I said I'd make time for your Serengeti airlift
But you fucked up because my lips aren't bleeding
I made my case for exposing you to ridicule
But there's cold air creeping around your back-door exit

I said I'd make myself known to your rock 'n' roll blueprint
But you kept yourself warm with that exceptional heartbeat
Now there's a voice inside by way of continuity
But I was heading out, so I left it in the cathode-ray cage

I'm sorry, were you waiting
Were you waiting here
I'm sorry, were you waiting
Who were you waiting for
I'm sorry, were you waiting
Were you waiting here
I'm sorry, were you waiting
What were you waiting for?

I said I'd make myself plain to all your legions
But I'm growing tired of the stale stench of consequence
I'm on a whistle-stop search for the Libran break point
Looking for something unencrypted in all this pretence

I'm sorry, were you waiting
Were you waiting here
I'm sorry, were you waiting
Who were you waiting for
I'm sorry, were you waiting
Were you waiting here
I'm sorry, were you waiting
What were you waiting for?

Ego I, egone fishing

Breed on me, breed on me
It's all just seeds, breed on me
Teethe on me, teethe on me
Brandy in the milk, teethe on me
Seethe on me, seethe on me
Oil on the water, seethe on me
Bleed on me, bleed on me
Television seed, ego free

We'll all live on television
I want to get banned from TV
I will die on television

Another Bloody Weekend

Egone

Chemical Air Destroyer / Million Air (Dawn Collapse) / Heaps

Southervecco's

Red / Shift / Two Months In

Gag Reflex

Tusk

Of the little he's lost, it's his libido
That he will mourn the most
Must've left it back there with the naked woman
Beneath the Marmite on his toast
Or in the dance fantastic, the dilated eye
The bottle of charms he's drunk dry

Well he's a repli-cunt, a sperm donor
The collectable toy with every boner
The spilt milk of one careless owner
But Mother runs a ready ship
And it is fleet yet intimate 

(in the midden of)
The winds of its passing
Glimmer distant and flashing

Stars
And I remember your face, son
Framed by the bars that 
Trained your replacements
You can leave in those cars
The ships of your mothers
But lost son, remember
Your sisters and brothers

Forearmed and fairweather

(whether) It's the distance to New York
Or the long time in politics
Just hark at the difference it makes
It comes over him all sudden-like
Hits him like a hefted brick
He's had a gutful of bellyaches

So he escapes the lint-picking autoslave trader
He can make the change work even if it's made up
No longer scared to survive
Now he's grasped the reason why he's seeing

Stars
Oh find your place son
You've been seen around in bars
Without your face on
And your head up your arse, mate
On a family occasion
Your spineless contortions
Really terrified the children

And that's when it happened
Those kids upped and fucked off
Crying and pointing because 
The door was never locked
And in blew a rough draft
Of axes to infinity
And nebulous and newborn
We kneel before the asymptote

The Incomplete Truth [EP]

Motherships & Empty Vessels

So What's-Her-Face and What's-His-Name forget to get their intended train
So they set sail to go seek Thingy-Bob, whom they haven't seen since he got his con-job
Now in a nautical mile, as you may have guessed, they lose their way, and at his behest
They look aright, but they take a left, and they maroon somewhere to starboard of her chest

Clutching at the eggs we laid on unknown soil
Someone must be punished
Not one of them's the hatchling it was meant to be
First fertilised just to be hard boiled
Someone must be punished
And I'm damn sure it's not me

Sealed in a jar with the waking thoughts that are the lid he dreams of twisting off

So rudderless on the Horns of Plenty, these cabin boys of the 21st Century
Have water, water, whales in the heat sink, but the same old thirst pains in the drink
And on this dry-skinned seed-ship, this wave of the hereto, she asks him, lashed, expression stern
'Oh brother, tell me true, was it us that moved or did the world just turn?'

And he clutches at the eggs we laid on unknown soil
Someone must be punished
Not one of them's the hatchling it was meant to be
First fertilised just to be hard boiled
Someone must be punished
And I'm damn sure it's not me

Sealed in a jar with the waking thoughts that are the lid he dreams of twisting off

Now sometime later, somewhere to remember, this is every week since the other September
That he sits and misses feeling visceral, here at the foot of the globe with his belly full
And she feels the tug of that old compulsion: love, the mirror, disgust, revulsion
And she sheds a tear for their grim compliance, that all their chemistry spawned just social science

Chilled by the sweat of untold toil
Someone must be punished
To think that this persistent stink is all we have to show for it
The first-born died in plagues of boils
Someone must be punished
I now believe I might be it

'cause I am fucking furious that where once I was curious
I'm read, black and blue, where I ran myself through
All the arguments turned spurious
Except death so vain and glorious
I've found small consolation

Another jar sank that day

Whojar Captivity

Well I was standing in line for my shot at the big time
But the big time got me first
And in sudden sounds the man understood what the child by instinct could
Even fish can sense their thirst

Then everything went post-modern
Well after the event
And I got ahead of myself
I'm my own descendent
And you might say I sound the same, John
At least I've risen to respond
And if you like this song, John
You could say there's nothing wrong

You could call this precognition or just plain pattern recogition
But I saw the past in these white-washed walls
And I gave myself the sac, but teach me to crack
And bicker with the hair and the hat on my head, and my fucking balls

Now everything is become post-modern
In place of the event
And I am ahead of myself
I'm my own descendant
And you might say I sound the same, Scott
I know you'll listen to this response
Whether or not you like this song
I have ever been guilty, dumb and...

Hanging like a ghost in the smoking air
I see the price tag on this me-suit I wear
Help me exhale and watch it spin around
Peel me off the ceiling with a happy sound

I will feel this subtle awe breaking out of my front door
To stumble across that stream
I'll sit and I'll fish, I'll play my line out in a murmur
Hello, Captain Hook, and welcome to my throat

Then everything will go post-post-modern
Who mothered Old Father Time?
And I will round on myself
Crop our spots and leave that line
And you will say we'll never be the same, Red
We'll lose at Risk and fight instead
But we shared some laughter and this song
And that at least cannot be wrong

Risk Strategy

Three Fools / My Familiars

What I used to get up into in my bedroom (and occasionally elsewhere) when I had a lot more free time, but about the same amount of talent.

Ivan Turk

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