Vincent Vocoder Voice

by Vincent Vocoder Voice

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That morning was the lover's parade. Dead faces turned to my window as they shuffled past, every swan neck knotting to a rouged fist. I laid low. When the last heel had turned into London Road I lit a cigarette and stepped out into the street. From over the way the neighbours' houses screamed at me over moats of bifidus digestivum and come. The hybrid cars winked at me as I stepped closer, breasts crushed together, labial grilles moistened: willing, waiting. And hell that day was asymmetrical balding; happiness a de-scaled kettle. Dead children in another country were to blame for the riots at the petrol station. Another three pence on super-unleaded. They spared the Costa machine. I laid down in the rotting cardboard by the recycling tub and slid feet first up the side of the tree. Looking up, I watched the commuters filing past – eyes buffering – sipping foam from the vacuum-formed nipples of their mammary brands: men with no mothers. Mothers with no sons. And out past the emaciated magpies lying dead at the bottom of their Rolex nests I saw her turn into the street, floating seven feet off the ground, haloed by a concentricity of wedding rings and whipping umbilical cords, and as she brought her lips to my ear the tears streamed into my fresh-dyed hairline because she was right. She was so right. How dare anyone anything ever? How dare you “how dare” me like I don't know better?
There goes the man with the golden tongue. There goes a ring with no finger on. And all the footfalls clash in phase silencing every move he makes. The freed dreams shiver through the sky. Wingbeats bending the edge of light. And all the painters stepped back and sighed as all the colours in their paintings died. Something is tickling the teeth in my lungs. Death beds are warmer shared. Bodies move better paired. It feels like forgetting the word to a song. Floating down the delta hand-in-hand, spinning through a ghost-stuffed hinterland. Waving up at you from under the ice I am staring up at you from under the ice I am smiling. There goes the girl with the golden eyes: glow fading between her thighs. Shrinking smooth as the newly-dead between the Rorschach prints in her bed. Silent footfalls cross the room battling the poltergeist in her womb. Windows rattling in their frames, tapping out a Morse code of memories. Must be that logic that helped you both sleep – some mathematical mendicant – in watching that love drain as slow and as sure as the pump in your lubricant. Well, that's kind of funny. Ha ha ha. Ha. How many pale hairy ghosts wriggling out of their clothes just behind that pin? The cores of apples of eyes all chopped up, rationed out, and distributed? Yeah, intimacy insurance is paramount. A black sliver shivered out of Danaë and right in through my spiracles and bedded down humming something soft and sweet in the branch of my bronchioles. It sang: “death beds are warmer shared”. Everyone's okay. No, nothing at all is up. I think you should stop crying. Your friends are looking at us. Your fingertips don't feel the same. The corners of your mouth have changed. Waving up at me from under the ice you are staring up at me from under the ice you are . . . different.
The only words I understand: the ellipses and ampersands. A list of revisions of things to believe. The greys in the plughole. The plaque on my teeth. A nostril full of spider's legs. A foreskin full of spider's eggs. It's not what I wanted. It's not how it seemed. A cuntful of wishes. A cuntful of dreams. Puckering up blood clots again. Whining some new mucal repent. Somebody put this leash in my hand and when I pull once she lies on command. We wove a nest of pubic hair. We laid our youth to rest in there. A light flicks colour through the legs of the cot. We kneel on the landing with ring fingers crossed. But there's love inside these four walls yet. I weaned the television set. I suckled the carpet. I breastfed the walls. I licked up the birth sacs and hash-tagged it all. Are we just market agents sent by system glitch to fool us into being walking unpaid hand models for rival jewelers? The mirrors sprawl like tumours swallowing the walls. This room's a love-locked recursion. Two looping shadowed figures grope towards the other's calls. An inch apart the scene resets and back you go and back you further, further, further. Puckering up blood clots again. Whining some new mucal repent. Somebody put this leash in her hand and when our time comes we'll die on command. The only words I understand: the ellipses and ampersands. I read it in the paper. A science magazine. We're a cockful of wishes. A cuntful of dreams.
I am bland. I am brand. I am mud. Asbestos in my fillings. Balsamic in my blood. Jamie Oliver paellas in front of dancing on ice blinking burning baby starlings from the corners of our eyes. And the man from human resources? He looked pretty pleased as he relayed the results from the biopsy of my dreams. And she's snuffling up the bedbugs while I sweat though the sheets at night. Re-totting the glans those lips shivered over before she became my wife and it's the concrete cancer that's teething and breathing. You know what I say, darling – better to no end than nothing at all. That's why you'll see me smiling while I'm putting my head through the walls. Bury me in a bakelite bath. Ziplocked polystyrene organs in a polyester bag and I'm a young man, an old man, a sick man, a soul. A milk tooth, a molar, an abscess, a hole. Now I'm nought-point-one bacteria doing laps of the toilet seat. My jowls let out a shiver with every pothole in the street. Do you look at your body and think it's no wonder that you're going nowhere, friend? Nope – not with that withered flagellum that's spinning between your legs. It's counting your friends that makes you lonely. We're dying too fast but oh-too-slowly. The concrete cancer is teething and breathing. You know what I say, darling – better to no end than nothing at all. That's why you'll see me smiling while I'm putting my head through the walls.
