JOB HUNT

Lyrics from the newest HUMAN HAIR song

I got my pack of dogs

I got my 12 inch club

I got my leotard

I got my cigarette stub

Going on a job hunt

I got my sinister smile

I got my shit eating grin

I got my world beating fists

I got my fleeting looks

Going on a job hunt

Could be a child minder

Could be a forest grinder

Could be a path finder

Could be a word winder

Going on a job hunt

I got my rhythm stick

I got my funny shtick

Robbed a hundred pretty ladies

Lifted thousands off my friends

Stacking bits of myself on life’s shelf

I’m a louse, disease running rife

Marry into money with an ugly wife

I’m going to slouch my way through life

I’m going to slouch my way through life

LET'S CALL IT SUNDAY

Sunday Roast the dog

Head in a bowl

Nobody watching

Let people talk about themselves

For a small forever

Dream somewhere

With a suitcase

Sucking eyeballs out the ear

SNAKE CHARMING

And this pub like a snakehouse

Hot wet to make you drink more

The scaley bar from propping

The rough hands of the cider kings

Cocks are long sleepy tails

Or hard as sharp bronze pins

The slack-papped, vicious-nude

And pink ham-breasted women

Eternally waiting for that next drink

Suddenly I’m not so thirsty anymore

My thistle throat is done

So goodnight cold blooded

Blue eyed blonde reptiles

Goodnight mobile man jaws

Enveloping entire pint glasses

I shed my skin and fix the memory

And open the door down to the pits

TIME ON EARTH

Who wrote this book?

Who is huffing hexane words?

You cannot make this concrete

A bed of pink and yellow flowers

You are not the Earth's architect

I wrote this book

Getting high on hexagrams

Spinning these stars on fingers

Like pink and yellow china plates

As Earth's chef I will dine from them

Everyone is weeping mother

Stop cutting the red onions

Everyone is stooping sister

Thus is the oldest fashion

SELF PORTRAIT IN THE ATTIC

What a skilful ape of nature I was

I would hide in the bower of tree

And not come down for years

Father had to build a swing

What a worm in my red mouth

I'd trowel lies so deep like 'Yewan

You are derived from the yew tree'

And he stood there for years

What a tendrilled cock I had

I'd tie it around the bedposts

And jump out open windows

Brother pulled faces of envy

Look I have had my eyes open

For many white long years

Dante Cantos XXX - 'man is forked'

Well life is a pretty good food

JUST THE TRICK

The radio chisels out a hollow

In a cheap rosewood guitar

The metal catgut warbles

Sweat salts on the top lip

Mixing with the beer froth

Nothing in this life tastes better

Than wearing a hat back to front

Topless in the shortest shorts

Thick sunlight, thick like orange jelly

And penwork slow and clotted

The feeling does not last long

When asked if you have lived

A nod will answer best

A nod will do the trick

PUB DOGGEREL

The money is thick and heavy

So when unburdening myself

In the only pub in blue London

That has drink in single figures

I feel lightheaded and lighter

And as I pour the pint all down

Myself in a fit state of swollen joy

I think I hear a violin playing

In that melting willowy voice

It is jizz in a Hessian sack

Just for me

Just for me

COOLING OFF

The smoke is in my eyes

The other woman is in there

She gropes and disappears

It is the cheapest of cheap trick

There are two wrought locks

And my heavy key fits neither

Cal is in there for hide and seek

I cannot play this black joke

I wake up and adjust my eyes

He is pruning himself in the dark

Singing in an unknown language

I ask cannot hear over the hairdryer

I heard the voice from above say

It is time to get down baby and bow

BE COOL BEE COOOOOOOOL

I said with a mouth full of gold toast

Watching the steam rise

On my holy cup of roast

DINNER IN THE STY

His long neck and deep folds

His black suit and thin red tie

A fat pink head on a thick spike

He twists the screw into the wine

THE WINE THE WINE IS CORKED

Jokes as old as him still raise a smile

Cartoon belly-eyes and piano grin

44 teeth grinding some awful tune

A soft meat warning to others

Exhaust pours from of his snout

That burnt black bacon smell

We love him to his hard hairy rind

But all held their breath as he tucked in

A HUSHED AFTERNOON

The radio chisels out a hollow

In a cheap rosewood guitar

The metal catgut warbles

Everything seems hushed

Sweat salts on the top lip

Mixing with the beer froth

Nothing in this life tastes better

Than wearing a hat back to front

Topless in the shortest shorts

Thick sunlight and penwork

When asked if you have lived

A nod will do the trick

WORLD WITH THE MUNCHIES

We awoke to the forest grinder

Hidden in the green of the garden

Internally rendering the green

A mouth with no stomach

Us too had no stomach

To be woken up in this manner

With the sound of gnashing

Steel teeth, gulping wood

We heard from the wind

On the window ‘KKKKKK’

