where's the dignity in any of this? get your cv out my face and pass the wine list mate. puny marked man in a media circus of corporate elite and street sweepers. democracy doesn't exist, at least not while sipping champagne watching the weak west limp along like a plump old git dumb to his imminent demise. you've earnt this. you deserve this. ignore reviews - all reviews - and court ignorance. pop is gut rot plopped atop lollipop sticks and sucked by the hideous futility-fancying mouths of bored, accepting, ignorant pawns fornicating with plug sockets. and our saints are sickly rich and proud, our proud are loud and clumsy. the predicament of power in the jaws of power hungry. yeah this is our press pack. hashtag that. smiley.
and all the while when it came strong - in single file - headstrong. knocking off quiffs of a gargoyle. lopping off stone snout. grit-cold grin in the chilly old bowls of this bad town. and how we could’ve seen it fold in upon itself is beyond the minced mind of our masters. and fast as all the cannons kill, they be giggle-blurs of a slew too riddled to be worth salt. a pyramid inverted on the anus of a goat - a tattoo of a pyramid inverted on the anus of a goat. and how the bigger boys laughed, how they joke still.
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when the city kills off the poets and puts down the scoundrels all restless in custom comfort. sunken in the cracks of the paving, a real low loving, tracing the chalky streamers loosely flailing in this lavender eve. and how long have we been this tired for? ghosts of bombed spires over spines like misty crowns embodied in our beseeching arms, our weakening wrists and petri dish-pale palms. men fell here once and shall again; picture a prince clambering over toppled pylons, feasting in silos and breathing blank space in brackets. we held eyes, embraced, then raped the world in a picnic hamper on hampstead heath, while underneath our jubilation the financial district slipped out of focus and became beautiful; broken in all the warped colourings and awe. come clothe us in concern and peace of mind. i’m shivering naked in the belly of ecstasy and famished fame with two of your favourite celebrity wingmen as witness and narrator in turn to this massacre of moments - so very present. pig fat burns and so does power. we have all seen weeds win and kings turn to stone, so woe betide the mischievous nonsensical disputations spewed from troughs to be tongued as soft wounds on hard, harvesting hands. stand and study this despicable spectacle you shall all see me pirouette atop to fleck with some wretched worth. your clean truths will noose you. the air is balmy and leaves fall prettier than we. find me struggling to find a better way to say ‘i am disgusted’ then thump the red button. that something. that little something else. that first time you find yourself descending into a bitter little man. son watches father fail for the last time then drains the pond.
i have long loved it all. it was once near perfect. pan to left and hold the moving portrait. fade out slow, then cue the rapt revellers. send home the archers, then embark on the vast, inky night. feathers fall heavy. pig fat burns. city kills poet. air is balmy. lynch mob hero, truths noose you. lynch mob hero.
The British-Somali poet draws upon everything from leftfield folk to minimalist spoken-word, bound together by simple-yet-cutting wordplay. Bandcamp New & Notable Apr 28, 2021
Fran & Flora’s waltzing traditional folk music is breathtaking in its minimalism, with guitar and violin twirling gently. Bandcamp New & Notable Feb 24, 2019
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Sometimes you come across an artist that is compelled to do what they do.
I appreciate the musicality and the arrangement and the artistry of the songs. He sings and plays like his life depends on it. I appreciate the humanity of the lyrics… Like reading Tortilla Flats, or watching Nobody’s Fool.
Ceschi is a bright star. I’m glad he’s loose in the world. oldtruck