawing an incantation across the boiler room walls.
The echo of activity upstairs,
Does not interest me anymore.

And while hell is winning,
We mannequins look blankly to our feet;
Amongst the carnage of the abattoir floor,
The ghosts of our lives whirring louder than before.

And while hell is winning,
Capital is all that stands, and all our states care to defend;
The ghosts of our lives speaking loudest in the end.


I heard the Parisian intellectual wing
Are holed up in their lamp-lit rooms
With no way out,
Just writing screeds against the structural failings of reality.
And sometimes, some nights,
They catch their reflections beneath their mirror lights,
And they don’t, they don’t see themselves quite right.

Adopting a higher law can be fatal,
Especially in the throes of a manic episode.
A fear of music may be well-founded,
Particularly in drawn out gentrified scenes
Where they’ve up-hiked the entrance fees for dreams.
Dreams. Dreams from racketeering ceremonies.

They’re kissing up the neck of the wreck with too much feeling and poor working memory.
They want him crossed beneath the legs and nailed to the waves, my baby.
They’re thinking it might be fruitful, at least cheap,
To grind us down until we’re enough to keep
With the dreams of ******* ceremonies.

Death by longing loves
With not a positive alternative to hold you back.
Just crack your whip against the pavement
Like you’re in the midst of an August heatwave.
Language of bad descending dreams.
Word sudokus for the kings and queens
To glance over stark intentions and starker mistakes.

I heard the medical world could: Knock. You. Out.
So take whatever’s left in your purse and spend it on Saturdays.
Adorned by candle light, hope those lost coastlines
Will see us right. I love you. I love you.
I love you like a tundra waiting for acid rain.


How’ve you been holding, my baby?
Haven’t seen you much here lately.
The news all the time tells me lies upon lies.
And it’s not like I believe,
It’s more that I don’t care how or why
People far away congregate to do everything aside from what’s right.

And suffering? Where should it all go?
Industrialists drown the world in exchange for gold.
Oh, so you already know, huh?
It doesn’t matter when, and it doesn’t matter if we stay friends,
Because I love this place like a house party
Where the hosts struggle to have fun
Because I’m one of those guests that nobody really knows
And stays way too long.

The hosts all the time tell me lies upon lies,
But my taste in music is better,
And I’ve read more into the literature
Than a cursory glance through the introduction
Or a retweet of a paragraph stolen from context
To impress a girl living three seas away.
The hosts all the time tell me lies upon lies,
But I love this place because I’m still its baby,
It hasn’t been so sweet on me lately;
Its hosts all the time tell me lies upon lies,
But I know what is wrong and I know what is right.
And I love this place like only a failure can,
I love the quiet before everything bad which happened happens again,
And it’s back to breathing uneasily in the dark
For another couple hundred years, Sam.

The future’s pulling into the station, Bambi.
Promise never to leave without me?


Gauge the temperature, Bambi;
What did you have in mind when they were reading
Your last rites from previous scenes?
There is a community our algorithm recommended
If you’re tired of keeping it all in.

You thought art would break the shackles of youth,
Not another something telling you what to do.
Artless writer who never learned to sing, oh-oh.
You’re not a monster. The public can sing along.

Where’s your side-eye, Bambi?
Did it turn its gaze back on you?
You could be working for 26 hours a day in the ideology mines
If any of this mattered to you.
You’re not a monster. The public can sing along with you.
You’re not a rock star.
You’re the gravedigger, exhumer, recently fired hip priest, oh-oh.

I heard back from Yale, and the sleeping demon has bones,
The sleeping demon is not pleased with you.
The seven-headed beast is dead-drunk,
And the ***** of Babylon is wondering where in hell you’ve exactly gone.

You thought art would break the shackles of youth,
Going by what the Ferris wheel told you.

You ain’t a lifestyle. You ain’t here to be placed in a scene.
Beneath better work is something like this.

You are expectations too stupid to ever stand.
I understand!
You are expectations too stupid to ever stand.
I understand! Oh-oh-Oh.


I thought the future would be
Standing in queues for the groceries
On the peaceful side of town.


I opened a black hole into my room,
Ephemera came pouring out too soon.
I don’t know what is wrong or right
But still, I try.

Eagle feathers around my head.
Two rebellious springs sharpen my bed.
I don’t know how to get through this alive
But I still try.

The fear of the love, the fear of the light.
The fear of the love, the fear of the light.
Written by
SJG  24
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