k-punk

At the risk of re-outraging the emolliators, conciliators and stoner pacifists, I cannot allow Carter McBeath’s work of collage-satirical genius to moulder away in the comments boxes.
So, go on, have a laugh, enjoy yourself — and know that ridiculing pomposity is a k-punk DUTY….
Here’s a lyric by Peter Sinfield and Dylan Tripp. Guess which lines belong to whom.
‘Ringed By Ants And Musing Over Man, featuring “Poets of Decay”, and including “I Cannot Resist His Solemn Pomposity”‘
Lyric by Peter Sinfield and Dylan Tripp
Wagner blows his tuba whilst another fracture of the ceiling erodes
Harlequins coin pointless games, sneer jokes in parrot’s robe
Lizard bones become the clay –
An evocation of Chauncey Gardiner gliding down the hallway
CHORUS:
Who’ll give me comfort when the moon rides in the pines
An aesthetic commitment to fatigue, silence, and decline
The wise men share a joke; I run to grasp divining signs
It permits a sense of moral autonomy whilst Simultaneously affording the aesthetic pleasure of decline
Worship!” cried the clown, “I am a TV”
I do not suffer from depression so the formula is alien to me
Burn slow to ash just as my days now seem to be
It is like returning to Mahler and remembering how rich things can be
REPEAT CHORUS
A sublime sense of elevation amongst the pitiful waste of the asylum transpires
They slide across your frying pan and fertilize your fire
And thereafter the everyday recedes,
Poets’ starving children bleed
(MELLOTRON FLUTE SOLO)
Here, the surface, rotten through dampness, upturns whilst its gaze lingers in suspended decay
Burnt with dream and taut with fear, the yellow jester does not play
Resonances of Schopenhauer’s disinterestedness simmer,
All veiled in a quasi-prophetic tone whilst still maintaining an academic rigour
REPEAT CHORUS
Grass in your hair stretched like a lion in the sun
I renounce Cairo whilst I furrow deep beneath the waste of the asylum
Snuff brown walls where Spanish lizards run
I am maintaining Baudelaire’s view that dandyism is incompatible with being a woman
Damn iron minded, gold braid blinded, officers and gentlemen!
REPEAT CHORUS
Blown autumn leaves shed to the fire where you laid me
We look to open expanses of glass and accordingly feel open and free
For now Prince Rupert’s tears of glass make saffron sabbath eyelids bleed
Ontological space clarified not through the appearance of stability but through the presence of the unhomely, the world depicted in debris
REPEAT CHORUS (x 2)
Quivering in an anecdotal malaise,
Plastering the vacuum with yesterdays riddle
Now tales Prince Rupert’s peacock brings
Waves sweep the sand from my island,
From me