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lyrics

'Good breading is the key,' he said. The clamour from behind his wall would raise the dead, and did they said. From padlocked pounds the sound of hounds, baying, wailing gutter growls went drifting down the roads to ring and mingle with the moans. Livingstone was at the bar singing loud with outstretched arms then clinging to my shoulder as we sang and staggered home. I left him where the wall bit down like crooked teeth into the ground, tall and vast and built to last around the fifty square foot patch in which he hid his home.

So Long, Livingstone.

I left him as he turned the key and fell inside upon his knees, and when I went to stumble home the howling wind of canine clamour bit me to my bones.

So long, Livingstone.
So long, Livingstone.

Seems I was the last to see living Livingstone all in one piece, alive and singing as he fell upon his knees. When they bust the fence the dust was red, forty dogs lay as though dead but breathing slow with skinny ribs on show and whistling through their teeth, with thick black lips like ragged tyres, bulging, burst and blinded eyes, all twisted out of shape 'til I could barely recognise them. Livingstone was blood and bone, the bile rising in my throat, the scattered fragments of the man I used to know.

So long, Livingstone.

credits

from From Padlocked Pounds The Sound Of Hounds, released April 14, 2013

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Matt Stockl UK

Cynical, satirical, lyrical, comical.

Daft songs. Grubby recordings.

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