Jung Ahh Fleisch

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1. Descending To Earth With Mercury
(S. Moore/W. Cardew)

Saw couple of girls walking back
From bathing in raw sewage if only they knew,
Their hair all matted from foaming sea
Pandora's descending to earth with Mercury.

An insane sweeting of the lived life that's left,
Midday confectionary of blue-bells and precipitate manganese-yellow primrose
That suck light from dusk purport to give it back irradiating eyes with subtle splendour
But just another lie at decay of another day.

So mouth-wateringly dull they strolled
Chatting on empty plans 'n observations
Their bodies aware, unconsciously yes,
Of being spied, their power to cause mess.

Who was it then, the God whose semen dropped
And Triton or Neptune sprang? Perhaps I'm wrong,
But porno image of sperm spayed hair
Is right, let out, escaped, naughty box's lair.

That idea, falling from gods to soil,
Spews up sense of ash instinctively expressed, like milk,
From knowing breasts flaunted yet denied, their lives a kind of test
For which the answer is immutable.

While dawdled, they, embellished with designs,
I wondered "what's white carry bag, what's in it for?
For washing? Water slugs for day long stroll?"
Or simple symbol for a jar, containing ageless teases? Confusion
Misleading, cover sheet clouds where
Customers lurked, the girls glowed with blistering sun.

Their outfits, here, were gently incongruous,
Switched connective, instinctive, male response
A visual perfume drifting sniff-sniff scent, stirs senses
But of what? Reflection? Or the... a second look then, yes, definitely meant, meant what?

Have we then, from god to man?
Human sunrise to crinkled, stupid talking, lorry driver's slut.
The unconscious mote picked glare, the close-up they parade, reveals
Naively brutal accent, insincere lecture
Like raking sunset, exposes fracture cross a face.

Moon blued, or day's bronzed rays
Struck, sunk, the pallid chair absorbs, upholstered,
The low slung light sparkles dusty smokes every-time arm moves
Out 'long armrests. That move enables swallowed excuse, uncoiling leads to nothing
Confronted, when evening comes slowly fading into drunk,
Red saturates orange, dissolves like fatty time.
Here chair wrapped just waiting, ebbs and flows an anger like lime 'pon everyone
And looking upon myself sink distorting swig
That slows, dilutes numb being, mumbling
That girly bodies cease
In sunsets or eclipsed, no, eclipses end,
Then they'll flaunt what lost, in hopeless it's still there
They'll want the gaze, will search it out
Moisturise the powdery flesh then, desicated in the sun.

2. Cradle To Grave
(S. Moore/W. Cardew)
Instrumental

3. Big Tits - Young Age
(S. Moore/W. Cardew)

Big tits, underage
Her big tits are much too big
But only for one her age
The dress suggests a lovely, awful, lots more
As does the make up tell exciting tall tales of seeming sexual woe.

Thus the manufacture of desire, replicate hormonal urge
Sate it on boiled sugar drops, like kiddy gems or adult nips,
Are easy, treats, teats for mechanical harvesting.

Insanely sweetie peachy, pear, an' cherry
The flood blooms up
The whirling sugared water sets
Stories seductively told with
Dabs of every syrup, caster covers morsel.
Yet none, neither bold nor wanting to, suggest
The story's fashioned dreamers steam
A candy-floss collapsing pale magenta sticky
In pools tropical beside which she, now we, willingly repose.
And lifting as she bends below and parting, as if her hair, two full shanks opens the foliage
On scenes of towering stamen, numbered, bent in worship to a, single, carpel.

Pools' red gloss muddied paint, not look beneath it's puddle blood
As peel off layers, not charred skin, but of unpeeling layers silk and nylons,
Not cities economic exploitation, or is it sexual dysfunction? Of, obviously, cheap life
From London to Timbuktu. Don't, don't, don't make the tableau
That equate teenies torn with kiddies working for our pleasure.

Victims' much as people they maimed and mutilated.

