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letra de the assassination of archduke françois kevorkian - the araby bazaar

pictures of sequins on meathooks with lingerie eyes
a televised holiday (the soul in epochal demise)
telephones, telephones; dilatante p-rnography; vine™
the gumption of those still defending ‘intelligent design’

caffeine drinks; no-one thinks – everyone says what they like
book-burnings is the new lovemaking (lovemaking’s died)
now it’s just s-x: wrung, numb fillets of slippery skin
and everything’s casual – passion is no longer ‘in’

a matt healy signature fender™ jag issued in pink;
subscriptions and jealousy and the end of the world, if you squint
tuesday nights, 6-9: 2 for 1 on chosen drinks
the suicide note you keep in your draft outbox has leaked

cutting edge comedy banished from bbc 1
and cutting edge comedy banished from bbc 2
more panels of z-listers frothing at flatulent tunes
rupert’s hands, musty with s-m-n, and making foul gestures at you

and nowhere more keenly is judgement day felt than the gut-wound of simpler times
back in the discos of yore before the archduke françois kevorkian died
it won’t be long now ’til vincent’s old body – like patrick’s – is finally resigned
and i’m forced to sit watching these people pretend to be sad and make use of dead time

the elephant graveyard of useless things welcomes your custom
bid for the relics of something that’s largely forgotten
out-snipe the other heartbroken regressivist kids
shuddering still in their grown-up skin-suits that don’t fit
a new deluxe, slip-cased photography volume is due:
pictures of wrecking b-lls razing cult underground venues
the previous impression has been out of print several years
few second-hand copies aren’t marred by the tracks of old tears

signed memorabilia; laserdiscs; obi-strips; shirts
a borderline s-xual obsession with what it’s all worth
one day, you say, you’ll sit down and you’ll play it all through
i hope you don’t mind when you find you’re too late to love something brand new

these legions of metal detectors in waves on the coast
watch as the spray throws up shingle against broken boats
mourning slapstick comedians from golden age children’s tv
as the deafening thunder of time keeps ignoring the sea

and nowhere more keenly is judgement day feared than the gut-wound of simpler times
back in the discos of yore before the archduke françois kevorkian died
it won’t be long until vincent’s old body – like patrick’s – is finally resigned
and i have to sit watching these people pretend to be sad and make use of dead time

breathing dead air, in a moment since ashen; since played
euphoria seizing their bodies as night fades to day
a full haçienda of nerves – by narcotics: seduced
blissfully deaf to the sad evanescence of youth

contemporary armchairs are sunken with skin that was there
unable to justify living now n0body cares;
now n0body thinks to retouch, remix, sweeten or shine
just stare at the sequins on meathooks with dead ‘have-me’ eyes
an explicit biopic (all cussing and f-cking) was filmed
it’s dishonest and vacuous; crass and inaccurate filth
there’s a ten minute scene of a groupie f-ll-ting some guy
you can download the soundtrack of stone roses b-sides online

oh, it had to be murder for no-one would choose to have left
but the memory is all and ‘the now’ is just: ‘feeling bereft’
the dance-floor was smashed into pieces and used for guitars
their songs are scorched-earth; they’re the tremulous wailing of scars

- the araby bazaar

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