Sleepy rich lakeside
town of bullion and scars
my doctor he tells me this thing is benign
but no more late nights or cigars
I had no problems
til I strayed from my home
just death from the air and the rocket’s red glare
we were freelance providers of aid
such as anti-depressants and petrol and schnapps
we only take dollars or gold
you can’t trade us sex if you’re old
Down with tomorrow
the things you do for a grand
the mayor puts a Polaroid snap in my hand and murmurs,
«she lives on your land».
«I have a problem
in her belly it grows.
It’s of no account but she won’t shut her mouth
she needs to be pacified».
When curfew arrived we were walking her out
blank though she shook and perspired
(she was) blank-faced in our line of fire…
We let in a plane and a banker got off
didn’t look like the travelling kind
he regarded us sternly,
asked «how much you want?
our rates are the lowest you’ll find».
There was some English gangster who called me «comrade»,
had a handler who smirked as he spoke.
We promised them peace and pretended to build
and we pissed off officially broke.
I dreamed of her grave in my warm bed last night
of that patch where the tall nettles grow.
A plastic bag wrapped round a rock marks the spot
where she and some others repose.
And I dug my way in til I lay by her side
and we lay and we looked at the stars
and as they exploded and dimmed without trace
she joined in my passionate song
Tears finally came and ran all down my face,
«Hail toxic mother», we sang,
«Full of grace, toxic mother, bang bang bang bang.»