From the album ‘In Samoa‘ (2012).
Lyrics
Dr Anderson refused to move his car, even when it had been made clear to him that a visiting dignitary required the space. A packet of spearmint Chiclets on the dashboard began to melt with a trickling sound.
Dr Anderson, sitting beneath a spreading plane tree, began to read from a copy of Julia Kristeva’s ‘About Chinese Women’.
He learned that the only course of action a woman could reasonably take is refusal of both male and female models.
In the world of the book he began to rise higher and higher above the street. Soon the plane tree was spreading below him, and he watched with complete equanimity from a height of twenty metres as a traffic warden approached his car and began to write him a ticket.
It was as a direct consequence of her poor diet that Helen began to sleep fewer and fewer hours per night. Frequently she would waken in the middle of the night with an appalling itching in her ankles. Reaching for the tube of medicated foot cream her mother had given her, Helen applied the healing balm not just to the afflicted area but higher, to her calves, the back of the knee, the thighs, the hamstrings, the inner thighs, and finally to the tureen of chicken soup itself. The ladle swished, the portions were generous, everybody in the family was served.
It was the first time Lionel had ever heard the terrifying, the terrifying, the terrifying electronic rhythms…
It was the first time Lionel had ever heard the terrifying…
It was the first time Lionel had ever heard the terrifying electronic rhythms of Senegal.
It was the first time Lionel had ever heard the terrifying, the terrifying, the terrifying electronic rhythms…
It was the first time Lionel had ever heard the terrifying…
It was the first time Lionel had ever heard the terrifying electronic rhythms of Senegal.
It was the first time Lionel had ever heard the terrifying, the terrifying, the terrifying electronic rhythms…
It was the first time Lionel had ever heard the terrifying…
It was the first time Lionel had ever heard the terrifying electronic rhythms of Senegal.
It was the first time Lionel had ever heard the terrifying, the terrifying, the terrifying electronic rhythms…
It was the first time Lionel had ever heard the terrifying…
It was the first time Lionel had ever heard the terrifying electronic rhythms of Senegal.
It was the first time Lionel had ever heard the terrifying, the terrifying, the terrifying electronic rhythms…
It was the first time Lionel had ever heard the terrifying…
It was the first time Lionel had ever heard the terrifying electronic rhythms of Senegal.
It was the first time Lionel had ever heard the terrifying…
It was the first time Lionel had ever heard the terrifying electronic rhythms of Senegal.
And oh, go, you find it easy to go. Do you care, shall you go where the red rose goes? For you Tashkent roses are always there, waiting patiently for you. Go, finally heroes, oh and again, oh.
The mistaken hyacinths of a butterfly. The mistaken butterfly of a ne’er-do-well. The vinegar is in love with the sea. Walrus, wherefore art thou? Tomomi, deep in the locker under the… Breasts floating like a boat. Hair all stood on end. A chamber pot emptied upon a lord mayor. Loud noises in the night. Dancing upon the keys of a typewriter. Stuffing their throats with a marshmallow. The juddering machine gun of language. A rich man’s camel cruise. Hyacinths gathered poisonous as foxgloves. Wearing the mark of the clan like a bend sinister. The bonny reptiles in the cave. Burning-cheeked shame. Sweeter than Clive. He took the province with no fluster. It was all reported in the Hindu Times. A ring a ring o’ roses. A ring a ring o’ roses. A ring a ring o’ roses. A ring a ring o’ roses.
I spoke again this morning with Dr Anderson. He was wearing a handkerchief across his mouth. “The damned infection,” he said. I asked him about his maid, Milly. If she’d given him any more information. He denied it. Milly meanwhile was herself hovering in the background, rattling plates, brushing the crumbs off the tablecloth. It was as though she had something to tell us. “Mr Anderson, may I question Milly?” “I’d rather you didn’t,” he said. Later as I was leaving I slipped Milly a note. Meet me at the small copse at 2pm, it said. Milly was there at 2-on-the-dot. “Tell me what you know in this affair,” I asked her. Milly looked hesitant, her command of the English language was not perfect. “Dr Anderson has a small stash of mushrooms,” she said eventually. “He keeps it in his modelling room, inside the miniature station building.” “The great train set?” I asked. “Yes,” said Milly. “The mushrooms have been shunted there on tiny trains and stocked like an enormous product. Pull them out and you will find that they are illicit.” “Do you mean, Milly, that these mushrooms procure psychotropic effects?” I asked. Milly shook her head. “I don’t know, sir. I know nothing about such things. Only that he keeps them in the miniature station building.”
