Needing a thing to take out the sting, keeping the hope that it may. Swearing the latter, not mad as a hatter, but something to fill out the day. Could be a tipple to barrel from nipple, or maybe just spark up a jay. Stomp on some flowers to kill a few hours, willing the long minutes away. Without you there's nothing to do, when will you get here to stay? We'll go to the shops, freak out the cops, and see if they want to come play. Run in tight places, make piggy faces, just to see what they say. Dreaming of past, proud that at last, love is the cloud where we lay. Love is the cloud where we lay. Death is the spike where we may....

Nameless Jack walking down the street Nameless Jack walking down the street Nameless Jack walking down the street And the blackbirds circle at a height of 20 feet Faster and faster around and around Faster and faster round and around Faster and faster round and around And Nameless Jack is lifted from the ground In this fine feathered circle Jack is elated In this fine feathered circle Jack is elated In this fine feathered circle jerk Jack is elated He finally finds himself the hub of the wheel to which he's mated Around and around the wheel spins out of sight Around and around the wheel spins out of sight Around and around the wheel spins out of sight And Nameless Jack gently disappears into that good night

When Bread Knife Bill comes to stay, even the birds fly off for the day. Better to go deaf than see in Bill's mind, it was prickly and hard yet somehow fur-lined. Eat up all your drink, give the wife a quick wink, then stumble off to pass out in the downstairs sink The very next day, foul odors pervade. It seems that Bill's funk will never fade. He slimes like a slug where ever he be, glows in the dark with eyes that can see. Another clean spot that needs drenched in his piss, I wish he'd find another place than this Seems Bread Knife is here to stay, shows no sign of going away. There's empty bottles and crying wife, bits of sick to pepper this strife. Zigzag trails of piss on the floor, I sure wish he wouldn't come around here no more Empty fridge and overflow trash, slime on the ceiling, and missing weed stash, silhouette of dog-ends in the shape of that twat, with a steaming pile of what Bill just shat. No garden pots that lack in his pee, I wish he'd find another friend than me Still to this day that damn Bill ain't gone, screamin' and yellin' to finish his song. Try as I might to scribble a tune, the words don't come a moment too soon. So Bread Knife Bill will never leave, in madness I'll die first, I do believe

I. Icicle Breath Chortle (I could have been anyone) icicle breath chortle, taking a piss some tropical poison best given a miss knickers on line, ass over tip dated milk globules, and nowhere to sick singing and dancing and laughing all day don't be a bummer love, it only gets in the way (my eyes have seen reflections of you in me) blue-eyed sunshine came out today, with all god's children, both brilliant and gay there's love all around us, happiness bliss no need for no more, there's no better than this singing and dancing and laughing all day don't be a bummer love, it only gets in the way II. Stravinsky Wrote The Soundtrack snow scene quiet city night white permeates hell takes a break rats hop like bunnies zig zag across alleys past masses huddled with oil drum fire sipping tea and whiskey a helping hand to pass the time then slip away

Color this life whatever you see Your fear and your foibles is all that I'll be Some in the lines, some slash about Ripping the paper, rubbing me out Pour out your soul, give me your feelings Or just stare at the wall or spit at the ceilings I am your art What are you afraid of? Why don't you show me? I am your art Chalk, ink or mud, heroin and blood Paint, doubt and stout, due bills and a bud Brushes gone hard and we've run out of glue Drinking the time, thinking fuck all to do Canvas with stick from the brain to the finger Or sit at a bar just letting me linger I am your art Why don't you show me? With adhesive comes responsibility... I am your art [I mean it's been months, the brushes are all hard and kinda purple-y gray, and all the water's evaporated...the turpentine's all used up...I don't know what was in that coffee cup...and still you haven't put another coat on me in oh, oh so long...and there you go picking up your keys again and heading out that door, down to the bar...five martinis, six beers, and a shot...stumbling back trying to find that keyhole again with that key...guess you're sleeping in the gutter. And I'm just sitting here collecting dust.]

Low tide. The scavenging gulls scour the reaches of mud. No slavers ride at anchor in the roads. Rotting hulls are drawn up on the shore. Full stood the tide here when through this colonnaded door into the raw land passed bond and free, the one in hope leading the other in fear, chained each to each by destiny. Not only tide but time and blood can turn, can ebb and flow. Time ebbs, blood flows, the fear shows in the master's eye while jubilee bursts from the bondsman's throat. Now no shout rings out. Neither hopes. Both fear. What future tide will free these captives of their history?

out back by the old saw mill were the metal bangers go deaf in time sirens wail jittery warbles as a dog's howl accompanies the din inharmonious all lubricated by large gulps of heavy red rust a simple base thick with vine and creepy crawlers yet to be catalogued night things spit and hiss bile gleefully while leaves strip trees make threatening gestures to amuse one another and frighten the day critters huddled in a hollow hiding harrowed till dawn lightning and rain play strobe art flickering branches and reflecting of eyes to some the primal drones beckon the “bizz” just mutter and cringe run him to city center because this is the lunatic fringe sending the piggy a quiver back to his moonlit bog remember y'all, we love bacon and he is a fat little hog

Left me sitting by myself You've left me on my own Left me with your fears and hate You've left me with no 'ome Family that I never knew No-one will ever fill The vacant space that mommy left That totaled up to nil This damn life I've searched for her In everyone I meet But none have ever satisfied Like her, have beat their feet Taught me not the art of love To question all kind acts And now I'm planning suicide Or murder with an axe Mommy, mommy Where are you now? Pushing up daisies Or being a cow?

