Electric Fence

Tic-tac-toe something’s touching the fence:
a loose nerve exposed on the highest wall
where the tree has grown. 

Tic-tac-toe the circuit is broken 
a vulnerability in thin wire homes.

An-ene -  a name on our lips.

Rock and roll a pretty face shoots a gun
and the clowns rush in
with their paraffin hoses
to soothe our nerves – but all the king’s men.

Electric fence drumbeat grows frantic
in the Siren night
sweat on our hips, 
and the sweat on our hips
is not our own. 

So rock-a-bye baby in the treetop, 
the tears will fall and silence will rot.

A frightened house rings out an alarm
and the dogs sound a warning 
 – too late –
 we’re already locked in.


Electric Fence


Comrade in a silver car overfills his tank and still asks for change, 
his platinum watch is counting time in diamond increments. 

The man who fills his tank gets a ten-cent tip, he is the stock exchanged, 
a bottomless antipathy, 
a bitter heroic legacy – 
but he dreams. 

Woman calls him over doesn’t look
him in the eye, her liberal agenda extends as far as her air-conditioning.
It’s a 4x4 democracy,
but he dreams.

He dreams a revolution that doesn’t need black ink writ on white bound paper, 
he dreams a revolution where the wheels turn
and we’re out of stasis.
He paints a revolution in exhaust fumes 
and in petrol puddles
and he sets the tyres afire. 

Feather duster tyranny 
and vacuum cleaned democracy
persimmon nails scratch open
the apron where the R10 
she took to get a taxi home
and she’s the thief – she’s the thief.

Battle lines are drawn in tar, 
the tin roofs from the gates of steel.
The passengers and those who turn the wheel: We’re doomed to repeat us.
We should set this world afire. 


Ready Set

Phobic | Phallic | Fallacy

I’m sick of your red beret
sick of your chin wagging 
sick of your turtle neck revolution.

Sick of your gucci, sick of your policy, 
sick of your button bursting belly,

I’m sick of your dick in my mouth.

I’m sick of your legacy, sick of your primacy, 
sick of the TV screens that tell me you’re important. 

Sick of your pointed finger, 
sick of your incompetence, 
sick of your closed fist, sick of your ignorance,

I’m sick of your dick in my mouth. 


Jack

I got a boy who won’t play with me.
Throw him a letter, throw him a look, 
his cruelty’s the hook
that drags me through the petulant sea.

See here boy, you got me doing 
just as you please. 
I’m as whipped as double-thick cream
but you’re a subpar tease:
You seem to forget that I will do
just as I please.

Don’t ask so many questions 
that you don’t want the answers to. 
Let me tell you straight ‘cos your thinking’s 
a little skew:

I got other boys who will play with me.

Oh boy, oh boy, you got me. 
Oh boy, oh boy, you ain’t got me
a little skew, a little screw. 


Jack

Scroll

Tell me again how the system is broken, 
shout it from your place on 
the assembly line of disorder. 

Rant and rave
and shake your fist in anger
behind the safety of a facebook timeline.
Scroll down: declare your outrage
and your candy crush saga top score.

News feed trough is full of unsalted opinions, 
blue grey seditious calls 
of slop and pigswill,
count your blessings but don’t count the adverts,
consider yourself lucky. 


Scroll

Champagne

It’s all grey laughs in our grey town,
schadenfreude.

It’s all black sheep in our grey town, 
like the lambs to the slaughter. 

It’s all grey clouds in our silver linings, 
silver shit and platinum shit
and asbestos kisses.

The gold mine digs, 
buries the bones of this country.
Champagne for the winner.



Champagne

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The Meerkat Mob
Official Soundcloud page.
The Meerkat Mob uses keyboard, vocals, guitar, drums, loops and a wanton sheep to make their music.

The Meerkat Mob

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