And so paralysed as if bitten, she, we retreat, fearing what change will bring
Unconsciously... perhaps.., realising that liberation of instinct means a shift
In balance, in who's, power in society.

Hence. Oh by far. Better popular. Is definitely better,
Get on family, friends, avoid the stigma of embarrassment.
Neither confront nor believe, truly polished, barbaric, hateful and exquisite.
Conceited... a conceit, ah yes... maybe, no not insensitive,
No, nor concerned though with welfare of others,
But responsive, quickened only, in all other respects appearing dumb maybe retarded,
By the gaze and hence the longing; she tunes the senses of man,
Bewitched and subjugated the powdered anther dips.

And through these other, her, eyes, refracted like a flies
(Her mum and dad were there)
Bizzy fragments, fast the furious
Thoughts, big, sentences
Who' deny what comfort fantasy
Rather than corroded reality?
Complicate boundary 'twixt bizarre and the original
Cleavage parts, she bends.

To sin it's lust, Cassie comes, she goes
Harvests charms of a venereal flower
You must not look at her
Always looking at her
She flits a sexual fairy
Spreading sweetly sleepy, treacle wet dream dirt
Brushes out mascaraed sockets, thickly could be nylon, almost plastic, waxy,
generic strands of hair
Sees, ah yes desires, male, hung, studs forming, foaming, hugging mirror pools,
and pierced bits are fun
Advantage and pleasure, froth the bubbling pools hide unendurable suffering
For we all live reality, even if might wish it otherwise.
Yet paralysed as if bitten, retreats,
Fearing power change, its consequent liberation of instinct
So remains victim of the parasitic, what a shame.
What difference having self an' 'aving self with or by or for the someone else?
Exploited teens; so bad t' fucking of 'em
Should stop 'em wanking too?

"No way you can say this is a poor befuddled, brainwashed kid.
This is a kid who made a whole lot of decisions on his own.” Said Mr. Morris,
With only half an eye.

4. Maxy Boy
(S. Moore/W. Cardew)

With metallic charm, steel self serving cruelty
And arrogant, yes contradictory, dislike of any authority, that borders irrationality
His politics are all emotion;
The shining proof of his moral backbone.

Full bubbled self-congratulation,
Dosed fantasy masquerading as a vision.
There sneers a plastic grin, the starry-eyes,
Weakling jests, clichés and theatrical pauses
His diehards swooned, giggled, and applauded.

Jubilant, yet hiding frothing, indignation.
"I did what I thought was right"
"He, it's, she's finished", Maxy's very happy with that
Sounding judge and jury, executioner, the last ones ... dead.
But all things within limits,
Adjusted, will regulate the very animation of life,
With, always, his eyes tuned to dazzle and effects.

Rumours, coming up with tales, almost charming naughty school boy
"Said it happened", raises one palm up,
"Said it didn't", raises other
Who do you believe he says,
Weighs, with what in truth is a smirk, hmm, or is it condescending eyebrow,
Besides...?

Under cloth of caring, though living solely for material
He, it's very humble servant, pretending master,
Measures success by degrees of secular attention,
His nasty varnished eyes are to it, the minute calculation of it, morning till night
He lives in land Consideration.

Pompous and corrupt, hypocritical
Godsent to people like you, Maxy I mean, sent to, not of him, oh no no no
He makes it seem noble even enjoyable;
Ruining other lives.

"I do sell sleaze
Show sleazy people
Being sleazy
Does not sleazy make me." Well no. I suppose not. Who's to say for sure?

So Maxy Boy leans in, gently invades, stares saintly
Daring us to contradict
His soft-boiled egg-like head that vague intimidating physique
Has never, personally, indulged stronger than adopted righteous fury.

But believe what he says,
Spotless stare marks
Spotless character
Is this how we see him?

See, once, the goodly looking boy, the years have not been kind
The crackled shell, everything falling way at edges can seem rather unpleasant
Soddy, soft impression, like margins of a bog.

