If They Should Bar Wars
Written by DJ Mandrews on December 18, 2015
the uncanny valley presents:
if they should bar wars
faith no more / savages / lene lovich / kraftwerk / danielle dax / julian cope / siouxsie and the banshees / killing joke / kool keith and big sche eastwood / wilco / meco / pixies
Generals gathered in their masses, just like witches at black masses; evil minds that plot destruction, sorcerer of death’s construction. In the fields the bodies burning as the war machine keeps turning death and hatred to mankind, poisoning their brainwashed minds. Politicians hide themselves away, they only started the war, why should they go out to fight? They leave that role to the poor. Time will tell on their power minds, making war just for fun, treating people just like pawns in chess, wait `till their judgement day comes. Now in darkness, world stops turning, ashes where the bodies burning, no more war pigs have the power, hand of god has struck the hour, day of judgement, god is calling, on their knees the war pigs crawling, begging mercy for their sins, Satan, laughing, spreads his wings.
I woke up and I saw the face of a guy. I don’t know who he was he had no eyes. His presence made me feel ill at ease. He sung the final hour of my sleep, oh god I wanna get rid of it. My house, my Bed, my husbands. Was he standing here all along when my eyes were closed and my mouth went numb? Does he know me very well? Will he talk in the dark? Will I see him again? My room, my life, my husbands.
Lights go out, nobody know what it’s all about, scared of air we gulp and run, gotta get away from the burning front. Hot foot out the underground, nobody lives in the dark for long. It’s time to do what must be done: one for all and all for one. Radio boys and radio girls tune into this radio world.
Ghost woman with ashes on her breath reveal the fly-blown faces of the gone. The brimstone in a barren land, the pliant meat, done to a turn, with all the dead of a decade wading in, led through this pale hygienic glow with hands held stiffly behind backs. The brimstone in a barren land, the pliant meat done to a turn in this house that had once been human.
Hey in the pouring rain when the smell of terror brings a thousand eyes the red men come again. They kill my children and they kill my wife and then they leave me bleeding. Family dead, just freaking out bleeding, stoned in the gutter, empty of my colour I’m fried, fried, ticking in the side, body twitched from side to side. Run, run, Reynard, run, run, run. You’ve got to run for an hour and you’re still not done. Hey in the ice and snow when the call up sounds to the real in deed…but do you really wanna know how we rode into freedom on whimsy and greed? And they said your time is over. I don’t see any gallant calls, I don’t see an inch of reflex except to leave me bleeding. Reynard left and went to Warwickshire, to a mound near a railway line, with canals and a freezing swamp. He climbs high up above the countryside and breathes freely. To the south he could see Polesworth, and to the north he could just make out the ruins of the priory where Joss and I played cricket as children. We were only three miles away, probably drinking tea and talking, at the same time as he was taking the stanley knife out of the bag. He pushed the point into his stomach until the light shone right through. And then he reached down, and he took the bag. It’s a plastic bag, with plastic handles and plastic sides…
HE SPILLED HIS GUTS ALL OVER THE STAGE
HE SPILLED HIS GUTS ALL OVER THE STAGE
Desert kisses in the sand, engulfing joints, engulfing land. Tidal fingers cling to rocks, a deadly grip, a deadly lock, cursed and pissed into the ocean, willfully caused a great commotion, but only for a stifled moment, then it was back to still life motion, a sideways crawl, a sideways crawl, the cancer crab is on us all. I kissed your face, I kissed the sand, I heard you sigh, there was no sound. Thrashed and spat back at the ocean, but there was nothing, no commotion, just my lonely stupid notions trapped again in still life motion. Sinking down with just my sound, running on the moving ground, sleeping on the moving ground, sinking down. The world is flat, there’s no one here to question that. The world was round, there was no one around, sinking down.
Ten percent of the land is the hand that pulls the strings. Be the privileged few to have, to own, to hold. Power over the people, yes, yes, power over people. Money, property, assets before lives. Green gestures of a dying planet. An endless debate only too late. An appetite for gluttony. The only way is up, but when you are up you have to try and stay there, so you stamp and cheat on people. Champagne breakfast, rewards for the killing, and a fast waist bulging, indulging in what you call good living, but most of all there is too much fat on your heart, pig. A lifestyle of cholesterol, cross-collateralized cholesterol, saving what’s left from profit margin…for what?
I’ll tell you what for: for some irrelevant conscience. Easing charity: why? Just to justify. Just to justify.
Look at this utopia, a society based on solid foundations, educate our children, educate them well to feather the nest and eat the rest, yes, yes, feather the nest and eat the rest.
The waste expands, your waist expands while others stand at the back of the queue.
I MEAN YOU.
Still the same old security for your creature comforts, exchanging the hours of your life for the cash you’ve already spent, eating rubbish so you can pay the rent, table wine once a week if you’re lucky.
Privatize the people’s lives, be part of the company or fade. The appliance of science to privatize their lives. Water is our business. Electricity is our business. Gas is our business. Lives are our business. Business is our business.
Your money, my time, your stinking industrial bathwater, my wine. Imbalance induces hate: how will you breach the gap between the endless buffet?
I feel hate, I feel hate, I feel hate, I feel hate. Don’t be afraid to show your hate.
You just treat me like a commodity, you didn’t know I couldn’t even afford to feed my family. I just want to kill, I just want to take a gun, and put it to your head and pull the trigger.
Well sit right down my wicked son and let me tell you a story about the boy who fell from glory and how he was a wicked son.
This ain’t no holiday, but it always turn out this way.
Here I am, with my hand.
He took his sister from his head and then painted her on the sheets and then rolled her up in grass and trees and they kissed till they were dead.
This ain’t no holiday, but it always turns out this way. Here I am, with my hand.