BURN IT DOWN

So I'm playing Glastonbury next week & this is the song I got the gig from!

Head to Ellipsey Facebook to hear the whole song & other diseased ditties from the Elliptical throat x

Simon Le BonBon - Musings on the culture of jazz and it's subsequent belittling by the myriads of those who choose not to understand it or something like that

Toe-tapping, coffee lapping jazz aficionados get beat,
The X generation & CBGB drop outs struggle to find a seat.
The fuggy Ian Fleming smoke permeates the the jazz which permeates the feet,
Then the brushes start to sizzle, the tightened snare is tight,
The groove is lightly drizzled and there's a raffle for the meat!

A cold, sharp man parts the curtain, his ego weighing him down like Atlas
He is the personification of the lead piping in the drawing room.
Dreadful, droning drumming dots his dramatic, droll deliveries
Mumbling, mouthy monologues mix his mambo music mysteries

"AVANT SPAZZ!" cry the crowd of young boys in the corner in their best brown baggies.
N'er a tap, click or strut from their platform soles
N'er a jump, skip or beat from their love-lorn souls
This ain't what they call rock and roll thank you very much.
The pianist depresses his feet in sporadic desire for hard or soft.
First stanza forté in a crashing, banging Ivory key coast,
Second verse pianissimo (cos the melody's been missing you) in a softly softly Ebony boast.

The cool, curt man utters, "Who wrote this stuff in Italian? I only know Persil adverts!"
He is not pianissimo despite the directions, he is loud and crass in his off-white shirt.
The musicians wince at the faux-pas but they play on... this is Jazz after all
Home of chameleons, watermelon men & 5/4 time signatures.

"MAPLE LEAF DRAG!" bemoan the old fuddies in their Zoot suits & brogues
N'er a crash, bang or fizzle from their pressed shirts
N'er a hop, swing or jive from their dough-eyed skirts
This ain't what they call jazz at all thank you very much.
The icy, blunt man muffles the drums... he mutes the horns... he closes the lid on the pianists fingers...
Silence
apart from a lone high hat  'Tsss     Tssss    Tsssss'
the crowd catch on ' Shhhh     Shhhhh   Shhhhhh'
Simon Le Bon Bon pops a Rowntree's Fruit Pastille in his mouth and begins to suck....

Twice Nightly.... C'est un stylo

The Meaning of Live

I wandered lonely as a froud. All warm and full of hope

I remember it like it was soon, afraid by Julian Cope.

Leapt-up, Jumped-up and sodded.... like a dog?

Chrimean War and shouting flouth edible, Mary Anne Hobbs.

We loved old guys like Tolstov and we hampered William Blake,

Showed off our prose and shit, In only just one take.

Well one take if you count missing the Gulf War

But if we’re including that then I reckon bout take fifty four.

Actually that’s an oversight we were probably only in the studio for a day

Maybe only couple of hours but that is by the way.

Technically we didn’t even write much of the prose, it was nicked from Stoppard, Tom,

If you think about it though, he can’t write that well so we’re the fucking bomb,

It’s not that I don’t like his plays but he’s just a bit of a dick,

I suppose that doesn’t mean he’s not any good it just means he’s a dick

But look at my legend BA he’s an absolute acrid fuck

But he rocks out with best, 18 til I Die was well truck

Not the Robin Hood song but his early stuff is awesome and shouldn’t be disregarded by rock fans, I mean everyone writes a few ballads and they’re mainly awful but Bryan has done some fucking good tracks, that one about being the only thing that looks good on him gets me strumming everytime. Fucking excellent. Rest.

Imagine there’s no trout filters, it isn’t hard to do

A world of slitting shroud haters, and no Fergal Sharky too.

Where would you place someone with that name

In class they would probably get slutted upon….shame.

Imagine all the flouth shouters and the things that we missed

Rod Hull didn’t even know Maddy and he still makes my list.

God can you imagine not being aware of the trial of M. Mcann?

Hendrix never met her and Cobain might not have used that gun.

If he’d known about her plight would he have pulled the trigger?

If she’d done it earlier would Nirvana be any bigger.

My heart shaped box is coerced, a peripheral noun factory

His heart shaped face is on display on Cannery Row, don’t you know?

I know, you know but how does the message spread

If you knew the tale of Kurt Cobains head...

First it was examined and prenutped by Ms Love

Then the papers helped her career with a rape not a shove,

Meanwhile the head fell fell cold and resembled medium meat

Dave Grohl opened the doors to the pros and cons of jewish pleat.

I died, you died ….he die

This was Alexander Packard Bell's tutting dream.

