The Power Of Hot Air (2009)
Crimes of Casio
One and one is two, even half-way up the arm. An electronic abacus, with a stop-watch and alarm. Division, multiplies, subtraction I can’t decide. I’ll pass this test with secrecy and long sleeves at my side. But my fingers won’t assist, like forever I know. In twelve months time the game is up as every digit grows.
You’ve got 48 sums to determine your own life. You’ve got 48 sums to decide on your own life. You’ve got 48 sums to determine your own life. You cheat 48 sums, that’s your…
Make it out alive, by running through it blind. Those sequences on sequences are finished in record time. But my fingers won’t assist like forever I know. And in twelve months time the game is up as every digit grows.
Woah, crimes of casio (x8)
Got Lot of Stuff
I’ve got so much to wash. So much to clean. So much to do – it’s really obscene. So much to watch. Too much to read. So much to hear. Too much to be.
I’ve got a lot of stuff (x12) Altogether now!
I’ve got a lot of stuff (x11)
The Summer Goes
The summer comes and the summer goes. If I quit work, d’you think anyone would know? To come and go just as I please – that seems like a quite nice idea. But I’m stuck here.
So little time – I’ve got to show you why. I had a dream – beneath a grey Fens sky I frittered all my youth away – with comics, sweets and 48k. Well that was okay…
And favourite popstars whose posters you cherished. And bags of sweet candy and fruit flavoured chews. And pets that belonged to a friendly old neighbour. And big beasties that only came on the box. And breakfast cereals with far too much sugar. And coffee that made you burst all hyperactive. And toys that belonged to your best friend from schooltime. You wanted – you saved up – you counted the days. And programmes you watched when you should have been sleeping. And nights spent in blankets with books read by torchlight. And diaries you started and covered with stickers. And best clothes you wanted to wear for all time.
Give me my childhood, preserved, green and friendly. Help me remember what I have forgotten. Lead me on back through the mists of my mindscape. Show me again what it meant to be young.
Real Sharp Twig
It’s 1:16 in the morning and I don’t know who I love. I want someone who would want to stay in every once in a while. And I’m not sure if this is love but I’m trying my best to find out: been poking my brain with a real sharp twig and it’s really starting to hurt. Well there’s one girl with long curly hair who I’ve seen around a few times. Another girl who I work with but she knows where my loyalties lie. And the other girl who’s the girl on a bike – the one I really like. I know where she lives: her house backs onto mine. I’m not sure if this is love… No I’m not sure at all. Suppose I’m only human – I’ll probably do bugger all. I’m not sure if this is love… I’m not sure at all.
It’s 1:19 in the morning. It’s 1:20 in the morning. It’s 1:21 in the morning. It’s 1:22 in the morning. It’s 1:23 in the morning. It’s 1:24 in the morning. It’s 1:25 in the morning. It’s 1:26 in the morning. It’s 1:27 in the morning and I’m still not sure at all…
My taste in films is obsolete. My taste in books is obsolete. My taste in girls is obsolete, I’m afraid. My VCR is obsolete. My multitracker’s obsolete. My Sinclair Spectrum’s obsolete, what a shame.
Nothing lasts for long these days, well not in active use anyway – though it may clog up your shed, or cling on underneath your bed.
My Game and Watch is obsolete. My Buck Rogers lollies – obsolete. My favourite biro’s obsolete, I’m afraid. My group of friends is obsolete. My political viewpoint’s obsolete. The tyranny of newness batters all.
The detritus is piling up into vast electronic rubbish dumps. The world’s resources out of the ground, stacked up in unsightly mounds.
Is there time to put it right? Is there bollocks – is there shite. Utopias of yesteryear, left out to rot like student wallpaper. Moving house makes it so clear – “chuck it now, you’re past that now”. But on my new mattress last night, I dreamt it all came back to life – I dreamt it all came back to life – the obsolete came back to life – the obsolete came back to life.
Now Betamax trash DVDs and Sinclair Spectrums mount PCs. A moratorium’s in force, enforced by rayon patterned hordes. Digicams will film no more – they only just kept Channel 4. Cars have remoulded and choppers sprung out, and your house is once again a council house, and Frank Sidebottom is Prime Minister for life – no longer obsolete.
A secret art of keeping friends in high places: it’s Zen and the art of Dictator Maintenance. At the weapons expo the British High Commissioner thanks General Bastard for buying more tanks. Peaceful pledges so plausibly made, all torn through in the name of trade. Exploit the arms race, paint up our other face. A little war is always good for business.
The price of oil and the flow of refugees are intertwined with our foreign policy. Self-righteous anger may give comfort but it’s bunk – cos whose fault is lack of jobs or council housing stock? So where does all the blood money go? They’ve got a holding cell in case you might know. But they pipe back the pictures with the solemn descriptions, and someone in Woking gets slightly put off their dinner.
Guaranteed to detonate or your money back! Guaranteed to maim, my friend. And as half the world blows lumps out of each other, we can look out from our island fiction with pride. As we know that Britain’s keeping up one of its finest traditions: arming both sides.