As we made our green escape

In the EXIT’s lime lightbox

Then on the bus

With our coffee

Roasted like they do

In the bean-tin in Spain

An old one hacking up black tar bones

And a gaunt blonde making my toes curl

Flaying an apple’s flesh with her teeth in my ear

The city is full still the belly rumbles

NAME THE DAY

Airless on the pavement

Sweat dribbles off his nose

Onto his clopping new black

Patent leather shoes

The change in his pocket

Joins him to the chain gang

Moving musical to the steady jangle

The hot iron manacles pan-fry his legs

The shuffling street heads toward

Their important doors

He glares the 12 suns down

From the mirrored anthill

His daily bread is stale

He clenches his knuckles

As a rear sneeze coats

The back of his burnt neck

THE SENDER AWAY

She lies

Prostrate on the wild

Goose chaise longue

The ruttish smell of Bromine

From the brown wallpaper

Lingers and burns the nose

She is wailing like a goat

Being sharply gutted

And I don’t eat goat

The lamb the sheep

The cow the calf

But I do not eat goat

The lonely animal

Climbing the peaks

A totem on the single mount

The bleat from the chair

As she drinks from a glass shofar

Is a carving out of her space

I move toward the door

VILLAGE OF IDIOTS

I

The mental hospital

Sat on the white hill

Humming quietly

Generating something

Magnetising the upset

Balance of metal in the brain

II

The derelict supermarket

Where the baker boys lived

Well for weeks then got ill

Too many red raw steaks

No murmur from them till

Teacher heard the flies’ drone

III

The man-made trench

Where Dallawell hid out

And threw fist-stones

At babies in prams,

His po-faced mother

Pierced his downy ear

With her needlesharp nail

As she dragged him home

Woke the world with his whine

IV

The Chase Hill dog

That blew down fences

Shook the ground in its bound

And gave many a child

Its stamp of foam love

The unknown owner laughing

The whole time through

V

The outback fields where Stratton

Salted his neighbour’s fields

We went down there

And stared unbelieving

Stars like poisoned birds

Crystallised on the burnt earth

Stratton raindancing with rage

VI

The graveyard tumuli that burst

And left the caved skulls

On the moss, Sunday School

Spent remaking the remains

The panting dogs sat at the wall

VII

The blue lagoon filled with trollies

And ancient mining machinery

That snatches at swimming feet

Clutches and sometimes azure

Tragedy ensues, blue days sure

VIII

Shut down 10 years ago, collapsed, buried, kaput

And now the song of the city fills my ears,

But when cloaked with heavy pillow,

The room seems to quake with that old noise

The pulse and hum of the village

And the beating beneath the hill

THE PRISONER

He thinks he is making a house

Silly man strange young man

Frown lines furrow his brow

Deep as the ditch he stands in

He is ready and willing to begin

He flays his sweat dripping skin

He shucks his pink muscle

He breaks his yellow bones

Bone upon bone upon bone

In 4 by 4 by 4 marrow glued

Till he has his skeleton frame

A single crow shakes on a tree

He works the flesh and knots

The redwhite tendons

Wraps the meat tight

Sews the hide looks good

Looks just like him but less

Slack more defined

And tanned to boot

He opens the casket

On his hinged knuckles

Stows inside the swimming lamp

He climbs inside his inner-cage

The leather door shuts itself

Silly man strange old man

It is far from a house he has made

LONGEST MAN AT SEA

Holy man on the pier

He’s the longest man at sea

He’s got a bucket of blood

To draw in the meatier fish

He whispers to the water

I am so sorry so so sorry

It don’t make a difference

They’re still getting got

10 shining gauntlets

Hands still attached

Flappering on the planks

One long deathrattle

I kick them back in

They move away

Like sentient bullets

Metal in the clear vein

He looks on me

Shakes his head

See his starving eyes

His family in them

Hear your namesake

Said over grace

It is not grace

They are saying

SEE RED

Am the hidden hunter in the forest hunting red boar

Am the hidden boar in the forest boring red hunters

Am the red forest in the hunter resting hidden boars

Am the hidden boar in the red hunter

Am the hunter in the red

CAVE PAINTINGS

The black eyes of the skinned cow

Pitched and rolling over its own red meat

The creature - now a thing - in love with itself

The smell hits you like yellow frogs

The cow is my mother? Now stripped

Bare with its head on a fat wooden spike

Later at a gallery opening

I am shown a black fishboned auroch

With the moon impaled on her horn