'Thomas Father' and 'Finn'

a household is about to be repossessed

We had been married for only a few years, our only child was called Finn and my wife, Peggy, the best woman I could imagine, died during the birth. So I raised him on my own, I clothed him, I taught him how to walk, I noted down how his face fleshed out into a distinct likeness of my own. I put words into his mouth, his first words, he said, Father and I was proud. I educated him, gave him improving books to read, stitched him up when he was injured, helped create for him a place in the world. And he loved me for it and The End

will come, you have given me a life and you have made for me a place but Father I will never be grateful that you murdered for me, did you murder for me, said Finn, did you create her from nowt and murder her dead just to leave me with a potent life?

You'll know you place or have no tea, son.

Did you spill her blood-red blood across fresh white for the sake of a story? Are you accusing me of chauvinistic imposition, I retort.

I am calling you a callous bastard, dear Thomas Father. In a word you create a masturbation siren for yourself and in a word you take the life of an innocent. You have no right to accuse me, it was your birth, you are born of sin – Hypocrite – born in sin – pure shit I was born of you, half-baked, half-real. I lost her first. You had no care once I was weaned, you sent her away. What the fuck do you know about it, you're just a foul little fuck emanation of sex-starvation fantasy – what eloquence! – I'll rub you out again and so – what creativity! – We had been married for only a few years, our only child was called Finn – stop, father you're confused because: Thomas Father was a bitter man, the death of my mother was a test too far I felt he never loved me. Never loved as I needed loved. "Stop this," he said, "stop this it isn't fair, not how things go, I did not know," said Thomas Father but I watched how you played with her, how you teased her – I was in your mind from the start – I saw your perverted activities fashioning her tits, her cunt, her hair, but her hands were smooth no nails, and I seen you, dancing in your room with a half-skinned corpse with a stolen name and I have named you, and I can see you and you'll die in a ditch Thomas Father with a cleft in your skull Thomas Father died in a ditch with a cleft in his skull The End.

It is not.

Below & Mayhem

Below
The tabbying off tears tattooing the same street spot all peeling from paste is such an overlooked geology. A lot like a slice through the same scenes: the sediments of billboards & posters. It’s when someone rips a one off or doesn’t remove it properly and all of a sudden you can see a pattern of what used to be there, you might remember one or two more recent fragments but you can’t possibly recognize them all. If you scratched a little further just how far would you go?
1973?
How long’s the tradition of just plastering over (it) when it’s freshly irrelevant?
All chronologically cozing around town and just waiting to reveal the year the building [it’s on] was built.

On Excavation:
On the surface-Few scars and a map to the latest place to avoid
Just disguising the organic smiles on
7 anti bombed war rallies because
If you hadn’t had this Grey & Neon Pink you were late
For three gigs ending in
Maybe Stereolab
Missing…
&Wanted (baby, where’s that reward now?)
just ahead of a ‘brand new comedy classic’
less CFC’s
and a copy of Auto Trader
Last Chance
Must Buy
’90,
’89
give blood
eat white bread
…
1st Face
Talking Heads
1976
.


Mayhem
Inspired by the original and criminal meaning of the word.

It was beautiful & when it stopped
I wondered whether someone’d stolen its voice?
(Its limbs?)

Caravan & The Guillotine

The Guillotine:
She was a Soviet model; all leggy and bobbed in blonde licks a steal for the senses you might reckon. She was tall and far more fun loving than you might think coz she pouted and smoked and she did drugs and maybe other things that you shouldn’t find cool, you might even love her if she wasn’t so impossible, so distant- Even if I’d had the inclination I could never have reached her I woulda just dreamt and, y’ know I think that’s better anyway,
…I’d of still liked her as a friend but…
[So just on the now of this lit-up-disco-spree for three bits of loving and some shrapnel fee comes the part I was really wanting to say, the story if you like.]
…
So she was just writhing, I mean, really out of it- her head was all over and she was just jerking from side to side, frenzied. She was wearing sunglasses; it was definitely night-time though and she started spilling her drink on those lighting-up-tiles, it’s a wonder there wasn’t an accident. By now there was no glitter of control: it was terrifying her sunglasses fell to the ground and you could see her eyes, they weren’t red but they weren’t the right colour. She was flinging her arms about and people were stepping out of the way of them until she was alone in the middle of a circle of faces. Then she threw her arms back and,
I couldn’t believe it…
her left arm just flew… flew across the room,
then the right arm. You could see the faintest hint of trapped panic in her eyes especially when her left leg fell away.
Christ!
She lost her balance then,, as you might,, and toppled to the floor, still writhing, mind.


Caravan:
One left on written invitation, many followed.
(Every now and again they’d stop for a greasy breakfast at the roadside caravanserai where very few questions were asked.)
A trick: Diurnal wolves with stationery ate them one night.