From the recording Contaminated Pop
Christ, here comes the storm again that lacerates the heart:
the savage wind of ‘really nothing doing’.
Pray for us the blighted: all the failed in love and art,
who question everything they were pursuing.
When the black dogs come for you
well, what else can you do,
but downwardly revise your expectations?
Just kiss the sickly little rose
and hold her steady as she goes
as you light out for those lands of Consolation
All the aching moments when it didn’t go your way
(we saw it all and none of it was pretty)
Now you hear their voices in the gruesome light of day,
with the wheezing, cheap harmonium of self pity.
And there’s some sad things known to man -
and quite a few are sadder than
the sodden Paggliacci’s ruminations -
but still you’d have a heart of stone to leave the poor clown on his own
with half a bottle left of Consolation.
When you’ve failed to consummate
the wedding of the soul
or any other union you may yearn for
Let the baby demons come and stretch you on the coals
There’s nothing else you’d really care to burn for.
Well it really isn’t fun
and it comes for everyone
It soils the sheets /hauls you off
despite your protestations.
But all the Saints of Legoland;
the Poundshop Martyrs hand in hand
Will wash you in the seas of Consolation.
Satan in a monster truck
Jesus on a bike
all these things are sent to test your mettle
Half-mast flags in Whitehall
or your head upon a spike?
Depends on where the dust is when it settles.
All the things you struggled for
you can check em at the door
get ready for a dubious sedation.
It’s all designed to reassure:
the bingo and the talking cure,
as they walk you round the grounds of Consolation