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Date Posted: 13:19:13 01/17/00 Mon
Author: Paul A.S.Rushton
Author Host/IP: squirrel.dur.ac.uk /
Subject: Brainstorming

Sorry, just a few more. Any thoughts, comments or criticisms would be greatly appreciated



I'm throwing off my tattered shroud
To hitch a nimbus, carbon cloud
Scraps lie where I fed the floor
Can't be bothered being dead no more
Where the sun sits high I'll cross shaped stand
Get crucified and go out tanned
Some long-haired hack showed me the stars
Shook beads and her prosthetic arse
I'm far too tired to look behind
To speak the mantras that I'd find
The Deva heads on human stems
When supper was the rest of them
And men came with their guns I'm told
And stuck their tusks to foolish gold
So yeah, I meant it when I swore
Won't be prosthetic anymore.


I'm a savage to the talk of a long dead saviour
And every situation has an outdated precedent
Painting my face in your favourite flavour
And a tribute to the life of the next dead president
Basking in the comfort of a painful fortitude
Or talking in a city that's a bit more liveable
Throwing bread and fishes at the brain pain multitudes
Or kneeling at the mercy of a heart pang syllable
Moaning at the residues of sandstorm summer
Or oily to the shapings of a washed out watercolour
Crying at the evening matter, beverages and twiglets
Or hating at the logic of the hemi demi rhyming couplets
Moving to the beating of a rhythmical drummer
Who's pace has left me lagging back behind my contemporaries
Still moaning at the residues of sandstorm summer
And what on earth the problem is if this is all meant to be
Turning to the words of the lyrical troubadour
And the bloody concentration of the red rag matador
Wagging at the foliage like a logic-less labrador
I'll lovingly drop another misguided metaphor.

Cosmos Mariner, Destination Unknown

Dressed down cosmos mariner, he hasn't found it yet
Sleep won't come too easily and neither will regret
Sighing at cold coffee, liquid eyes, dark liquid hair
Set in stone with trillobytes but just a touch more rare

I invented the wheel whilst stood at the bus stop, coined a phrase from home
Colloquial and charming ways to face the cold alone
Burnt stars, the cosmos mariner, he's lost his way again
Frighted through a stone of rum, this time he don't pretend

Pleasant scenes in desert dreams and seas which formed the land
Backwards cats turn tails to trees, crassly shaking hands

Following String

It's a four chord, snow spot, slow refrain,
It's a leather bound, gold leaf, photo frame,
She's imperfect beauty, my defeat,
Angel glows between clean sheets.

I'm a whimsical ride, patchouli fumes,
A vestibule to low lit rooms,
She'll flex mischievous devil hooves,
And I might fall from night-time roofs,
And she might tear the rafters down,
And I might scream without a sound.

It's gold frame, triptych altar-piece swings,
It's minotaur breath and I'm following string,
And we might be as water flows,
Invent new places no-one knows,
And stand not knowing how we stand,
Or find new ways of holding hands.

It's revenue to send me there,
Just view and movies in the air,
I'm a whimsical ride, patchouli fumes,
Sun fade, harbour afternoons,
I'll kiss each face that time assumes,
A vestibule to low lit rooms.

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