Maxy seeps feeble dignity to fibs, propriety to half truths
And solemn, humbling authority to outrageous whoppers
There's no way of proving any of it, we only have the Maxy's word for it
The salesman face, honourable, priestly pancaked baby face
Oh what wicked world, scary dishonourable world, a simple wish is claimed,
to do something,
Make better, not worser but freer
It lends even his most foul and unprintable allegations an oddly frozen moral impact.

"The people that matter", he states quite plain, "to me, they know the truth
My wife and family, friends
Real people, decent people, have got no problems with me".

5. Thought She Was Special Again
(S. Moore/W. Cardew)
Recorded live in Berlin, 16th May 2008.

Thought she was special
Destructive wilful reckless foolish mischievous no doubt
A goddessed line of women
But barely learnt behind shadowed eyes
Not that special.

He said
Don't you know what happened? Don't understand
She didn't couldn't all done
Finished.

If fucked her
Though hadn't not even tried force
Though she ran don't touch me don't touch me.

Something changed
Out the box
Unfixable
For attention, consciously or not she'd thrown jar so high
Thought would catch as fall
Stood close, closed late.
Why tremble like that.
If closed at all
Others fear, uncertain stepped back
Let break.

Down down, unseen unknown forces faces dogheaded, ferrymen, judges
Hidden unmoved slid into position
On steel groov'd escalator let go/switched off/got drunk let him lead
So no pulsed belly wasted, flicker'd hair, move fingertip blink of eye.
The essence, its ballet absorbs the mess, the arbitrary fate.
He excites things, creates, she ach'd sweated, charm'd, manoeuvr'd through
Like child to dang'rous tune, song of syphilis, demons, leprosy
Wicked forward, pull hair, reptile snaps, scratch claws, dam'd torments
Suddenly some kind of sense? Turned, then away
Gothic dark rings now chalked her eyes, as carried on around her,
Left behind, staring out.

6. Kat's Fitting In
(S. Moore/W. Cardew)

No self 'cept guilt and prob' the lot o' pity
Haunted like this 'ere bicycle wheel
Roll, rehearse forever
The fateful fall, descent, her journey to obscurity
Consoles herself, now, back car fumbles.

Typical, bloody typical, the bloody big mouth,
Not quite stupid but
Not the brightest. A star who failed 'n' swaggering who raced
Now's' can't figure why
Not winning,
Indeed not quite losing.

She brought, could hardly say she bought, that would not be nice, yer know? Toys, inna box;
Too young you see, a little peek, a perk you say, to play.
Simpler and greater then, before
The cycle girl Catherine fitted in.

Yes Catherine's lucky saddle
A drive by shout that 'er shorts a' tight
Like that, yes they did like liquid lead
What does it feel for the Catherine
Now she's fitting in?

Once destined seemed for things
Looked, was told,
Was keen, to feel, to fool, a wish-a-pon-a stellar... body,
A firework, bright spark wheelie Catherine,
Made the want to get a bit
To touch the shape, the headless shape,
The sad, sweet mangled shape, exploited shape, the put upon, the placed atop,
The spiked middle of two roly-rollies; punctured licker flappy scarecrow.

Said before, so again, 's'all so boringly predictable,
Smash, crash the little blue, or green or red or white rent car,
That car be turned a cart. To chip, chop, lop off 'er 'ed, an execution truck,
The crowdy cheer 'an jeer as fancy, the murderous, now, surely, it is, it must be? Hidden,
As if really mattered, a spectacle
Poor broken. Stolen would it be the car? Drunk or just changing his CD.

But, unlike the calf, indeedy cow, bolt hammered down,
Now she's woke from a daze, it couldn't be
A swoon, 's'hardly strong enough, a word, I mean
It wasn't me, she said, wouldn't? Couldn't? I wasn't driving.
Attempting to emerge all ashy befouled her face defiled
"You can't go, no-no you really can't go" and
"Maybe her neck's broke" they said, to help, 'they said it for 'er sake.

