Grindhole

Down in the deeps
You would never see it
Down the tunnels
Through the dark
To pure white stairs
You'd never see it
Abstractify away
And rationalise and disbelieve it
It's okay though
No doubt of that
No shame
Cognition's fiat

A certain sort of mind
Post-primal infancy denies
A certain, certain subtleblunted mind
The cold clear dusk with no reply

That you can't fear and fold re-labelled
Forcing up that bitterest wine
A wedge of water doubling back
Sliced neurons sluiced on through the sides

To Terminus
Psychosis too
Those crooked tentacles are wide
And perhaps you could believe
Perhaps you'd be inclined
If it's in a scratch of music
Carried through an arty rhyme
If it's in a scratch of music
Carried through a complex, fractured, disparate rhyme

A concrete iron chamber cold
And filled
And writhing with those tides
But the upper bunker-gate reads it's denied
And the upper bunker-gate knows now
Exactly how you're primed
And it's almost all contained
In what one sentence could define

Flense the binary
Stitch the jigsaw
In the meantime whimpered cries
Down in the deeps
Down in the deeps
Down in the deeps
The whimpered cries

Flense the binary
Stitch the jigsaw
In the meantime whimpered cries
Down in the deeps
Down the down down deeps
Beneath the lowest sub-floor lives

11 miles down
And some have taken half a mile
And the affirmed are all denied
Before the snake shit tears of crocodiles

11 miles down
Some have screamed down 90 feet
And even then the writing's there
And every language is discreet

Something's wrong inside that chamber
And you hear it down the lines
From the junkies and the hide-outs
And the hell-bled flimsies fed on psychiatric lies
And the mates from all the units
And the package couriers in gear
And that bloke from out the Falklands
Who passed on the other year
And the quiets on the surface
And the snoopers and the spooks
Turn away and choke a tear
And drown inside a pyre of books
Something's wrong inside that chamber
And it goes down further still
And no-one's there to let them out
And no one ever fucking will

The cookie-cutters and the goblins
And the sharpest filed-out teeth of all
Having little pecks in places
Where the corridors
And shafts withdraw
In the concrete
By the meat-dance
In the whitest room of all

In the gallery
On the canvas
In the whitest room of all

But that's just a single image
From one little war another day
If I'd found it even once I wouldn't know
You'd never see - you'd never say
And all the while
And all the while
And all the while
It stays that way
The herds of cats come out to play
The herds of cats come out to play

So I never said one thing here
And the music isn't great
And if you heard one word of sense here
The music really isn't great

And if it is isn't music now
You never saw my name or faith