Composed, performed, programmed & produced by Wavesword "Marsy" Mars

Lyrics reproduced by the artist:

“I eat any bar that would use my family name
With the prejudice of caramel ”
My brother laughed at my display of rapperly flair
And the stars above applauded,
Upon the hill at night, he knew how to get through to me, simply
By refusing to treat this child like a child
And we’d catalogue everything in nature: the constellations;
Of what cheese the moon; a chorus of frogs, anything wild.
Perhaps alarmed by my tendency to vandalise
The chorus’ lillipads, dessicate habitats,
And my generally aggressive disposition, brother,
Master ever of the revealing question, asked “Say I could give
You anything; what do you really, really want?”
I said “I want to conquer everything in this galaxy I see,
Like our daddy would…”

"…I want to make mama out of mother
But a father out of dad
I want to punch the moon spinning
Through milky way and Mars bar
But most of all I just want
To make jelly out of the stars
And have a little wit, enough to spread it”

“Venus for academy, Mercury for a hunting ground,
And Mars for the party – no Mars a prison for villains
Whose villainy can’t be contained in earthly bounds”
So went the stops on my tour of the universe
Sat on the same hill with dad a while later, bro left behind,
I was engulfed with a silence he and I never encountered
The truths and laughs we shared that pulled the night
Close to hand seemed replaced by proof of our insignificance
Dad said not one word in dialogue, just a mantra, a missive from
A realm of gorgeous solipsism “Every person’s a world of their own.
The world is nothing but something to conquer and control,
No different from ourselves, and that’s why I tell you
Every person’s a world of their own, sunshine,”
He all-but cried, with star-yoking pride and the tear
Of a vision of ambition fulfilled both in his eye

He don’t know
Will never know
Couldn’t know
I just want to make jelly out of the stars

“Kiddo,” “Yes bro?” “Enough stargazing,
Time for a show of wit charblazing;
Freestyle for me”
‘I’ll dress you in that pewterous shine
True and luminous I intuited while red shoe’ing
Out of the uterus
Her soul opens to mine to mate
The dead weight of her ex abating
Words lurk behind my tongue waiting
So I can get all panegyrical unequivocal
Redeem those so vocal but not lyrical.’
“Very good, you’d leave llamas pack n Dalai proud,” he said
Massaging his wrists like from chains they’d just been allowed
“To rap the way you rap, think the way you think,
And give the way you give, is to be free”
My eyes wonderpaneled at these ideas as they took in too
His tender caress of those wrists, which he was fond of
Thrusting up, insisting “See these severed hands I wear round
My wrists, cut from a past that would not let go!”
Before those impressions, nutcrackers of my incomprehension 
Yielded rank to as sad a thing as I’d ever say
“If we’re born free,” I asked this figure brotherly,
“Why does it hardly ever feel that way?”

Our War and How We Won It

I Just Want to Make Jelly Of the Stars

Composed, performed, programmed & produced by Wavesword "Marsy" Mars and Alex North, featuring piano by Bill Evans and keyboards by Herbie Hancock

Lyrics reproduced by the artist

I was reading in the March of Time
A story that looked more than a little like mine
It captured my nascence in the shadow of wealth
Though not the abuse, or profusions of bruising from the belts
It spoke of how by the time I was 1 and 9 I’d graduated
Once less than thrice, but not how I’d also almost died twice
Then a passage it adored, how I took none
Of my magnate folks’ money, yet made a whole lot more
It told of material success, but not how I set off untold revolutions
Disguised in flesh, which took up whole souls’ purchase without incurring
Something so apparent as a minor disturbance,
Changed his society for no price higher than mild annoyance
In the one paper full of experts, and eager commentariat
An esteem for better news, an even-handedness known to few,
It was a not believable story; and, in being so, accurate and true
Believable? I never have been

Oh you will find if you go reading
Leafing through the March of Time
Reading through the March of Time
A story just like this

Every morning in the mirror I see
The guy who tried to murder me
Unsuccessfully, thankful are we both
That I had too much HP, and since then we
Have struck up a friendship of moving address
In a tame West; he alone knows all the secrets
Of who I was at the time we met, that my body
Then was my shadow, and my shadow the real me.
At least, thanks to him, I knew I was capable of action,
Of imposing myself upon the world, if only to curtail
Forever possibility of the same.
I don’t dwell in those Badlands, but lord knows I sent
A lot of thought miners into that memory’s thorny pass
From the rock came resplendent questions hewed: 
To escape the fate that made you, and shape your
Own nature: you don’t have to do this alone, or do you?
And why are the good who are also strong so few?

