Through snow and small talk

Hey you
are you listening to me driving alone?
if so
then make sure that you drive slow
and check
yourself into a hotel
and watch
the whole world go to work

You stand there staring at your pan
as the eggs turn black
I am ready for you death
I smell your brandy soaked breath
at the table with your beans
in the cave of a dark dream
what’s a girl got to do
to make a man make a move?
a move?

The plot
thickens inside the pot
good men
never let you down but they never lift you up
in sleep
comes pleasures you could not believe
the day
shines light upon your face

Darker than black

What do you call true love
is it a wife to pick out your headstone
call your friends
say “he’s gone, and no, not to the shops
he’s gone, gone, gone,
where it’s darker than black.”

We all go where it’s darker than black

Sad, but I am not done yet
a visual stays with me en route to work
modern life it drives us all insane
now I wait in my room till it’s
darker than black
ha ha

the space between your town and mine
there’s two of us but just one line
the wedding on fire the disco the dance
a boat swings in hope on an ocean of chance

Wasting Away

Don’t buy into jesus christ
there’s no such thing as the afterlife
and all the things I’ll never see
it’s just another reason to pour a drink and sing
you tell me I’m beyond my years
that’s really not what I want to hear
and I swear to you sweet listener
I’m not apocalyptic mood killer tonight

You’re wasting away your one life
wasting away all your time
You’re throwing away your once chance
You’re drowning it in the bath

If I should die on my birthday
I must insist you cancel the party
pop balloons return the gits
I pray you kept your full receipt
I can’t really play guitar
my veins channel strange dark thoughts
to fingertips on fretted boards
to lonely men
in seedy bars tonight

All your time

The Artiste

I’m an artiste on the weekend
baby I’m an artiste
you go tell all of your friends
and I’m a lover
I’m a lover of fiends
In a palace full of nobodies
you could be my squeeze
come on a be my squeeze

Tell me what do you do?
I don’t do that much at all

Upstairs downstairs
no one need know
your on the bad stuff
good stuff
so nice to be home
you say weirdo
we say healthy

oh it’s nice to be home

Hanging Tree

She’s a modern art student I’m a child of literature
I couldn’t even meet the eyes of her latest sculpture
touch my arm and softly say I could fit in anywhere
but your friends are beautiful and I’m struggling not to care
be my amphetamine make conversation flow
when you blow me baby you inflate my ego
arty girl with one hell of a future stay in bed with me
I’d understand objectively if you leave but i’d go to a park and hang myself from a treeeeeeeee
that’s enough i’m u-turning this lonely life around
I’m gonna smile till blood is drawn from the corners of my mouth
let’s grow old with childless grins and observe our own decay worship beelzebub in our room safe from the rain

Cruel as Winter

The world is getting smaller
in the pocket of the rich
A champagne flies through the air
and a hobo makes a wish

Sing it out loud
what do you see?
under the city the people are starving
what did I do?
I did nothing at all
because under the city it’s cruel as winter

The cologne advertisements
with their pseudo philosophy
desperately try to elevate
physical beauty

Sing it out loud
what do you see?
under the city the people are starving
what did I do?
I did nothing at all
because under the city it’s cruel as winter

All dressed up for the big old city ready to dance alone
Comb your hair like a virgin at the disco ready to dance alone
You’re a weak kind of man you got love in your eyes you’re ready to dance alone
In a town full of fools they mistook you for bright I am ready to dance alone
Dance alone

I’m ready

Thick Bob

Thick Bob
Everyone loves thick Bob
He’s got fingers like vibrators
and the eyes of a hypnotist
But when the world looks to Bob
Bob looks to the ground, ground, ground
Look at the ground Bob
cracks on the pavement
and the voice that calls out
Love, love, love
can’t shut it up
these reckless rendezvous are not enough

Wait a minute girl I can make these ghosts go away
Wait a minute girl

Dried blood
clinging to the tartan rug
it was
a crime before the gun shot
taking out Bob’s mum

But when the cops came for Bob
Bob played it dumb, dumb, dumb
Smart move Bob paradox Bob
run, run, run
it can’t last friend
beginning middle & now the end

Wait a minute girl I can make these ghosts go away
Wait a minute girl, wait a minute girl girl

She Bites Mosqitoes

Walking through the walls of hotels
They smirk
A toothless farmer’s grin
How can these monsters be hurt?
You curse
But then you start to see

Young lovers be warned
The partners you now scorn
Were themselves once torn
Apart like wet paper

She bites mosquitoes
But so do you

You yourself have wrecked some minds
In parks
Summer in Krakow
My pride is etched onto my bed post
That’s maths
For blokey blokey blokes

There’s plenty of rest for the wicked
It’s the timid who toss and turn
Will I always be so neurotic?
Or will I one day learn