*written by Toots Hibbert, arranged by Kicksville

tip-toeing through the hi-fi fidelity woofers and tweeters are nipping at heel spindle thrust snugly through two-sided platter twisting the knob for tone and control dodging the needle at every rotation trying not to trip on a groove missing that arm with taut timed attention trumpet triumphs this impending doom slipping and sliding 'round thin vinyl edges action unfolds in breathless sweat then comes the fall all have predicted one hell of a landing, spectacular splat power tubes hum with quiet contentment two-track half-inch squeals with delight AM and FM broadcast proceedings music now over, he turned off my light music now over, he turned off the light

2013 At first glance, my 11-year-old son, Johnny, seems like your everyday, all-American kid. He loves baseball and basketball, plays Xbox with his friends, and posts innocuous pictures of the family dog. You can imagine my surprise when he asked me, "If pot is so bad, why are they trying to legalize it?" Neither my wife nor I anticipated that our son would be stopped on the street by unscrupulous potheads and fed a line of rhetoric. It turns out that potheads weren't exactly the problem; they were the symptom. The problem is that we are even considering legalizing marijuana at all. Why are some people so passionate about legalizing marijuana? Because when you smoke pot, you get loaded. You fry your brain. That's why they call it "getting baked." Pot is all about getting really high. Now, I have nothing against people who smoke pot. Honestly. But introducing legalized marijuana into our culture would be like using gasoline to put out a fire. Do you know why we don't see potheads out in public? It's because they're sitting at home smoking weed, staring at their television sets, or playing video games all day. They talk about wanting to be productive, but pot kills their motivation. It destroys people's ability to go out have a career. Is that what you would want for your children? Is that what you would want for your loved ones? We're not stupid enough to believe the lie - we know too much. The very idea of legalizing The Evil Demon Weed sickens me. I know what it does to the human mind - it literally robbed me of my motivation to participate in my own life. I was absolutely OK with sitting around all day eating cookies, watching television and getting high. Go out and earn a living??? That was all stuff that I was going to do later after I came down off of The Marijuana. But, then I'd smoke some more and think, "Why bother?" Eventually, of course, I started shooting heroin. If my family had not intervened, I would still be wandering aimlessly through the streets, searching for that elusive "perfect high." Even if one only stays with marijuana in his repertoire of illicit drugs to abuse, it will never yield positive results. Ever. Are potheads really that weak? Are they really that uncomfortable that they can't handle having real experiences without being high? Because if it is, it breaks my heart and I feel sorry for them. Because that's no way to live. Little Johnny is going to know the truth about them. He's going to know that they will spend the rest of their lives half-baked on the sofa, too stoned to go out and play, or do the things they've always dreamed of doing. To Johnny, this means one less competitor on his road to a successful and fulfilling life. And, to the potheads who are so passionate about being allowed to smoke their lives away, I have only one thing to say: Dream on. 1962 You're in outer space. You're Superman. You're floating in air, seeing double, riding next to God. It's Kicksville. Are these the fantasies of narcotics addicts on smack? No. More disturbingly, these hopped-up reactions are those of teenagers hooked on goofballs, airplane glue, and marijuana.

Funny to watch you stressing the bills By demanding more money I'll add to your ills I complain of exclusion when we go out Loud proclamations of how you're a lout You're boring, you're stupid, you're mean and a canker Sell all your treasures and call you a wanker Sick of your presence under my feet Give me your money now out on the street I wanna get pissed Throw up on me shoes Whizz in me booze Hit by a wall and fall down Tragically hopeless and wasted today Creeping and lurking like dirty old strays Slurping and sloppy like Father O'Shea We're drinking our troubles away - hooray! I wanna get pissed Drive real fast For as long as it last Hit by a wall and fall down Tragically hopeless and wasted today Creeping and lurking like dirty old strays Slurping and sloppy like Father O'Shea We're drinking our troubles away - hooray! No phone, no wallet, no coat, no shoes Into the outside feeling the blues Happy you're gone, but freaking on bills The newspaper said I OD'd on red pills What made you want to live this way You give and you love, I push and I shove Day after day after day after day after day after fucking day Tragically hopeless and wasted today Creeping and lurking like dirty old strays Slurping and sloppy like Father O'Shea We're drinking our troubles away - hooray! I wanna get pissed Out pickin' a fight E.R. 'fore light Hit by a wall and fall down Tragically hopeless and wasted today Creeping and lurking like dirty old strays Slurping and sloppy like Father O'Shea We're drinking our troubles away - shazoo! I wanna get pissed End all the fun Pay for what's done Hit by a wall and fall down Tragically hopeless and wasted today Creeping and lurking like dirty old strays Slurping and sloppy like Father O'Shea They're coming to take me away - ha ha!