Full Heart, Deaf Ears

by Vincent Vocoder Voice

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You're right, she's sucking his cock even as we speak. You're right, you're getting fat, you're done, you've peaked. You're right, your friends all talk about you when you leave the room. You're right, everything they've got to say about you is true. You're right, your toes will curl and your heels will stretch. You're right, backwards walking round clueless, bumping heads. You're right, bumbling, toilet to dinner table to desk. You're right, your seconds are shrinking, how many seconds left? You're right, spark up the incense and shave your head, but You're right, every saint, Yogi and Guru still wound up dead. You're right, chirping “live and let live” while you mind your place. You're right, there's no medals at the end of the human race. You're right, better swallow those prayers, miss, nobody's there. You're right, keep your dreams to yourself, kid, nobody cares. You're right, a smile's a contract, a friend's a slave. You're right, a cock is a cudgel, a cunt's a grave. You're right, the rope's fraying fast and the cliff is slick. You're high above a beach of smashed femurs and microchips. You're right, you can empty your soul, still not fill your purse. You're right, buy a hundred Ferraris, you'll still ride the hearse. You're right, nothing gets any better, it just gets worse. You're right, nothing gets any better, it just gets worse.
The woods are peering into my house. Mephistopheles checking in on his Faust. And the distant screams of the birds and bees Make the maggots to move in my cavities And the cloud of worms following me round Lick at the bottom of my shoes as I tread the ground. Checking for the rash, checking for the lump, checking for the canker. Waiting for the itch, waiting for the blood, waiting for the cancer. Breasts and billboards ulcer this gut: Teeny tiny hands sprouting to hurry me up. A few years in the colon forgetting my name To the waiting asshole of a digger-neat grave. A televisual hex from a silicone witch. (Repeat!) Another neon brood slithers from a puppy-faced bitch. (Repeat!) And the portals are widening into the void But it's less Egon Scheile, a little more Lucian Freud. The cracks in the roof have made a pact with the trees (Repeat!) For the next high wind when I'm fast asleep. (Repeat!) The frayed wires all a-wiggling in delight In the power shower cover that's not earthed quite right. Noroviruses bloom on the cashpoint keys. (Repeat!) The E. coli blossoms in the food I eat. (Repeat!) And the screws in the shelves looming over my bed Work loose a little more every time I rest my head. Ballets in menses? Poems in shit? Raptures in urine? Go ask Job Luxford If there's a God in the grit. I don't think so. Just so you all know: You're gonna die slow.
Dance for maya, dance for dreams, For faked orgasms and hyperreal screams. Put your palms together for Alzheimer's; The perfect poetry of Korsakovian slurs. Dance for decapitations, for needles and spoons, Chain-smoking grandfathers sat in painted-shut rooms. Dance for diabetics with the stumps for feet, The black sunset on a silent street. Can you feel the wilt of a world atilt? Your grandparents are teetering on their morphine stilts And with a little good luck and every best hope We might last long enough to see the sun explode. Digging through the landfill on his hands and knees For a plastic bottle for the new babies And I'm sure she'll figure out something to please The hungry men downstairs with the machetes. Good little puritans born and raised Making neat little puritans for tidy graves. So place a ring-o-roses, we all fall down. All our cuddles turn to huddles as the lights wink out. Can you hear the wilt of a world atilt? Your grandchildren are teetering on citalopram stilts And with everything long snatched, snaffled or sold You can't work out why the young never looked so old. Dance for sternums Flowering wide Ballerinas Slumped inside Take a ticket Single file Cremulators Cracking smiles Bang the table Stamp your feet Scream for seconds Bawl and weep Elbows flailing Squealing teeth A Pizza Hut, a Pizza Hut, Kentucky Fried Chicken and a Pizza Hut! McDonald's! Pack your mouth shut! Hitch your skirts and start running 'Cos it's already coming And we're long past fucked. “When the fridge stops humming and my medicine crusts We'll still have the Big Society, in God I trust. And when all the ambulance tyres run flat I'll still have my Nectar card and my phone contract.”
Where am I? Who are you? No-one's here. Menses move. Thought I - Prickling hair - Tombs are wombs and Wombs are tombs but No-one's there. I wait for you to lay me down And move my arms and legs around. I guess it's silly that I want to spend my years Watching your eyelids darken and the hair grow in your ears. You're right, there's just no place for us. Leidensgefährte bound and trussed. And I know You love me less with every new book on your shelf But I am Getting my hopes up that you're lying to yourself. I wait for you to lay me down And push my lips and teeth around. I'm wondering what kind of scrummy mummy I would make. Watch you with One eye on Netflix while you're coming in my face. You're right, the world is full to burst. You're right, to live is to be cursed. A couple's squabble echoes through our empty home I guess I'm Blessed to still be bleeding on our sofa all alone. Fingers crossed. Nothing's lost. We're insured. There'll be cures. I've no choice: You're the voice At the end Of the world. It's dawn and all our friends have left. I'm listening to your wheezing chest. You're fond of saying you ain't with me for your health And I love you to pieces but you're lying to yourself.


Tao endures. Your body dies. No danger.


released June 13, 2014

Vincent Vocoder Voice.
Drums by Frederick Newton.
Tracked and mixed by Nyquist Noise Recordings.
Mastered by Chris Blakey at Retreat Recording Studios, Brighton.




Vincent Vocoder Voice Brighton, UK

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