Σάββατο, 14 Μαΐου 2011

Comet Gain - Record Player



In our pockets, receipts and machines
In our estate the lift doesn't work
Work gets hard, 'cos here it's meant to be
In our flunky fingers, silver rings and sweat
From all that worried waiting for things to happen
You know they should, if only they would
But in our heads, visions of getting beat up in back alleyways
Too much mincing about
London's schemes devalue its youth
It's inside your burning veins
I'm in love with the solidarity that no longer exists
The 80's soul boy misunderstood letters
All those obscure books and films and 45s
Let convictions strengthen love for
you, more than you can know

In our bones it feels like I'm going cold, physically
Am I disappearing from sight? 
No friends, or lovers, or letters
In our hearts a secret 
Behind phone box language
Bugs in the tap
'Cos there are no secrets kept hidden in this big city
In our mouths contempt, tops of alcoholic lies dribbling proletarian junk, like a spastic
Every year you get a little sadder, a little drunker
A little more violent, cynical, waiting for direction or a new discipline
In our pants, hard cocks, a ruffian on the stairs
Writing dirty words in Archway
"So the only reason you play bad guitar is to get a bad reaction
All this clone collective band shit hides your boredom, contempt, and no ideas"
Our only ambition is just to die

Solidarity with other bands is good, we have no ideas
In our palms, silver rings to give to young brides
Kept safe for now, in our souls poor decisions wait
Inside creeping out, pushing you forward into 
an abyss of future uncertainty, of torture, treated cloth
Climbing like a monkey to reach the top of stairs, lift broken down
Get into the car, (?)
Go home quickly 'cos we have no ideas

In discos chatting up girls, dropping gins, slurring stupid words, 
Nicotine fingers reaching out
Go home and listen to your cracking needle records in stained sleeves
Put it all into unfocused clarity
Estates all over London full of despair and violence
Loud radios are settling our nerves
We look to get back into tubes and chords 
We sing and cry all night
And in the morning it starts again, and again, and again

Makes the guitar snap, all through the pissed-up slumber
Your body is getting colder, there's no more purpose
Lost, nowhere to go, have they chucked you out of school?
Made you clean the parks?
I wanted to be a monkey, not end up a cartoon

We have no ideas









ps. thank you Γιάννη.

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