Come unto me Come unto me Come closer to me Until we float here among the angels Who come to us as flaming balladeers Come unto me Come unto me Come unto me Come closer to me As we capsize here Drift among our dreams And we cower And gasp among the gods Come unto me Come unto me Come unto me Come closer Come closer to me Until we drown tonight Come unto me While you slumber Come unto me I am wonder Come unto me I am the light Come unto me

Don't ever laugh as a hearse goes by For you may the next to die They wrap you up in a winding sheet From your stagnant head to your lifeless feet They put you in a wooden box And cover you up with dirt and rocks And all goes well for about a week And then your coffin begins to leak The worms crawl out and the worms crawl in The worms that crawl in are lean and thin The ones that crawl out are fat and stout The worms play Newmarket on your snout Your tongue swells out, your gut swells up Your shroud is ploughed with a load of muck The soil and spoil and stench and shit And that is only the start of it The mould and mildew in the wood They love your softening skin that’s good They love your pretty eyes and hair And make a happy home right there The worms crawl in and the worms crawl out The worms that crawl out are plump and stout The ones that crawl in are slim and lean The worms play backgammon with your spleen A big black worm with blinded eyes Crawls in your gizzard and out your thighs Your stomach turns a slimy green And pus comes out like whipping cream Like whipping cream or rancid butter Your eyes fall in Your lips snarl-up Your throat explodes Your arse falls off The soil and the mud and the moistness wins And to think that this is how all of life begins

The silence is the same Torn only by the roar Of gently whispered undertones Black machines twist Dance in the sky The same All changed O for an engine to hold back the clocks Keep those incessant hands at bay Be calm of mind, content, all passion spent But this too shall pass away We weep for want of worlds to conquer Day murders night Night buries day And time may beat its silent fury But this too shall pass away The light still plays Same neon daylight sunshine All colours turned to idiot muted grey In sodium Toys come to rest The same All changed The bridge has gone No velvet wood to lean on And scatter gifts for birds As the river runs Toys come to die The same All changed

We have no need of earth or sky to guide us through this perfect life. We need not be tethered to the clay, No feet of mud or halos, relics, wings or holy rhymes. We are the compass rose. And we may rise and simply soar ourselves away At the first we fly in this direction. At this perspective everything begins Attracting needles, pines and sailors as they navigate their ships From seventh sea to ocean deep. The great expanse of comet-seeded lynn. With hymns perhaps within their hearts, and rum most likely on their lips These mariners, perhaps with albatross as burdens, look toward one glossy star Who rises on this axis. Dazzling, demur, afar. A pure and lofty Guenevere. Our next vocation. Towns arise from nothing. From the high hills and lowly plains. And monuments tower over all with fresher monuments atop. And distant cattle graze in moon-bright washes as she waxes, wanes, And shines on pitted, shadowed stones away this way. A thousand years toil by. And, on some special nights, these traces of our canny ancestry May rouse themselves awake, wrest-up and shake away their roots and soil To dance around the village; sing in mighty stony, granite voice As bells ring out in other villages. Leagues beneath the distant Severn Sea Another sea, this one ancient, dry and dead, as our tertiary goal we reach. On landmarks let our fingers trace the contours laid by time This is a swallow, fen, or bristledown or moss on which we meet. Our sunken land is flat and black and covert, secreting nature’s salty hide Where once the silken water courted necks and hides and fins and teeth. Smooth and warm, the lives that thrived within this sacred place Lull us to our sleep as we imagine them here with us, where we are now. And as they are so we will be. But it matters not. The where. The why. The how. Our terminus… our final voyage-end… is drains and old canals and dirty towns. Where people live within in tidal-reach with gull and heron and egret. The wave came, the sea reclaimed the land, and so the land was drowned. Further now, far from the path of history with its elderly regrets By the banks of a sweet river. We are in the North-By-Northwest. We come to rest. We float above a Flat Bridge and our journey ends. We have no need of earth or sky to guide us through this perfect life. We need not be tethered to the clay, No feet of mud or halos, relics, wings or holy rhymes. We are the compass rose. And we may rise and simply soar ourselves away.

There’s a glamorous magnificence of time recalled. The oceans and the skies and firmament. Remember life in moments or remember not at all. This is your life. You get to choose how well it will be spent. And the time is fleeting. The net of time’s a construct into which we all will fall. Don’t concern yourselves with that idea of death, forever sleeping. You’re only substituting one skin for another after all. Can you see the subtle glow? The ticking of the distant clock? The farthest and the deepest, gravest jewel. If you’re patient you will hear the tick and then the final tock. And rejoice in beatific, unavoidable renewal. And the time is fleeting. The net of time’s a construct into which we all will fall. Don’t concern yourselves with that idea of death, forever sleeping. You’re only substituting one skin for another after all. Life compensates in love what it lacks in length and span. You aren’t a pawn or puppet in some idol’s master plan. Your radiant vibrations aren’t suspended at the last. You occupy the present and the future and the past. And the time is fleeting. The net of time’s a construct into which we all will fall. Don’t concern yourselves with that idea of death, forever sleeping. You’re only substituting one skin for another after all.

Many lovers loved are passed And many friends grown old And as this lesson’s net is cast My weary heart grows cold And oceans of despair I weep The bitter truth is told Few and short were words we said We spoke no words of sorrow But gazed upon the lonely dead How short this life we borrow Pale hands clasped lifeless to her breast We quailed before tomorrow I think we are crusaders sent From some infernal clime To pluck the eyes of sentiment And dock the tail of rhyme To snap the back of memory And crush the neck of time I have forseen the death of this Death Scene It’s carrion Shackled Away to the fire screen And as the flames rise It’s like salt-over-shoulder It’s written By wriveners Until it gets colder And out on the watchtowers Observing the fight Are the men with the pens Tucked in safe for the night They’ve unringed your white fingers And they’ve redrawn your casket With Frankenstein Monsters All made out of plastic

A lover's love is hate. Incurable the wounds they make I'll say “they're mine”; my legal claim I'll stake All this, of course I'll see, But what's well hidden Underneath your dress blind terror makes me smitten Eye for an eye Keeps the world blind Dig two graves please One’s for me Eye for an eye Keeps the world blind Dig two graves please One’s for me I sit and drink my poison and I wait for you to die I’m as pretty as a picture and I’m gluttonous with spite The acid of my malice will contaminate your cuts While my arrogance collapses I’ll rub salt into the blood Well I forgive my enemies but not before they’re dead Stronger than a lover’s hate and venom and contempt As I gaze into the looking glass and sleaze around my hair and eyes My venom and contempt and spite are all ablown with flies

First there comes the weeping, Then there comes the sleeping, But creeping through home and hearth. The fat and the fatter. The milk and the matter. Then thrown out on life’s rotten path. Monday for wealth. Tuesday for health. Wednesday the best day of all. Thursday for crosses. Friday for losses. Saturday for nothing at all. Marry for fame. Marry for shame, Or marry for God above. A spilled wedding toast, A fumble and a spit-roast. Testament to marrying for love. Ashes to ashes But a short time to live. And most important did the corpse behave? The party’s going well In heaven and in hell. And every day is one day closer to the grave.