It is what's best for Catherine now Catherine's fitting in
She's got what's right, not liked, but once
Fizzed spangles spun, spokes radiate a centre
Catherine riding, racing, sparkling like diamanté coveted,
Body, face, fascinated whether pleased? hmm... desired? Different that, slightly,
or no no, no she said she didn't
Peeped the box, glitter strokes the toys, the sweets,
Why not taste?

A taste indeed the fact they were...
And the number of her...
Was that of his...
Was vivacious, nacreous, in low cut dress
Black band of silk on her bare round neck.

Empty, yes, how taste without the head, to deeds the tongue,
the mouth that states her what?
Her wants? Needy? Her perverse, you, we, must not, I, yes I mustn't
The, men, fascinated drawn to seeping beacon of female faceless,
Her feminine self belief takes, opens up for,
Fatal battering; you see the top bit lopped, missing, executed,
But till then, hope, so believe, it is reversible, so a taste;

By command, an order served,
A mussel heated 'part.
Of breast and bits and fancies
An embarrassed waitress; she, and we,
Pretend it hadn't, well it couldn't, could it? Happen.

Her pummelled confidence, her
Shell shocked 'gainst, then whirling, whooshing water cycles
She never recovers. Changed, not charged. No really the opposite.
Fragments, sand. Cement.

Solid salt, a chiselled sugared cube
Displays the sweetening of Catherine on a bike.
Ironic that, a machine to move
Quick silver, descends and ends inanimate lump.

One of many. Archetypes, I would say.
New girls begin anew, and like voltage
Escorted to earth by Mercury
Hot melts snow, the opaque crystal powder when all freshly
But turns grey translucent when pollutey.

How perpetual it falls, we clear it with a shovel, she now scrapes the living,
Weathered by 'er children
The parent looks a failing of the children
Revolves the race, that race, the ride, a drive dissolved
A stirring turning back.

Yet yer know it were, aye all,
For 'er benefit, it's what? Woz best!
In-diddle-deedy
They said make 'er... right! They did.
Fitted her snug. Tight.
Spindled into 'ole, an iron bored,
Open ended semi-cone no more flying metal
Feminine curved from edges
A ball, a bearing tube like chrome dildo
When red hot planets cool
To cast unshifting plug.

Mouldy her. Cooled her.
See it's wrong and well... I guess... right.
Yep it were, an' would an' all, 'ave been a right, a nice, fitted it right up. In.
As like as left an 'ole. Like back ov 'er head, they shoot 'orses don't they.

But, it must be wrong, it can't, it really really shouldn't, mustn't, wouldn't be...
Fitting in.

7. HP
(S. Moore/W. Cardew)

Whisper it, whisper it, how lives are fucked
Not disturbed, not fucked-up, but literally fucked
Really, created to be used, fully used;
A hole, a naught, to be inserted in
Are only filled, complete when stuffed, poked to make a whole.

How sad, a shame her sitting half in, half out gutter
A spill of gloss like poured paint
Red spreading an illegal circle from body
Punctured with blade, shoved in, in anger
Simple selfishness leaves head slumped forward on her chest.

Over now, it's finished; the reason to be born.
Existence ends with her death; not that we didn't see it coming
That there wasn't warning, prophesy much less grand than doom:
This picture is disturbing. She looks so used-up-nasty,
Should just O-Dee 'n' get it over, there're forties' better tits than that slut.
They said give it rest, saggy, ugliness on disgusting cum-buckets is waste of time
But, well, I think her superhot. Pornstar ideal.
Does everything, looks great doing it from what I've seen.

Oh silent, silent now the shackles should not jangle
The sound of emptiness is just that; a void
The cage does not exist to hear it's shake
Or if that proves untrue and bars revealed
Then sound travels not in vacuum.
An empty howl is formed of empty words shorn of strength
Are mouthed but sucked of quickening at their birth.

