Nicholas Messenger - City lyrics

Out of the cracked and winter-tangled reconnoitres of the vantaged downs the water winding to find water, and the stacked and silted smoking enterprises far and flat-sprawled in their own yellow weather seep on slime-trenched estuary. There among warren; among seven-level and the smoking bore they build, the dawn-brave; build their bulldozed deserts, junction cul-de-sacked and sacked by yarders hacking heaped wrecks. There the sparrow patters and the grey rail-grindings coat the brambles. There they know though. They are knowing there. The bold young even know and on the slabbed flights, doubling, write it. Scrawled pre-stressing outs such truth that whispered walk-way tunnels echo. Canted girder badges sn******g bottles, intimating better lies than telling, and the carriage ads scratched carry messages : what Mary did to Anna. Something s**s here. So much secret swells to burst where greed-dewed, slide commuting eyes - a study for shadows in their galleries - To what a**embling genius the profit of compiling them ? Over the scribbled clues the smoke-stained pore; the countless with an audience of one; their cathode god on tap between the hours of labour and unconsciousness whose final wisdom hints how to become more blind than be invisible. The luxury of decor pumped into their rooms: a frame no bomber boxes out of, but the gods be praised, the sour rain's eating in. And on the tubes inscribed obscenities proclaim that someone with a pen-knife knows. And there will be an end to furnished harmony and to the staging of their gestures. With a s** as if the red-flowered sky were crumpet, and a settling of brown railway filings all their printed pretty painted walls with shambles will be down and they will wear their innuendoes and ensembles where nobody watches. This the frantic planets and the stars abhorring harmonies and any subway oracle portends them with p**nography's indifference; that when out of the rat-lots the disorderly pokes Sodom's rubber-fingers up their symmetries, and pig tap-trotter echoes in the sewer system sound throughout the porcelain of tubas and their belch reeks scented water, the displaced stars and the can-door hieroglyphics will not focus then with any celebration. But behind the station fences, between workshops and can*ls it has been muttered as the grit on ledges lies. And in the centres it is everywhere in darked and dazzled eyes. Glitter of glitter where the surface troubles where the tides meet. Tarnish on glitter and the glitter's peel; as bomb-flailed concrete in the underground and blacked-out eating houses full of lonely waiters and clean cutlery; the merry-go-round darkened on the circuses. The glitter oxidising and the spangled rotting shrivelled on resisting bones. And into the shadow between every lamp in three they bustled in the knowing of corruption too suppressed to be afraid.