Please unrake all the leaves
And quietly lose everything
Who's there to process the film when you die?
Undeveloped and unseen
In this broken building where your lungs were born
Leave them here to decompose with the kettle on
We're all forgotten hospitals anyway;
Long nostalgic corridors of fading paint
With a burning sadness
Raise a toast to the ghost of nuclear winter
When they broke your heart
Behind those sad and salty seafront façades
Below the raucous static of the gulls above
In a broken tape machine
The hijacked hallowed days
Of torn up skater jeans and acne speckled honesty
Are captured but can never be replayed
We should all be making pilgrimages to Scarborough to conduct candle light vigils to 4 track ghosts, failed bands and the bones of the odd Bronte or two. Like Britpop never happened, thank God. Did William Blake go to the seaside to take the waters? I don't know, but if he did he was writing these songs. Vital pop dust and hidden shoe box tape operas. AB
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