1. |
Love Island
02:47
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I met my baby on Love Island, all alone.
Just her and me and the sound of the sea and six million folks back home.
We commenced a-courting. She’s the one for me. Spray tans, romance, a concealed camera and you is all I need.
We made love in the moonlight, tangled up in the sheets.
The viewers went wild, the ratings sky-highed, we arrived to five million tweets.
No secrets between us. No hiding place.
The waves crashed down on the shores of Love Island and washed all the walls away.
I met my sweetheart on Love Island by the sea.
The beautiful union of two human bodies laid bare for the world to see.
A gift from my girl and me.
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2. |
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No pain, no gain
Plain white protein
Supplement your diet with a daily regime
Bulk shake
Heart break
A million pills
Healthy living made me ill
I can’t catch my breath
I exercised myself to death
Too much, too young
No moderation
Never read the labels, never take caution
Take the pharmaceuticals, build the body beautiful
Dumbbell
Drug hell
Dying in a stairwell
Tight chest
Bed rest
Six months left
I exercised myself to death
And I ain’t workin’ out on muscle farm no more
I ain’t workin’ out on muscle farm no more
I ain’t gonna train
I was forced to refrain by the physical pain
The mass that I gained
Laid down, bed bound, fused to the sheets
It’s a sticky end for the fitness freak
Laid down, bed bound, fused to the sheets
It’s a sticky end
No pain, no gain
Slipped disk
Back strain
Pink thighs rubbing on the red raw raised veins
Pump iron
Kink spine
Suffer on your own time
Leakage
Seepage
Delicate shrinkage
I can’t catch my breath
I exercised myself to death
I can’t catch my breath
I exercised myself to death
And I ain’t workin’ out on muscle farm no more
I ain’t gonna work on muscle farm no more
I ain’t gonna train
I was forced to refrain by the physical pain wracking my frame
Laid down, bed bound, fused to the sheets
It’s a sticky end for the fitness freak
Laid down, bed bound, fused to the sheets
It’s a sticky end
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3. |
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My mind’s a blank, my past is chequered
Turns out what goes on tour stays on your criminal record
But I’m serving my time and I beg your pardon -
Back in 1971 I was nothing but soft rock, hard drugs and hard on - comfortably numb
Baby, I’ve been around the block too often to soften
The lower lip bitten and released
Exploratory fingertips, protests unnoticed
Its all in the hips
By ’79 life was just long limbs, long nights, long white lines
The age of consent
Last of the rock and roll sexual deviants
A hand creeps up your thigh
Tight pants
Last of the rock and roll sexual miscreants
And if I’d known it was a crime chances are I’d still be right here serving my time
In the showbiz suite of the H.M.P. hotel
Well…
It’s anyone’s guess.
Last of the rock and roll sex pests
And there’s a hole in this whole vibration since we found out
It wasn’t rock and roll, it was molestation
’71 - long gone
And there’s a hole in this whole system of classification
We called it rock and roll, turns out it was molestation
’71 - long gone
I’m 72 - a rock god facing the firing squad
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4. |
Last Year's Tech
03:19
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I’m no loving luddite, I always try my best to fall in line each time with the opinions expressed by the lust list columnists, the leading technophiles who feed me what I need to live in comfort and style. Who tantalise and tease me and get me in a sweat. Who work me up to climax then leave me in debt. I’m foaming. I’m yearning. I’m dangerously obsessed. I’m restless. I’m burning. I’m lusting for the next piece of sweet technology that burrows in my mind and plants a seed of longing that grows greater over time until it splits me down the middle and bursts forth on the vine: a dystopian paean to the past I’ve left behind. I’m a victim of advance. I’m the mug. I’m the mark. I’m prey to corporations operating in the dark who supply my desires and the means to fulfil the needs I never knew I had with things I never will. I’m the victim of a dream of black screens and low prices, lumbered with a number of historical devices. My home becomes a bone yard, my garage a grave of obsolete technologies no update can save. I feel my age upon me, etched into my flesh. I closed my eyes one second and I woke up in the next millennium. I think I’m past my best. I’m up to date with last year’s tech. I feel my age upon me, written on my flesh. I dropped the ball. I’m off the boil. I’m sadly out of step. I’m current as a comb-over/tape deck/ turtle neck. I’m last year’s tech.
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5. |
Black Friday pt. 2
03:45
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Some year’s on since I wrote that song and I long still for the day’s when violence was young.
I close my eyes and I’m back again in the broken glass, in the tangle of flesh with a fist full of hair and teeth that meet in my breast.
Black Friday’s not what it used to be.
I can remember a time when violence was young.
Black Friday’s not what it used to be.
Somewhere along the line we lost what it was.
I know that I’m a man out of time.
I close my eyes and I’m back again in that sweet, sweating hell
In the burned out shell of Asda
In the ashes of them that fell.
I lost a part of my heart to the bargain hunt that day.
I left the whole of myself on the shelf:
Heart, soul, DNA
Black Friday’s not what it used to be.
I can remember a time when violence was young.
Black Friday’s not what it used to be.