You will find if you go reading
Leafing through the March of Time
Reading through the March of Time
A story just like this
The story is the story of the good guy
And what he was made and betrayed by

There’s an awful lot the lens of that profile couldn’t help you see
Like the expression my brother’s ghost carved in the moon and
Which shines down on our mutual enemies; the cynical, deceitful,
The unmerciful virtuous, the deaf to reason, and broccoli.
Like the love, scarred, pierced beyond belief, that still drives me
Like the untameable mare of unthinkable truth I ride freely
Easy do we forget the full expansive glory of our story
So, at ease the March of Time, let me tell you mine
You may not like what I have to say
And find you like me anyway
At first the story of the good guy seems
Like you’re gaining in everyone’s esteem for gallantly walking green fields
Then all of a sudden boys of bones emerge from below 
To run through you, though they look like you do
You begin to recognise the villainy of friends
Soon you’re pitching through a hell of tortures oddly specific and unheard of
Which you’ll think not even the staunchest villain’d deserve
All this to create a good that will subject to all that evil throw at it
And not lose its nerve and cry
“Who’d ever want to be the good guy?”
The goods you pretend to will fall under wheel on our way
And rot in your renewed sight of them will many of the comforting beliefs you hold dear
If you take up rein and ride through the story with me here
How good is formed: the last tale anyone ever wants to hear

“A tree that would try to hide what it is
In the end will bear its fruit”, quoted on
The back pages of the March of Time
It prints your tale, it prints mine
“If we can learn from each other
A little more we’ll live forever”
Rich philosophies run in
This ink

I Was Reading in the March of Time

Composed, performed and produced by Wavesword "Marsy" Mars

Lyrics coming soon to Genius.com

Our Mutual Enemy

Tuscan Wrath

To the Bone

Composed, performed and produced by Wavesword "Marsy" Mars

Lyrics reproduced by the artist

I’ve grieved the loss of you
Since you were born 
Bring the groceries
Bring your favourite gelato
Bring that horse inside
Bring a thousand barbs justified
To tan mine and your father’s hide
If it means you are coming home

Forgive me
For what you will never know
Forgive me
For what I cannot show
I cannot show you in speech
I cannot show you in deed
I can only show...

A good boy is in the raising
As much as he is in the handling
We may not be heroes beyond the
Domestic epic, but fighting
Such flames of contretemp
As engulf us in our misunderstandings
Will be the story of our war
And how we won it

Dressing Gown'd Duet

Made From the Wool of a Black Sheep

Composed, performed and produced by Wavesword "Marsy" Mars

Lyrics reproduced by the artist

Trayvon Martin was like
“Versace, Versace I’m black with a hoody is that why you shot me?”
Fugazi, Versace exchange facts in jail with defendants all walking free
Versace, kiss my right cheek, this is the product of trial by media
Their verdict that screams “Fuck the evidence I’ll swear upon Wikipedia”
Versace, the people’s relation to truth weds like Lawson n Saatchi
Bias, racism, ignorance all shish-kebabed on a nodachi  
Don’t talk to me to just to jack off your self-righteousness that’s an affront to me
Your following the pack and three-bit news thinkpieces it smokes like a blunt to me
While rappers like Versace, Versace, Versace, Versace, Versace, Versace, Versace
My scrotum’s Versace, my roll ‘ems Versace, new foreskin’s Versace
This boulder’s Versace, when I hold em up I hold em with Versace
We’re having a party, sit Pia Mia across the table see Mars sits his arse n gets nasty
We wanted to roll but we could only find this second-hand wrapping paper
But hey the present is improvised, the future? We’ll worry about that later
If the future comes past, we’ll break out the havarti and break into Versace
I want the motion of the world to run silky, a Versace Koyaanisqatsi

Those words were scribed by eyes reflecting
The light of fires of racial tumult as the fires mixed
Lit by those who uphold human natures as fixed, and
Scribed not by me, but by the belief that to differ is
To be in everlasting conflict; two kinds of racial essentialist

Both wished for rule by miracle,
Mystery and authority; much as I did with
My brother’s epigraphs, they longed for their
Scripture’s clarification, while also begging
That such clarity never come, and custody
Over the resultant insights never begun 
That longing, it’s the chaos of confluence polluted,
A two-faced, two-raced sprite
Which in pressing our appetite for that 
Miracle, mystery and authority, fulfils
That same appetite, recalling
That time in our life when such elements
Are, through our unknowing, in flowing
Abundance, through every path not taken,
Every river unforded that could have been
Charted hankie-sailed raft aboard.
It admits no hunger for an answer; it merely
Delights in the symphonic echo of the cry “What if?”