The train came in sideways. The plane fell down. Jerk awake from the wreckage in the hotel lounge. Pat out the fires and call the waiter for a cancerous cheque. A little sweet malignancy to sour my breath. I’ve started laying off my minerals one by one. My particles are packing up their confessions because we’re far too long dying, far too long spent in doomed negotiations with the firmament. Is this it? Are we just . . . ? There’s no shivers in livers. No groans in bones. No shock wave windows beautifying our homes. There’s no gunshots, no enemies, bomb shelter ends. I’ll sit flicking through my iPhone 'til I choke on my friends. I’ll welcome every single freckle: I’ll bless you to bloom. Help yourself to my lymphocytes and memories too. I hope no maker’s waiting glancing at the clock in his seat cos I’m sick of queueing up and kicking my feet. Sucking in fibre blowing out shit. So suffer little children – see if I care. Suck a Samaritans' receiver if you don’t think it’s fair. There was a God in a moral but the chrysalis split. The towns filled up with nothing – now we’re drowning in it. The flapping mouths like meatuses promising seed to reincarnate me to whoever I please. If I only look snappy and thumb out the notes. I’d rather place bets with my sweetheart over who will turn first to a ghost. Are we just sucking in fibre blowing out shit? Is that all there is? Is that it? Is that it?
I'm done standing up. I'm done laying down. I'm done stumping up for you. I'm done paying out. I wake up in blisters. They burst when we touch. The room fills with vomit and rainbows. A slow sick glissando of trust. Where did all the days go? Birds shit on the window. An accretion of fossils: we're dreamless apostles for something gone rotten. For something for-?. The children stand around the bedside with foundation diplomas in love. One eye on current house prices. One hand nice and safe on the plug.
I’m safe inside: there’s smoke alarms and kitchen knives so leave me alone. It’s death outside: commuter vomit oozing solids and the viruses are hunting for a home. Did I miss my missing something that you said? I had a sudden catastrophic deflation of interest. In sleep we’re necromancers, resurrecting old romances: lick your fingertips and slit open the dead. We move through vacant places squinting through vacant faces trying to remember what was so wrong with what we dreamt. Did I misplace the decimal on your manifest? There was this sudden catastrophic decompression of interest. There’s faeces in the staples of the health reform. “Salvation” is an anagram of “cluster bomb”. Swab the hope from the dimples of the dermoid cysts to grout the graves we’re banning out of politeness so stitch your mother to your brother, prey nothing goes amiss. I dare you. I dare you.
And God's eyes glazed over as the sky shut down. Long nights sucking bad teeth out of leper's mouths. And I spent fourteen weeks staring into cupboards in an unbuttoned shirt. I took up smoking. Then I quit. And I fiddled with your skeleton in all the right spots. Now I own you. I quoted other people's poems 'til your legs were uncrossed. And all those busy buzzing little vertices are converging very nicely indeed. So lie back like your mother and start milking those fruits. Little chicken-skinny apples dressed in spermicide suits. Now our juicy shiny skins just glow and beam and gleam from either end of the dining room. Now our juicy shiny skins just glow and beam and gleam but the taste's just not as good. I lean in and dab a spot of amaretto'd foam from your lip gloss with the nib of an empty pen. And I use other people's poems as paperweights for receipts and phimosis prescriptions. Superhappyadventuretime, again. Entzauberung. And every single day is just a little bit longer than just long enough. Just cos I'm asymptomatic doesn't mean I'm not sick. And the world ain't made of menstruating prophylactics. I'm not saying I'm not here but I see no face in the film of my chamomile tea. And I'm not saying that we didn't happen – you just didn't happen to me. And I don't feel in the least bit sorry, but I'm not trying to be.
Last time I checked we had free speech. Right then, shut your face: I'm speaking. My problem's urgent, yours can wait. Quit your whinging. I've got complaints. I'll saw that barrista in half with the edge of my donor card. (Soy! Soy! It's three letters!) We layered the acetate printouts of our DNA. Vetted the patterns and popped champagne and start Googling the baby names. A green field, a clean white tent. Now that's what I call entertainment. Push red for the autopsy and I'm choking back my jealousy cos why can't I be famous? Shared baths then spontaneous sex. Foucault and Baudrillard shelved next. Swap out the haiku sent by text for guest rooms with flat pack pull out beds. Quantising cum shots in our heads. Yawning at chrome vibrating eggs. Leave toenail clippings where they fall. Walk by the junk mail in the hall. Groan at the sunshine, up and out, making each carcinoma count. Slow waltz around supermarkets with hooves in shoes clenched up like fists. So boil it off, you'll see what's left: bad luck, tough shit, goodnight, God bless. Now all you've leased reverts to us. Your children's hair will turn to rust. All your snow-driven birds of love: besemened pigeons playing dove. One day I'll be turfed out of my grave to join dust clouds floating in space. Treblinka and the Vatican: their motes sweet-waltzing, holding hands. And those black jokes will all make sense hoovering us up in increments. Bye bye.
Da, Fort 04:41
When we ate stars, rode the Kraken, and all those things that didn't happen. Like the gold shoe in the hallway I dreamt I found warm yesterday morning. Here's where I sat with your mother making faces at the faces. Here's where I sat with your mother making places out of places.


"VVV possesses a sense of the grotesque but balances it with humour, creating an otherworldliness that is really rather special" - 9/10 Big Cheese

"Eerily compelling stuff" - 8/10 Rock Sound

"It sounds great, with fresh, Warp-like street smarts" - Prog

"Anything can happen - your greatest dreams or worst nightmares" - 4/5 Artrocker

"Think St. Vincent and Part Chimp tied up in Gasper Noe’s basement" - NME


released November 18, 2013

Music & microphones by Vincent Vocoder Voice.
Drum kit by Frederick Newton.
Mastering by Chris Blakey at Retreat Recording Studio.
Cover photo by Keita Lynch @
Layout by Eugene Quell.




Vincent Vocoder Voice Brighton, UK

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