Sunday, 26 January 2014


What was that some sort of battle cry five of them dressed dark as closing time twenty three hours in the heart of a dry storm landing late home from summer where even brick walls have a camera

I’d been out playing with noise won the night again visor down for the neon sign and solar snakes wrapped round my wrist a woman hanging on crazy for the last look cross out the light but blind open for we are a gang and how many dead guys can I honestly fit in this room it’s my crib dream snaky dot screens for a more credible copy like talk of bliss by numbers so I’m going back need to understand why I can’t help feeling new rope burns purple is seven though I’m going in green stand behind me protect me

he used to be so wild throwing his head back while all his lovers queue up and beg to get their teeth knocked out skimming over the corrugations imperfect was his own very personal talent now we all know too much to get off on sugar promise I saw him play his back to me all the rest hintless hooked on dead distance not quite making black out it hurt like hangover sex with an X certified label firmly stuck in control

come on wouldn’t everyone really love to taste the dissecting spoon dementia in the sweet and the taste was good enough to glory in the y in our names and refuse being an experiment to prove it’s true revengeance is only the name of a drink to help bomb fire foxy make out again double strength under the Westway back of a van with girls who only want to kiss another girl’s knee she doesn’t know what to do now we watched and remember even though we were already home

oh his face in profile his face in tell me about the stars that happen inside of you tell me I’m shallow when the worst could be waking up with spots after we danced for eleven hours better than the Russian ballet bluffing our walk in that other hour spent talking fuck nothing’s really changed

the sun’s caught my cobweb and I think I’m cold only as far as half-dressed painting over it won’t help mint baby pink or hungry if we go home untouched but all I ever wanted was to look like Betty Boop and flesh for social pandemonium at least skin deep when their shirts come off they love and we love good light for the game don’t be scared we really were only playing louder and I’ll only break what’s mine

Monday, 13 January 2014

Map 71

is a word - drums - noise project by myself and Andy Pyne. You can listen to us on