It is hard above all things, when in pain, to conciliate
When in blood to remain before the desire to comprehend, prostrate
But no enemy can be bested that was not first understood
Waiting out the course the greatest genius of the good
Dad once remarked “They’re the double agents of fate
Who’ll commit to a worthy cause through hate”; watching
Those fires I realised we feared one of the same things, and my,
What relieved camaraderie is that mutual enemy able to bring!

TravyonMarti [Versace Remix]

Composed, performed and produced by Wavesword "Marsy" Mars

Lyrics reproduced by the artist

And here two babes who found each other in the bulrushes
Who didn’t make it out of the hood
But got kicked out, took off right
For the patch of old Milne country wood where she told him
She’d preferred be proposed to,
The ring in his pocket fashioned by the topsy turvy
Perversions of the rotary kiln of a world that won’t stop turning,
Improbably formed, improbably strong, improbably determined
To make forever safe, loved and secure that kept within
As Elsheimer paints the night, having dispatched five rounds of
Lie-n-Pinocchio, she told me she had something to show me
(Me noticing all the while we’d left the car in drive the entire time)
I smote the thought she might embarrass my marriage proposal
With a proposal of her own, when she strummed up her brother’s tune
“Some people dislike such music,” she said
“But it’s better than it sounds”

My love, we’ll love by a single rule:
‘Who loves me half loves me none’
We’ll be the text that they teach to lovers in school
To keep them from just loving love

We were discussing then the Italian styling
Of this romantic violence, and that
This country’s values move too fast
Killing anything idling; she sang again,
Her tenor whose tone roisters like Rolls Royces,
I always knew weeping ripens the voice , here conclusive proof
Your song lured me away, into the vault of collective
Memory where it must’ve been forged; I thought of
Your folks, prone to overlook much, taken
In by the spectacle of their daughter, the rich bride, 
The inheritance I believe I shall reject
No closer to either of your remote surmise
My mind a pleasured isle that thought of nothing for perhaps
The very first time was occupied by surprise when you said
“One thing on my list: tell me what in mention of family,
Or future, sees you take on every time the aspect assumed by
A horse, startled, falling from a cliff;” witty she, bold and open-hearted,
I realised that I was less ready than ever to tell; and that this no longer mattered
She burred, and flicked her eyes, so I’d infer she’d prefer
Us step inside for my inner life to alight to light to be assized

In these wood do secrets glow
Just as not to let their slightness show
In the dark, in the light
Having divulged, I expect I might
Soon find that I’m calling through the night
“Come back, come back”

“Alright, my word, and my reduction to it,
The foulest of all things I intuit, is that
I may be doomed to inherit custody of
My family’s funfair of vice against my will;
That I may turn indifferent my child’s interests,
Culture their fear for my amusement,
Raise them as weapons against one another
And make my joy in withholding plain; 
And that this is cargo I cannot disburse, whatever
Pedigree of pirate good it attracts, 
And that, however much I appropriate, emulate
My dead brother’s tact, his will, his belief in man the
Magnate of optimism and the required fierceness of good,
He still isn’t coming back.”
As I shivered, reduced only to my word, moonlight
Rivering through those tiny windows, she
Made the closening moon’s glow into a ring
And proposed she turn me into a bat-shaped husband thing.
That’s appropriate timing, I said,
That’s a thousand clouds their thunder nicked,
That’s excess most wretched I never expected.
“Yes,” she grinned, “Daddy raised a jackass .”