On Grounds of Unreasonable Behaviour

Good Evening poetry! I'd like to start by saying;

1. I don't understand yawning

 2. 

I find your facial features odd

I find the way you smile unnerving.

Did you star as General Zod?

You grew up in Britain right? Was it Worthing?

Now hold up, STOP! Rewind a tick,

You were Zod in Donner's Superman flick?

But now you're voicing Kal-Els dad...

You must have a fucking rad agent. Rad.

Terence ______, Terence ________,

You're Britain's favourite white skinned champ.

Terence ______, Terence ________,

I watched you in the Limey....(spoken) and it was a big cinema screen yeah?

Terence ______, Terence ________,

In Priscilla you acted camp

Terence ______, Terence ________,

You weren't in Heroes though...(spoken) that was Malcom McDowell...you look like him though

I've written a movie just for you,

It's set in space and you're a Jew

There's allusions to the Holocaust

But with special effects and Sci-Fi and shit – it's like Starship Troopers but the shower scenes are a bit different...

Terence ______, Terence ________,

Your teenage wife you did lamp.

Terence ______, Terence ________,

You cradle snatcher you!

Terence ______, Terence ________,

The Madding Crowd was utter wank,

Terence ______, Terence ________,

Alien Jews in space...with explosions.....CALL ME.

The Tale of Chris Crink

A Play in Two Halves

Players:
Chris Crink - A Down & Out Voiceover Artist for Art Garfunkel (Blue)
Chris Crink's Conscience - The Conscience of a Down & Out Voiceover Artist for Art Garfunkel (Red)

Bartering became my life.


It was a quick day and my borrowed sow was opening all manner of doors for me. Am I ready thought Chris. Lunch ensconced itself to mid afternoon and I thought about ending it all but soon realised that in fact I felt quite remarkable and life was smashing. Give it time Chris wait for the right moment!
A brief mapping of my surrounding areas proved useful even going so far as to remind me of what orienteering was and how much I hated compasses. That's it Chris remember how shit they are. So we were making progress but still the blue skies smiled above me. I wandered about a bit checking out the similarities with myself and the daily routine of Clint Eastwood in the 80's. Clint Eastwood rhymes with your name Chris, don't you remember? If that's coincidence then we're all in a pickle.
So the man with no name and me. Blood brothers separated at birth hey? Now we're getting somewhere. I marveled at the warm postcards and the market stalls selling shoe wax and Red Edit. There was a time I'd have paid for all of it, money was no object. I still had loads of open cash and fresh credit, it would have been so simple. Put your money away Chris, you're a cowboy now. No saddle up show guy or dress down friday is going to help. You can get these things easier by offering lower prices. Go on give it a go...
10 quid for the wax you bastard! 10 quid is all i'll pay.
No Chris that's too forceful, you want him to barter. Say it meekly and try and pout your face.
Would you accept £10 sir. I wonder what price you had in mind?
Go Chris you little dream. You stand out like a sore index finger. You are the Superman. You can buy this whole market for whatever price you desire. This is how the Unforgiven climax. Show them all you've got Chris, be the waiting 'Yes' on their lips. Be the smattering of guys. Be the empty breathing. Be my run away globe.
One pound sir that's my final offer.


Bartering became my life. Tell him I hate him.

Cold War Cook

He started the tape again.
Why was the voice playing back so coquettish yet dictating a recipe from behind the Iron Curtain. Sure, we all know now that there are genius' around the world who somehow intrinsically chance upon a new discovery at the exact same point in time in different corners of the globe... but seriously a Lebanese chef in 1950's Russia creating a smorgasbord of culinary treats made from the most tropical of foods. He still shudders at the inherent beauty of  unsolved mysteries.
He paused the tape to listen to the last sentence again. Stop. Rewind. Stop. Play
"Sauté the breadfruit and cane sugar with the rice" cooed the savant queen of the kitchen, "and ensure the sweet-potato dauphinois is simmering gently". Sweet potato dauphinois? That's a luxury even today in 21st Century Avalon, how can this cold war cook be describing such delicacies when her situation warrants no more than stale bread and gruel on rations. A noise at the far end of the library made him start, the 3 men approaching looked suitably unpleasant and of military stock. His hand moved swiftly to his bag searching for the last remnants of Chew-Me-Happy™ but to no avail, he'd used the last of it to escape the Head-Librarian. DAMN! As the 3 brutes flanked him and he removed the aural-implants he felt a pang of longing for sound of the tape but the hands around his neck woke him from his daydream.
"Hello chaps, what can i do for you? I was jus....." SNAP!
The spools of the tape spun idly until the last remnants of magnetic matter passed over the head. The hypnotic recipes ceased.