a bum deal at the arse end of art

 

does the camera steal the soul?

do teenage boys steal cars?

is the catwalk sponsored by gestapo?

do models frame the sky like skinny prison bars?

their smiles leak a bitter gas

they wash their hair in bottled tears,

they say they're sick of being followed

but they're the stalkers in the shadows of our fears

beatified by zombies

they soar on vampires' wings,

public enemy, private hell

jerks jerk their strings

- the usual suspects skulk behind the fragrance and the skirt,

investors and their dobermen growling in the dirt

it's a bum deal at the arse end of art, 

nobody cares what's in her,

tough shit for the also-rans and track marks for the winners

they can't keep up with the 12 year olds, 

they can't keep down their dinners

public enemy, private hell, 

sinned against and sinner

"Cut!" used on superqueens album 'cheap shots', 2004

"Cut!"

my sister’s husband's daughter's man 
is on four kinds of drip
- you could say he's well connected
for the first time in his life
the remote control's the only thing
that's firmly in his grip
and gangrene's got the doctors
sharpening the knife

we're in marlboro country
on the flipside of the billboard
shovelling the horseshit
and the hidden costs

his stetson is a crew cut and a vacant stare
his six-gun changes channels
it's a lightning-tipped repeater
a lassoo of pure catarrh
stops conversation in its tracks
and he rides the satellite sierras
on a beige and black three-seater

"howdya feel, stevie boy?"
-"well, not too fucking clever"
"you giving up the cigs, then?"
-"i'm too young to say never"
"i see you're hooked up to a screen"
-"yeah, it's like a porn film, without the sex"
"guess you'll have to quit the ballet"
-"nah, i'll just teach myself some new steps"

and in the western tradition
he grins at his own jokes
and faces down the man in black
who smiles as he smokes
and he spits a bit of script
at the invisible director
"fuck it, take the battery out of that smoke detector,
i'm lighting up"

and the anaesthetic
fights to keep his thick mouth shut
and the doctors
and my sister's husband's daughter's man
shout "cut!"

ladies & gentlemen, doctors & nurses

this place is a casualty department

all our mouths moan "nurse!
give me the x-ray of your attention
prescribe the lifting of my curse"
it's any gathering of adults, it's a nightclub, it's a street
dolce and gabana is the rich kids' bandage
the poor ones just overeat
the walking wounded and the basket cases
limp from scene to scene
hunting out some loving surgeon
with a double life-support machine
but they'll settle for a butcher and an aspirin
- they'll get by
bones fuse and nerves dull, you can even fix a smile
she says 'we love each other really
we just walk a crooked mile'
one man's meat is another's meat substitute

yet no-one can stand alone -
this catch 22 makes mincemeat
of all the turkeys waiting by the phone
the foot-soldiers and the sacrificial lambs
get dolled up and they drift
into the arms of the venus de milo
hoping for a fireman's lift
but they just get judo, or fuck all
and yet doctors and nurses, plainclothes, exist

their soft blows heal the breaks

their tongues apply wild lotions

licking deep into the aches
these are the good spin-doctors

when the planet grinds they help it glide

untrained, unpaid and unannounced
they appear at your side
damaged fruit can make champagne

roses blossom through manure

natural medicine floods our veins
venom is venom's cure

business is business

x communicates with y  
and z takes ten percent
it seems you’re always paying strangers rent
is pimp culture heaven sent - or can you send it back?
between the penthouse and the shack
the dealer’s wheels keep rolling back
and forward like an old zoo cat,
supplying the demand

and demanding the supply of bads and goods
to suit the stimulated cravings of the neighbourhoods
who might not but maybe should
watch the traffic for a while
the limo driver’s got a baseball bat
to help him establish that
business is business and that    is     that