"Daddy Raised a Jackass"

Composed, performed and produced by Wavesword "Marsy" Mars

Lyrics reproduced by the artist

One day, as I journeyed round the house,
My tastebuds a Philasterian rapture ‘bout this baked Alaska 
I heard a shout “Now recite to me the principles
Of establishing safety in a romantic situation that we learned!”
It seems ma had another lesson in session, teaching
Sis the rules of boundaries and self-possession in the game of love
This time I thought I’d wander in and observe; to my sugar-dairy-
Rushing nerve ma thundered “There’s no place for you here!”
Sis insisted I be permitted to sit, held on to my arm; I did,
As mum recalled all the ways that men had done her harm,
Emotional manipulation, fetishes for strangulation,
A bladder battered so hard as to be made weak,
The burn mark I’d thought was a birthmark on her arm
“I bet you wish you’d never come in,” said she
“Now, though you may no longer know your mother, you know me”
It left me pale with rage and shame; I blamed the B&J for giving
Me the adventurer’s esprit that led me to these What-If fields
“Learn the well bottom girl” she turned and said to sis, “or soon,
You’ll find that you’re defending men against yourself”

“She’s one of those double agents, your mother,”
Dad said “It’s a woman’s world, to them we advertise,
In polling’s eyes they do much better without us”
And then he went away, looking like he had more to say
Like "Women fear the order of men
And men fear that of women
On this partial and merciless truth
We’ll build our loves to last the years"

“Ma,” I cried as I followed her “is it really true?
Are those really all things that happened to you?”
“Whether they’re mine or women’s I knew, it’s time
You be alerted to the evils some among your fraternity do”
“Then I won’t let them get sis too!” I cried, she smiled, though
Ever with snided eye “That’s the attitude I’d hoped would rise
In you, let’s see if it’s stays unhypocritised” “But ma, you saw the
Fear in her face; you can make her safe without scaring her like that.
Teach her a relationship is a great work of art co-created
Like one it must begin in familiar regions, then reach beyond”
Her eyebrow arched “I see now you’ve obtained
The spyglass of Columbia, bid to analyse the world from feminised eyes,
Your iris’ pane is glazed with strain. You’d do right to harbour fear
Of a female planet, it would be chiefly one of pain. At any rate,
There is no place in this conversation for a male,” she said
“But ma, how then could one help you make the change?”
I don’t remember what she said, but I recall looking down in the
Bath that night, wondering if I could ever be clean again

Fear of a Female Planet

Composed, performed and produced by Wavesword "Marsy" Mars

Lyrics reproduced by the artist

How might one compare me to a winter’s day?
Ossian, Nookie, Venus; assemble, let’s count the ways
(Venus) Mars you’re plastered, pissed!
Oh yeah, if I were plastered could I do this?
Could I do the moments while they do the seconds?
Stealin daylights like the sun collects em?
Make the game over as if this shit were Tekken?
Sip from the mainstream then make it change direction
My frost on the windscreen you look through coats
The world in the magic and realism of which it’s really mixed
Wanted to live and love higher so I became pariah
What was once uneasy green became the colour of the pariahtine
You are the voice of this generation
I am its stunned silencing
Escaped the premises of the poor and the psychoses of the poor
(Venus) Are you living? 
Yeah I’m living for four

(Ossian)
I’m putting coke on my cocoa puffs
Coke on my cocoa
Putting coke on my cocoa puffs
Coco, cocoa, riiiiight?
All the people have not and the banks are open
And I’ll have duffed up n diamond cuffed anyone who scuffs my seal pups
I pull a book down, I could copy the pages
But I can’t read, so long as the banks are open
I’ve been told my eyes are like mines of Leone diamonds
And they’re all fucking mine, they’re all fucking mine
The snow, could make romantic even the thought
Of John Candie’s dick
The same shade as my ivory 
 'Make Poverty History' wristband
I can’t move, I can work, I’m a stooge
Of the proven worth but, but, but
I could sell a doctorate to a doctor I bought
For a quid for 10p and still make a profit
The beauty I can’t have is the only one I want
Fuck it, fairness is the colour of coca-coca riiiight?

