Monday, 12 February 2018

How Flair is Punished

(For Mark E. Smith)

There’s a plastic bag,
At Manchester Victoria
Neo-baroque station,
Which a child who’s spoilt kicks
The carrier of the carrier is
A black imp, on the tongue,
There, to Faust the cerebral
Cost of thinking,
Upon the blinking cock-suckers
Of the sinking music scene,
Envy of the choosy scene,
But before all of that,
There is drinking
To be done, see.
Beer and speed is okay,
But the full use of your body isn't, oh
How flair is punished.

Side-step the side-part in the
Play of the one-man show.
Cast aside over-inflation
Theory of the panic insists,
As pain drips,
The vowed spits
And bastes with a deft brush,
The chicken thought that;
Sometimes life is like a new bar,
Plastic seats, beer below par,
Food with no taste, music grates.
Sidled up to a fruit machine,
Turn that bloody
Space invader off!
In there, it’s rubbish, oh,
How flair is punished.

On Levi’s Fridays,
He was walking down the street,
Saw a poster at the top,
He was only on one leg,
The streets were fucked,
Entrances uncovered
Street signs you never saw
And the poster at the top of street said:
"Do you work hard?"

Manacled to the city,
Those big wide streets,
When girls pass, puts his head down
Those useless MPs.
Chimneyed-nastic narcissist town.
Does the Home Secretary
Have the barest, faintest inkling
Of what's going down?
He rocks back on his heels, hard
And knocks back, in each hand
A beer unfinished oh,
How flair is punished.

Meanwhile, in brick house,
Irish sisters compete in the
Under table tournament.
It's appreciation half won
And they hate their allegiance,
To the hip preacher one.
But they love too
And he could dance.
And he didn’t
Read books; of the list book club.
The musical chairs
Have been swallowed up,
By a cuddly group,
A muscular, thick-skinned,
Slit-eyed neighbour is at the table.
It didn’t serve him, right?
The former tenant was
Meant well, right?
Collecting under
The stair unvarnished, oh
How flair is punished.

Better flock down,
Better flock down,
To the Bierkeller, where
There’s a fella on fire and
Sheet lighting in a black
Back-lit brown ale basement,
With a delivery that chins, you
Don’t know the records,
But I’m fucked if I’m arsed, ‘cos
There’s repetition in the drums
And we’re never gonna lose it.
Check the guy's track record,
He reckons of his own accord,
He is not

So he,
Drinks the long draught,
Riding third class
On a one-class train,
Past the yeah yeah
Industrial estate,
Chipping miles away,
Chipping sodding miles way,
On the run, oh, it’s fun, oh, it’s
G-O-H-O-H-O-9, oh,
How flair is punished.

To the unfair hotel morning.
Mirrors can't hide the toxic
Of disfigured poxes.
Get the manager!
He got my last clean dirty shirt
Outta the wardrobe,
Pretends he’s blind, you see,
To wear Chanel, you have to shave first, see,
Puts on some Armani clothes
And acts like E.T.
(He was the manager)

He, on the other hand,
The one we’re on about,
Ray Stubbs his number 6 cigarette out,
Steps over the Georgian glazed porch,
Into the bright Brighton daylight.
Plastic bagged, to the bikers bar,
Chuck darts at the basist,
Who made the Nazis?
Hey there fuckface!
There are twelve people in the world,
The rest are paste, so
Rid us of Space bores
Rid us the unflummoxed, oh
How flair is punished.

I’m kinda two-tone,
But then came real age
And for that, we all must pay.
Everything is broken,
Because of grist that curtails.
He was given the third lathe,
Had your chances,
You’ve had
Your chance.
He says:
Nowhere to go.
Got no place to go.
Won't let us in the shows.
I'm tired of walking
Up and down the street all by myself.
He says:
Damp records the past
If that's so, I’ve got the biggest library yet.
In a week, earned money for month,
Got all my jobs done.
My eyelids were sick of it,
Gist was, I could sleep for a day,
But bad bills have no respect,
For a decent man's rest.
He says:
I’m living too late.
I’m dying too early.
My face is slack,
And the kidneys burn,
In the small of my back
And parallax the classical stomach gas,
The lager seemed poisoned.
It was no matter of small consequence,
No little pub incidence,
My heart and I agree, oh
How flair is punished.

To the end.
He says:
You may be shocked,
But I'll make you late.
For your greedy past,
Cold on a plate.
Houdini believed his tricks.
Is why he died.
There's a grave somewhere
Only partly filled,
I had a dream, bruise coloured
With wine and pills.
It’s going to hurt me,
Manchester city centre.
Take me back,
Where's the sixty quid
You borrowed off me for the gas?
I can't get the bus.
Do you know what they would say?
About the loved?
The admonished?
The headline says
How flair is punished.

With thanks to:
Big New Priest, Bingo Master’s Breakout, Blindness, C.R.E.E.P., Cruiser’s Creek, Dktr Faustus, Eat Y’Self Fitter, Firey Jack, Green Eyed Loco Man, Feeling Numb, Hey! Luciani, High Tension Line, Hilary, Hip Priest, Hit the North, How I Wrote Elastic Man, I’m Not Satisfied, It’s a New Thing!, Kicker Conspiracy, L.A., Lie Dream of a Casino Soul, Living Too Late, Music Scene, New Face in Hell, No Bulbs, Paranoia Man in a Cheap Shit Room, Prole Art Threat, Psycho Mafia, Rebellious Jukebox, Repetition, Rouche Rumble, Spoilt Victorian Child, Telephone Thing, The Classical, Totally Wired, Vixen, Winter, US 80s-90s

No comments:

Post a Comment