True love has a brain and clammy hands
Knows its place and knows its class
You say you want a man who treats you right
That’s subjective
Take some time

Flying through the circus air
The bearded ladies stair
A hierarchy here still exists
And like love
The food chain will persist

There’s plenty of rest for the wicked
It’s the timid who toss and turn
Girl you’re so academic
But you got no street smarts

True love has a brain and clammy hands
Knows its place and knows its class
You say you want a man who treats you right
That’s subjective
Take some time

True love has a brain and clammy hands
Knows its place and knows its class
You say you want a man who treats you right
That’s subjective
Take some time


George was asked in a way that wasn’t really asking to shuffle some company profits into the offshore account of a shadow firm. The company that employed him was to loan an unfeasibly large sum to a little known firm based in the British Virgin Islands. Then, George was to assign the rights to collect the repayment of the loan to another firm, for the conspicuous sum of $1. This firm would do the same for another offshore company, who would do the same for another, who would do the same for another, making the money difficult to trace, and by which point, the deed would have passed through so many hands that George’s fingerprint would be undecipherable.
George tended to do as he was told – a lingering trait from an unextraordinary childhood in which an underachieving father impressed his professional shortcomings on his son – but the task in question tested George’s obedient nature. His father was a policeman, whose upholding of the law surpassed vocational obligation to strangle every aspect of his life, so for George, swimming against the constitutional current was a cause for great concern. It gnawed at his sanity, while his lack of imagination meant that he could not envisage a future outside of the company building in which he presently sat.
As a man of protocol, George handed in his formal resignation and waited the four weeks it gave him before adding that he didn’t want to live anymore, it was bad for his health. The morning of his last day, George kissed his son’s forehead with a tenderness that comes only with doleful acceptance. A consequence of his own childhood, perhaps, George rarely pressured his son to do anything that he didn’t want to. Primary school was, for George’s boy, a close-knit series of paroxysms, which only took place at school thanks to the enduring will of his mother, Judith, who, borne from a premature fear of dying alone, married George when she was twenty-seven, convincing herself of the value of dependability.
Midway through George’s last paid month as a conscious entity, Judith realised that something was wrong. Her husband no longer paused for casual conversation between mouthfuls of food. He seemed to move self-consciously, like he never had before, as though he carried himself on his shoulders. His immaculate posture had slumped; his stiff upper lip sagged. She asked what the matter was but George just sank further into himself.
From his son’s bedroom, down the stairs and into the kitchen, he stroked his wife’s hair as she ate her morning cereal, and pecked her on the cheek. This warmed her bones. She knew that her husband’s glumness was temporary.
After his final shift, George took his stubborn little body to the top floor and stepped off, falling fourteen stories to a pavement covered with those tiny pieces of gravel, which embedded themselves in his knees and face and arms. A jiffy later, George’s knees and face and arms lost all convention.
Such an event troubled the CEO, who suddenly had to find a talented and corruptible accountant either somewhere in the company or from an accessible outsource post. Fortunately for him, under his roof was an employee of similar stature to George who had indebted himself and his family to online gambling. The new instrument, Hugh, channelled the money as the CEO saw fit. The penultimate link in a suspicious chain of transactions was an anonymous company based in Seychelles, which was affiliated with a confectionery business owned by the CEO.

Why we’re making an album no one will hear.

Lately I have been asking myself “why bother making an album no one will hear?”. I ask myself this whilst I walk to work, whilst I watch highly entertaining TV series and whilst reading radical German philosophers drinking cheap wine in bed. Whatever the location and occupation my internal monologue always replies confidently and comfortably. It tells me that this album I make may reach a small audience, but that is an audience that is small in comparison to a remarkably large audience, it is an audience I have compared with the great success stories of the indie archives stored forever in the digital land of the internet. The internet land that is forever in front of you, comforting you like a modern fireplace. This land brings trauma to my expectations, like so many other people perpetually seeking something to worship in a post-christian western world. The transcendental revelations experienced through deep reading and the scrutinizing of poetry demand too much of me and so I have sought after cheap momentary pleasures online ;). But, there is a genuine magic to be found online and it is through the discovery of new music. Not music forced upon you in rape-like lunges through advertisement, but music you discover through scrolling and clicking through your preferred genres on soundcloud and spotify (i know it’s evil) and recommendations of friends. This stumbling through the internet restores the personal adventure element of discovering new music that was debased by advertising. There are the acts that have been found, bought and sold through the internet and their material has been moving, progressive and beautiful, but there are others that have not been found by the business world. This does not decrease their beauty or smear their dignity. In fact they should be looked upon as a hidden wonder away from the gift shop. So what if the masses don’t hear our record, I will keep my fingers crossed that a lone wanderer will find it in between watching pornography and reading conspiracy theories online.
Pat x