Here do I sit down
Just to be shown how
To reconcile the many sides of me

Is there a place for a darker instinct
I want what I want what I want what I want
Will you higher minds bless this trade deal with your imprint?
Your every better judgement will I haunt
With an empire on which the sun don’t rise?
Gonna help you build that paunch
On whose hills fall the snows of the coca coca
I want what I want what I want what I want
Though by reason I’m frequently slavified,
I can’t be killed, I cannot die
And other departments of mind still loft my ensign
Whenever they take pleasure in pursuits more fine
I brighten your eyes with the light of life,
And lead the best man you know to leave his wife
Fuck the world however it appears
And when it ends I want coke, I want ice cream

You may be reading in the March of Time
The stories of the three men here, who
Bear nothing in common but a bodily lair
And shared, mysterious visions of 
Elysium that I planted to conduct and
Unite them there.
I’m the voice you hate, it’s the voice that always
Implores you wait, for a second contemplate, moderate
That might make the energies of the id, the charm of
The world-turned face, and the innate idea singly confederate
How well I do my job will determine if you are
A human mastered and complex or just a fucking mess
In conflict they make a multitude of a man into a half of one
Purposed in the same direction they make a one-man posse cut
Without many souls within, brokered at times
To benign conflict, we can greet no great feat,
Nor be an army of one when there’s an urgent war to win,
But without mastery of self we are just mobile societies,
We’ll never move among the spirits we contain
Nor meet the best among them

Chocaine

Composed, performed and produced by Wavesword "Marsy" Mars

Lyrics reproduced by the artist

Amdist many could-be Platos, waiting and plating
Do I get the terms of my future mating in contemplated evil’s face
The heroes of the past rounded me in Fortnum n Mason’s
During mine and ma’s annual mother-and-son Fortnum-Mason date
She carried such wares as contorted her bag
Into the visage of a face screaming for release
From the multitudes in it to be reconciled
A Guccian shorthand for all those whom those Gs beguiled
I wore the same velvet blazer I wore when she inaugurated this
Tradition after my visit to the fiend in prison,
And then, as now, she eyed the tea selection with undivided
Attention, spoke not a word, didn’t even care enough to look up
In expectant silence at the spectacle of my coming to terms

When the past locks you 
Deep in negotiation 
It often seems that the 
Leverage is its to hold 
But each time with a sneer and a laugh
We come to terms
We’ve come to terms, we have

Under this little creatural instrumental which ma thought,
As she always does, must be by the Beatles, she asked
“Wouldn’t you agree sunshine, after coarse deeds and words,
“That there’s nothing like a laugh to come to terms?”
I smiled, nodded a weighty ‘Aye’, thinking of the time
Dad did just that when I said I’d been ideating suicide.
Told her the news, mentioned I’d been offered the chance to speak
About that shooting on TV, but not that I was planning to marry
In this bygone’s alley I took her hands, “Let me ask you,
Why is it that every time we find ourselves here, whence I want
To tell you the story of your living son the good guy, to describe
That bloody wonder, I can only fixate on the shields we locked 
Against one another, the hate that once gave me slovenly body, 
And on slights and upsets goneby, so emboldened by your presence, 
That flee for their lives when elsewise in my sight?” 
Her eyes trembled with sentiment
And just when I thought I at last had her in a position
Where she would try to answer this unanswerable question
The tea arrived

This time I pressed for an answer, but gazing round she sighed,
 “Look at our world, these progressives
Who are in fact profoundly conservative; these idle rich
These milk teas, and we, mother and son mired in enmity, we;
Shamed in industry and culture by the poor and migranty”
“Not often you give strangers the benefit of your humanising
Instinct ma, to hear you do so is grand”
“Maybe what you don’t understand,”
She said “Is that the terror of that return,
If it was not what knighted you or your mother or mother’s mother
Remains latent in your bones,
In your genetic code mulls a dormant
Cry ‘I will not go back there!’
People hate what they fear they may become, and
Sure antipathate against what they fear they may become again;
That’s what I think when I look
At the poor migrant mother and her child,”
She said, ordering again from the Fortnum carte
As much pierscribed in her mind as touch of mother mild

We've Come to Terms, We Have

Composed, performed, programmed & produced by Wavesword "Marsy" Mars

Lyrics reproduced by the artist:

Here they come now, to cleanse the line;
They might’ve chosen your footprint to dispose of.
They chose mine. 
Is there a redeemer in the shadows?
And am I worth the redeeming?