And he, what did he do?
No, say not true, just stories created
And recreated for effect. As in not so plush arcade, but what effect was wanted?
The stories strange of adolescent, constant, rape by gang,
Of being childhood sold on two molestering occasions.
Well obviously we take it pinched with salt
But still, the broadcast advertised a reason
Designed to stir up our desire.

"Looks like shit hit this one," they said,
Then adding photo weight to bony frame, perk sad, sagging boobs.
But in past this new chick had't best tits in porn,
Ah yes, back then, fresh self, seeming interest positive, opposite of pessimistic
A start, burgeon beginning, zygote twisting from DNA,
From ovum, like bowl, receiving loads of sperm.

Hush then, hush
Some, for her? For many? For all?
It is noise from God burning, as puff, just name on paper, simple sign,
Not sin, not offering, just sound quiet as charcoal smudged;
Flair bright to black sheet, to crumple ash
And gone with blow of breath that's quiet as Onan's seed falls' ground
No command of snuffing now for sacred disobedience.

But still a distant roar, "what did he do"?
In whose advantage ape-like coupling not in empty desert universe
But empathic teeming living? Self-centered fabrication, benefit the bribing?
Simple to apportion blame, responsibility, to curse the criminal wanker,
The loser and leave him dying too, half on mattress, in empty B and B
The electric light still on above his head no word of why or how.

8. Is That Nice?
(S. Moore/W. Cardew/C. Lu/D. Eichmann/G. Brandt/A. Frangenheim)
Recorded live in Berlin, 16th May 2008.

An element of reparation;
Tenderness towards a fiction
Might make up failure for, or balm,
Monstrous truths revealing.

The fizzin' sensation
As hived bees stirred
Stick, stick stirred
The shell shocked calcium propelled
By wave, fragments forming sand;
Shell shock tumbled smooth,
The whirling salty water cycles
Varied just the detailing, regular,
Comfortable and similar.
The soothing sound of rolling sea
Patterned behaviour to admire.

This, the patterning dance,
Gives direction, swarm around the victim
Beating wings providing heating.
Hot hell, a sound of agitated fury
And bizarrely, until now,
These Bees had been indifferent
To his presence but now
As painted with a gluey scent
This flood, curls back, pursues, breaks over.

A strand, a promenade
Of thought, associated defected
That nerve shattered soldiers now exhibited
As famil'ar with the hysterical feminine;
Their lumps in throat, the swoons,
The incubus, or sucubus depending.
That circumstance of war
Excite existing weakness
In those distressed
Minds now suffering.

Men made mad, now rendered
Status of exemplary victim
With defects both of character and morals.
The hysterical storm, that abuses stone and tree
Alike, it shows no favour or bows to status,
But drunkens afflicted with capacity for feeling.

The ridged back whelks, like bent men,
Beaten man. Burnt man;
The mussels cased in blue black skin
Coloured no not burnt, open with the heat,
Like, like ladies legs revealing lips
The bent-back man, broken man, shattered storm
Reveals weak weakness in men's afflicted minds.

Garland head with cockles, garland straggles,
Ocean weed for locks, samphire for the pot,
Winkles stay attached as sea's hair ripped
From off a rock, dying on a shore and stand
Upright and blame the victim.

We resist attempts to soil image, deny the spoil of it.
So fit the man with nappy, encase in big-size baby-grow.
Secured to keep him fed and watered, fiction psychiatric lozenge
For his care, But pity would heroize...
The breakdown makes attractive a man made pale, inebriant intense,
Drawing 'pon self-sacrificial unavailable to the or'nary,
The lowly, the stay at home, the voter.
And where's voice's private, the one who really suffers?
We don't want to hear it, the howl of one who suffers here, today
Who suffer sensitivity, shock afflicted with generous capacity
For feeling with woman who looked back,
Daughters, virgins, with their father.