Fugazi - Fish

Vodka intimate, an affair with isolation in a Blackheath cell

Extinguishing the fires in a private hell

Provoking the heartache to renew the licence

Of a bleeding heart poet in a fragile capsule

Propping up the crust of the glitter conscience

Wrapped in the christening shawl of a hangover

Baptised in the tears from the real

Drowning in the liquid seas on the Piccadilly line

Rat race scuttling through the damp electric labyrinth

Caress Ophelia’s hand with breaststroke ambition

An albatross in the maritime tradition

Sheathed within the Walkman, wear the halo of distortion

Aural contraceptive aborting pregnant conversation

She turned the harpoon and it pierced my heart

She hung herself around my neck

From the Time-Life-Guardians in their conscience bubbles

Safe and dry in my sea of troubles

Nine to five with suitable ties

Cast adrift as their side-show, peepshow, stereo hero

Becalm bestill, bewitch, drowning in the real

The thief of Baghdad hides in Islington now

Praying deportation for his sacred cow

A legacy of romance from a twilight world

The dowry of a relative mystery girl

A Vietnamese flower, a Dockland union

A mistress of release from a magazine’s thighs

Magdalenes contracts more than favours

The feeding hands of western promise hold her by the throat

A son of a swastika of '45 parading a peroxide standard

Graffiti disciples conjure testaments of hatred

Aerosol wands whisper where the searchlights trim the barbed wire hedges

This is Brixton chess

A knight for Embankment folds his newspaper castle

A creature of habit, begs the boatman’s coin

He’ll fade with old soldiers in the grease stained roll call

And linger with the heartburn of Good Friday’s last supper

Son watches father scan obituary columns in search of absent school friends

While his generation digests high fibre ignorance

Cowering behind curtains and the taped up painted windows

Decriminalised genocide, provided door to door Belsens

Pandora’s box of holocausts gracefully cruising satellite infested heavens

Waiting, the season of the button, the penultimate migration

Radioactive perfumes, for the fashionably, for the terminally insane, insane

Do you realise?

Do you realise?

Do you realise, this world is totally fugazi

Where are the prophets, where are the visionaries, where are the poets

To breach the dawn of the sentimental mercenary