It’s the principle of the stick:
What can martial peace can also be
The wand of conflict,
Just as easy, just as quick.
A bird on branch that might’ve made
All men and women free, sang them to
Common captivity; so stimulated dissent,
Which by exile is policed. Yes,
Shadowbans to deliquesce and decease
Shadowbans to keep the peace,
Your eviction from the heart so subtle that one day
The front door you once opened to a Lincoln’s Inn glade,
Your heart a love-loud Strand now opens on a moor,
A waste, a plain greyed; perhaps that verdancy once
Shared-did-we was ever in grip of emergency
Maybe my trenchant affections seemed cruelty, my infinite variety
A selfish invite that you forsake common society.
How freedom welts unless wet by responsibility
I know I remain subject of someone’s affections,
But I fear it is just the Islington paper readers.
They’re afflicted with Guardianism, a pleasing
Fear that someone, somewhere may be unhappy;
The cloud is their silver-lining, something I was
Taught by a Valued Customer.
Was it because I was alive to such hypocrises
That I refused to make Reese’s piece with them,
That I was from your heart de-fammed and shadowbanned?
Or did I do something worse that I can’t recall?

I keep those birds on my windowledge, in the kitchen
Sometimes even in the shower, in my bed,
And they hold most inquibblable dominion in my head,
In whose physics they might as well be phoenix.

Before you ask “But how can you know
Your shadowban? When knowing makes it light?”
Oh I don’t know, nemo knows , and
He, with his rhetorical sublime, has made me sure.
Was it when I dwelt on that one pop-up there?
When I hit the regal blue tang of tweeting emission,
Making some unpardonable admission? At any rate
I’m afflicted with tweeter’s memory loss, as are we all, to a point.
The outcast at least has their knowledge
Of their alienation to exfoliate the imagination
And feed their darker ego.
To have been outcast without wish, 
Without spectacle or ceremony
Sentenced not to death, but to forgetting
Well, then
Send me to Mars for my shadowban
And there, low gravity, that I might grow tall.
And there, at least, is bliss – no one but me.

While you may trick the mirror as to what it sees,
Your shadow reflects you honestly;
Look upon this shadow, my forsaken substance,
Aren’t we ugly?
I exist now beyond the frame; no more apt to be judged
Than the indents where the murderer sleeping lay.
Or is it an inharmonious order I’m removed from?
Perhaps I’ve been tuned as perfect a fifth as the fifth from which I swig,
Cut from these parts where suspicion’s the only funded craft,
No, here I’m returned to hope, generosity, art; all in nature’s sternest nature.
And what art; for now I have practice perfect the skill   
Of walking through a hall of mirrors without leaving a reflection,
For now I return to a greater adventure; as, given such preference for
Life on a net plain where pain can be so managed, surely
They are heroes, those who will embrace an everyday life.
This shadow can’t W1’s jungle ride.
How he wishes he could pass wind through a shop porch chime,
Make you think of a happier time; with home feed dreams to occupy,
I’d train even as a tormenteer, if that meant
You’d turn to me again, and your anguished gaze do aught but pass through.
But no; here, below the globe, a shore, a beach
With no ocean attached;
My spirit casked
In the bottom of the hourglass,
Where the sands of time claim
All differences in the end.

Verseus

Mars For My Shadowban

Composed, performed, programmed & produced by Wavesword "Marsy" Mars

Lyrics reproduced by the artist:

She asked “do [I] typically use my guitar
To complete seductions?”; I said “Not this time.
I don’t tend to like playing two loves off 
Against one another, except in rhyme."
A tease by eye and ear parades,
Delights in tension, benignly aggravates,
That we rally so well, the rally can’t fail,
The only kind of tennis that plays in a Night Tale.
So long and gorgeous that mane, if a lady’s rivery
Locks even be fain called a mane; and yet, see all those
Washerwomen of thought, who are borne over with filthy
Linen, washing that linen in such a beautiful stream.
Yeah, I always talk like this, for what worth is living
Without some handicap for disciplining?
I rhyme like this, regale like this, dine
Electresses’ love-starved mind like this.
And I let you wind like this, climb like this,
No other time am I so singular of mind like this.
I forget the tenderness pricking our cynical touch;
That like a lyric this sweet tryst will come mean both
More and less than it seems, more than you think, less than it is;
And that we’re both pursed with wordslinger’s tricks to make it so writ.
But tonight, the entendres; and we free see free as being  
Free to act like damn animals, albeit ones with
A well-developed nose for the trophy; DJ Sniffter,
Sniff your tear now and play a little boshack for the girls.

