MAGIC IN THE DREAMLANDS

too much of nothing
makes a man a liar
sang bob dylan

& i think he is on to something
cos yesterday

hollywood called 

my hotline again

& begged for me 

to come work my magic

in the dreamlands

asap & pronto

gulfstream prepped

wheels up in sixty

i flew a gulfstream

into orbit once

 

after id trained 

seal team six

in gold standard krav maga

MAD GIBBONS OF ARMAGEDDON

the morning called the night a liar
as low risk expectations grew higher 
and 
the safe blue map spread out redder
and 
somewhere out there 
i bet theres a cross on fire
and 
here the town crier
had never felt so alone
and 
leaving his home
he
gagged on the news
and
he 
gazed at his shoes
and 
he wept
he'd not slept
and 
to not have to speak and say
he threw his shiny bell away
onto a liberals astroturf lawn
whod got up early 
especially to mourn
to 
get 
used to being invisible
and 
to 
practice being conspicuously miserable
for 
when the cameras came
and he upped his game
with useless analysis
and 
endless words
all teal piss
and 
hangover turds
in the suitably sad moan
of this dimmer switch dawn
and 
the 
prius on the driveway
couldnt have saved us anyway
and
the town crier found a wetherspoons
to pour bombay gin on his wounds
and 
there he sang delta blues
for
the zero hour shift workers
and
the unloved sex workers
and
for
all the uncertain lovers
and all the worried lovers
and all his tinted brothers
and all the single mothers
and all his turban sisters
and all the thirsty children
and all the hungry children
and all the unborn children
whod
pop out of the global lottery
into plenty
or land thats empty
and
know no other way
till their last day
and 
the town crier resigned
for the health of his mind
he wasnt old
he had time
to get out there and find
somewhere
where
theres
something better to say
and whatever and anyway
he sang
what a fucking day . . .
and
all the underclass
couldnt give an arse
business as usual 
when you live in a urinal
and
all the trustfund rats
and
all the fat white cats 
who followed the freelance piper
that acid dream of the gipper 
had
all
glued their blinkers on
gave up free thinking as one
and
coughed up
and
shat out
their unleashed desire
thats been on a fast
in the root cellar
and
they were calling out 'at last !'
knee deep in assassinated bees
like canute in rising seas
holding up the locker room keys
to the rotten empire
that balances over a pit of the past
on a high wire
wobbling in the wind of words
only the angry really heard
and
now
its
all
nuclear breeze and hard rain 
border walls and arm-stars again
and
old leaders are suddenly shadows
mumbling 'well how could we know ?'
and
now no ones knows where to go
and 
from out the banished chasm
that 
free speech wouldnt let us fill in
had come old school populist manipulation
punctuated now
with the wet bark of a rapists orgasm
as
the
mad gibbon of armageddon
touches all the women
when he should be in prison
and highbrow derision 
is no pragmatic solution
so
lets go to hell
but
might as well
mobilise that liberal army
with its printed benevolence
and kind artillery 
and see 
if that 
does any good 
at all 
anyway

from youtube