Life can't be lump free

-
Life can’t be completely unlumpy
That’s easy for you to say
You mean without lumps?
One or two
The soul travels at the speed of a camel
The desert was a delight
The angels did sing.

Life can’t be without its ups and downs
That’s not for you to say
One for the road
Over the bridge
Hold onto your knickers
The moors were in my mind
The angels did sing

Life can’t be lump free
Without lumpy bits
Bacon ham and sausage
Oh and cigarettes
That’s the c word you know
Might be a Cyst
The ward was deserted

The angels did sing

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

COSMIKNOT > nomadic freedoms of the LyrriK Voyce

-
Image
the solution is a bassline and an ancient future outlook. Onward to p.e.a.c.e. Platforms Athens CosmiKnot spins the vestiges of the fake problem into duct tape fixing a funeral barge sailing to the moon with the precision of a tru throw away note trailing from the crumpled horn of 1/4 million miles Davis   Curated by Dr Mikey Georgeson and Samuel Zealey   30th March - 15th April AVA, UEL, E16 2RD A collective speculative temporary community. Re-enchanting the region of disenchantment through the shifting myth-concepts of Aesthetic Ontology.   CosmiKnot is a space to gather in community as social unit to understand through the speculative ritual of Perforum We selected artists with conviction in weaving specific contingent personal mythology into shifting performative ritual transformation of encounter with a materially vital entity that speaks back.   My-Key Hassan Aliyu, Yasmeen Ally El Araby, Bry Ford, Caroline Gregory, My-key, Isabell Metsäpelto, Tony Moon, Venetia Nevill, Ade Ogund
Read more

Blackberry Picking

-
Image
Blood and brambles Bloody Shambles Cameron gambles On Hardline angles "its criminality undiluted" Nations youths have been poluted And while economy takes a tumble I'm at home making blackberry crumble Filled with fruits harvested in scrubland Behind Sainsbury's full of thorns and Smelt of decaying vegetation Seemed emblematic of the nation Made my young son feel ill at ease Paths ill defined,shapes in the trees Such physical pursuits to him Seem unnecessary and alien I tell myself it does him good As any self-respecting father would Hands made for grasping a controler Each bramble scratch will make him wholer But now its my hands that are stained With crimson juices - fear I've refrained From doing this when he was younger And somehow bred one more war-monger But thorny pricks upon my skin Convince me I should not give in. Who needs another liberal deserter In face of national inertia? Instead of always asking why? Perhaps we should
Read more