Will free her
What frees her will free me;
Will free me and free her

Every time I think that it would be 
Too vulgar and too arrogant to imagine 
Someone like you, touch proves you true 
Once again; but,

In love ain’t it true that you took your cue
From Knightsbridge in the summertime? More
Resplendent in what’s gold and fine than Timbuktu, but
Revealing nothing of how your goings come;
Among these noble fridges, club-floor-picked radishes, 
These maniches of blockhead and boulder you choose,
Am I primary stakeholder? That’s to say, am I of pride of place
In the folio in which such tales, cut and un-, are told?
We metropols are all given passports of the free,
Bought with promise of our contentment,
With only all the riches of dispassion, ignorance, intemperance
If you are happy that freedom hold no more value than this,
Then, yes, go free, free forth and spend.
Seems to me you’re slave to your every appetite, instinct
And fear; and that seems to me not freedom, not happiness,
But why would you, slave, listen to such words uttered
From one who looks such a slave to you? If not slave to a slave?
Perhaps if I ever win acclaim on these works
You will sort through their folds for your song; given the love
That was withheld, it would simply be a song that decries
That its writer has nothing with which, or about, to write.
But I will pen something of the culture that placed us so,
That redefined love as the art of the using and the used,
That pleasured ‘til happiness by pleasure’s abused,
And call it “A Boshack for the girl”.

Every time I think I'm at my wits end with you 
My wit extends just enough that a week later 
I find myself at its ends again

A Boshack for the Girl

Composed, performed, programmed & produced by Wavesword "Marsy" Mars

Lyrics reproduced by the artist:

And now we present, as they
Stand in contemplation before some
Dutch painting in the National Gallery,
Thoughts of a farmer of London’s preferred crop:
Sterling.

Verse 1
Without alarm I spend, through the vales of a label
Whose peace my uneasiness tends,
Buy mink as a favour to the wolf,
And something in a print of leopard for the shepherd;
Without charm I spend, Hermes for love’s casing,
The ‘main for the girl whose love I’m wasting
Alienated from the principle that’d make me
Conspicuous spending’s own Roger Casement.
Without aim I spend, except maybe the simulation
Of well-dressed fame that’s freedom’s approximation;
But only its approximation – applaud a revolutionary’s stand
And then buy the revolutionary’s trainers.
Principles, they once would’ve died for ‘em– 
Now they beg a sweat shop stitch in time for them.
I always fancied myself incorruptible
Before I saw how you made corrupting fun,
Before you showed me how what I take’s what I’m worth,
But then that somewhere in the sterling murk lurks
Some untold relation of the fact of our consumption,
And the rapidly diminishing inheritance that is this Earth,
And that anyway, the sterling don’t stop a man,
From putting his abuse on me, based on the shade of blue on my back,
The melanin he has or he lacks,
The sterling don’t pop the whip’s crack.
But the Sterling don’t care,

The Sterling goes ch-ching-ch-ching-ching;
I try to clip the spending dove’s wings,
But its songs of excess grounded still sings,
We’re mated for life by register’s rings.

Premonitions of my end arriving high on a pitiless
Horizon, like I were a Dutch Isis fighter
With a Dutch painter’s finer sensibilities
I will not beg ‘em like Shamima
But face my end with the depth and taste of Dutch paint
And the Queens pon my riches bear no tears admiring in
Their eyes at my heroic sacrifice, if anything their smile more beguiles,
Like I must be a hero to be so rich.
You see, the fault, my friend, is within ourselves; we spend,
Treat all ends as means to their own end,
In a madness of the very fortunate, importunate
Within all those once shamed to be poor.
Innit a shame that only gated in excess
Can our sense of security securely reside?
That I feel dirty enough to die without
Enough sterling in the pocket to clutch?

In a madness of the very fortunate, I’m extorted
By the force of my own fantasia,
I’m not so rich as I paint myself, though I must
Say, I paint myself very well.
I pay only for entry into the state of ignorance, and
Maybe ignorance is the one blessed state – set it high on foresight
And life becomes the slow matter of the unlivable,
Much like the Dutch Isis fighter.

It’s not about gold, it’s about souls;
And deep down, everybody knows.

Enough Sterling in the Pocket

"Like a Dostoyevsky novel you can dance to..."

Baroque-hop, London blend

^)^

Marsy Mars

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