The day I shop online is the day I’m undone -
All the convenience but none of the fun
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6. |
Phoneblind
01:42
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With your blue light blazing in my eyes I am mesmerised by your beauty.
With your blue light blazing in my eyes I am surprised by a sudden shocking impact as I step into the traffic.
I’m phoneblind - an accident waiting to happen.
I’m so much in love with you. I cannot believe I ever lived without your loving in my life.
Broken ribs.
Punctured lung.
I sued for damages and won.
I took the bastard for a ton.
You’d better keep your wits about you when my baby and I come along - all blazing blue light and furious thumbs.
Oh, I’m phoneblind - I only have eyes for you.
I’m phoneblind.
I step into the traffic.
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7. |
Vows
03:01
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To you, my love, I solemnly swear I’ll never let another woman cut my hair
The glory of my gleaming dome belongs to you alone
And though objectively bereft I pledge to thee what I have left
For time’s a thief but life’s a gift
In return I stake my claim on your maturing thread veins
Your silver streaks
Your springing leaks
Whatever youth remains
You can keep my broken teeth: chipped enamel stripped beneath an acid bath of sweet release
I know the drill
I will prize you failing eyes, your pretty multiplying lines, your dress size as the numbers rise
I will
And oh, my sweet, I pledge to thee my alcohol dependancy
My laziness, my apathy, my temper
In exchange I claim your rage -
Mood swings worsening with age
Your questionable taste in television
The silence of our sulks
The woes of our lows
The violence of our collisions
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8. |
The Dream of Fair Women
04:49
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Down at the Dream of Fair Women we made a mistake-
We stayed until day break.
Me and Marie on a trip to the sea in a Volkswagen Polo with P-plates.
I’d just passed my test, I was shaky at best
We stuck to the back roads and byways.
I ran off the road. We had to be towed -
Wedged in the hedges sideways.
Crumbling pre-war resort
Some Victorian hell
Sea front/ back water hotel:
Grim.
Soaked to the skin
We checked in without checking the intel.
The place was a mess, the decor distressed
The sign said the Dream of Fair Women.
Memory fails me. The darkness assails me.
Phosphor dot trails at the edge of my vision.
And all I want is the wifi code.
All I want is a tow back to the road.
Dim lit plague pit
Pagan retreat
Grey meat, stale beer and bingeing
Stains on the ceiling that drip in your drink
Down at the Dream of Fair Women
The pay phone was smashed
They only took cash
My contactless credit amounted to nothing.
Unable to pay in cash for our stay
We had to pay with something
And all I want is the wifi code
All I want is a tow back to the road
But what did we get?
The cannibal set
The spectres
The demons
the drinking
What did we get?
On all sides beset by the dead
At the Dream of Fair Women
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9. |
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Communal Radio Workplace Grievance Squad
Internal colleague station friction logged
The seething resentment, the silence in the staff canteen
Is bliss
‘Taste is subjective,’ they told me as they sat me down
And cleaned the wounds on my hands and the blood from my brow.
What can I say? I wasn’t myself that day.
A switch flicked inside me.
I woke with my hands pinned behind me,
My cheek to the floor
And a knee in my shoulder blades.
Thanks to Communal Radio Workplace Grievance Squad
I lost my mind but I kept my job.
The workers have gone round the bend.
Once again, it begins as a perk
And it ends in a law suit.
A minor dispute between friends escalates.
I swear I won’t touch that dial again.
One more inventive incentive designed to distract from the tortuous passage of time.
Oh, Communal Radio Workplace Grievance Squad
Restrain me.
Sedate me.
I feel another fit coming on...
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10. |
Lycra Man
03:55
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Towards the waning of my third decade on earth I swelled a little round the middle, I gained a little girth
I was happy with my handles but my lover never learned to love my curves
I went and bought myself a suit of running clothes: elasticated leggings in a drastic shade of mauve
That bound me, and contained me, and distributed the load
And wicked away the wetness of my skin
See sense, pedestrians
These paths were paved for me
‘Cos I’m Lycra Man
I’m Lycra Man
I dress for speed not style
I dress to luminesce
Then I go glowing down those many lonely miles
Between the body in my joggers
And the body in my mind
I’m Lycra Man
I’m Lycra Man
I’m brighter than the sun
Tighter attire you’ve never seen
It must be painted on
Oh, I was born to put it on
Baby, I was born to run
So I bought myself a wristwatch with a vast glass glowing face
To calculate my calories
And regulate my pace
To monitor my movements
And moderate my weight
In a feral fit bit shit fit I kicked the arse right out of it
I smashed it
I killed it
I used up all my store
Of violent jargonistic aggressive fitness business metaphor
See sense, pedestrians
I own the roads and streets
‘Cos I’m Lycra Man
I’m Lycra Man
Upon my mighty flanks
A million rainbow rivers flow
Then swell and burst their banks
My body is a temple:
An ageing grey expanse
I’m Lycra Man
I’m Lycra Man
I’m brighter than the sun
When I pass by, the people cry:
‘It must be painted on!’
Oh, I was born to put it on
Baby, I was born to run
Baby, I was born to run
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Matt Stockl UK
Cynical, satirical, lyrical, comical.
Daft songs. Grubby recordings.
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