To simplify the problem of co-ordinating the optical and aural sensations in time, we have deliberately sacrificed the artistic qualities of visual form and space by adopting only the simplest geometrical shapes.
Fanny, I feel like a new man. But never belong. “If only you can survive,” cries the saucy voice within the Scot. And semper vigilante, et cetera et cetera et cetera. Lightning forks lazily behind the trees. The crows caw. Far from the Stirlingshire of his youth, far from the huntsmen with their guns. But never belong. Semantics! But never belong. Infinite sadness. The death bed of a writer. An exile far from home. Far from meaning. Semantics! Nothing to do with semantics. He lifts the counterpane. 6,000 mosquitoes have bitten the flesh of his thigh and the slight resounds forever in the family. What is the significance of the umbrage? “There is no significance,” she said. Communists. The faithful retainer Umma followed them down the street. The German battleships were ranged in the harbour. “Communists!” shouted the German marines. Stevenson ignored them. Hiking to the top of the hill. Stop! Stop! Fanny, I feel like a new man.
I am a guardian spirit. Never mind whose.
Go straight to hell. Down the dark stairs and into the shadowy, fearsome cellar with its terrible inhabitant. Past the coffin-like grandfather clock. A hideous old crone. Burst with a white hosanna. The sea roared in the room. A pig’s head on a stick. It was always strange to him. And what is imagination? His drowned body hangs suspended in the green sea, alone and miserable. The limpets he eats with disgust. Imagine for a moment the schoolmaster, a pig’s head on a stick. Talking to him. Converse with the pig’s head. I have walked by stalls in the marketplace. In the dustbins. In the burning taste of a last crumb of chocolate. In the indifferent progress of an ocean wave. The benign Neanderthals believe he was lost. And their invading enemies, they are terrified of water. A forest of towering beeches. They are starving and desperate. Alone and miserable. The water they sail on, past the coffin-like grandfather clock is like the glassy clarity whitened by a million open daisies, with foundations that creep like maggots. The sea roared in the room. A pig’s head on a stick. It was always strange to him. Alone and miserable. She is seized by a fit of laughter on a calm sea of brilliant grass. So the familiar is strange. If you had asked him what is real, he had no idea. As a child, frightened of the dark, lying in a bed in the desert, when he lays his hand on the bone, the leathery skin. Troubling objects! But then, all at once, there was no bone, no skin. The sea roared in the room. A pig’s head on a stick. It was always strange to him. Go straight to hell.
By woodside grove and woodland rushes there’s hush and crush in the brush and bushes. On left the holt, on right the meadow, “O hey!” rings and sings in sunshine and shadow.
By woodside grove and woodland rushes there’s hush and crush in the brush and bushes. On left the holt, on right the meadow, “O hey!” rings and sings in sunshine and shadow.
By woodside grove and woodland rushes there’s hush and crush in the brush and bushes. On left the holt, on right the meadow, “O hey!” rings and sings in sunshine and shadow.
By woodside grove and woodland rushes there’s hush and crush in the brush and bushes. On left the holt, on right the meadow, “O hey!” rings and sings in sunshine and shadow.
By woodside grove and woodland rushes there’s hush and crush in the brush and bushes. On left the holt, on right the meadow, “O hey!” rings and sings in sunshine and shadow.
To simplify the problem of co-ordinating the optical and aural sensations in time, we have deliberately sacrificed the artistic qualities of visual form and space by adopting only the simplest geometrical shapes.
Momus 