Thursday, December 18, 2014

Submissions - Apologies

My apologies to those of you who have submitted work to the Red Ceilings and haven't yet heard from me. Life's events have been keeping me busy - but I promise to read you all over the holiday period and get back to you.

Wednesday, November 19, 2014

Unfound ~ Joey Frances

The last Great Auk in Britain
(Welsh pen gwyn, white head,
White Chief) now dead,
St Kilda eighteenforty
Three men caught a great garefowl
For its pretty little wings and bound it
Three days, then for nothing
Beat it to death – being a
Witch – with sticks
Because it had brought a storm.

Third of July eighteenfortyfour
Fled from the Geirfuglasker
Their Atlantis volcano sunk
Great Auk Rock, to Eldey, jut
Cut block up straight from sea,
Just off the Icelandic coast:
The very last Geirfugle
Laying one egg on bare rock
Ambushed as a collector’s specimen
To be quietly stuffed and stored,
But first erupts a comic violent chase
Her and mate strangled on a cliff edge
Their egg shattered by a seaman’s boot.

Extinct the name casually transmigrated
No bother no loss

(Which is why, if we are to save a species
We must abandon our superstitions
And our meat, be gentle, and eat cabbage
In the dark and die the empty deaths
We’ll die anyway,
No gods no witches)

Joey Frances has studied, written and read poetry in Cambridge and now Manchester, where he has just completed a modern literature MA. His poetry has previously appeared in the Generic Greeting Collective Zone #1, and Manchester No Spy Zone anthology. He is a member of the Generic Greeting Collective.

Midnight Conversation in a Bar ~ Donal Mahoney

The dapper young man tells
the homeless man one stool over,
After I get my law degree,
I’ll get an MBA and go to Wall Street
and make a million before I’m thirty.

And after that?
the homeless man asks,
sipping the longneck
the young man has bought him.

I’ll start a business,
says the young man,
and make another million
by the time I’m forty,
buy a nice house in the country,
then franchise the business
so my kids can earn
as much money as I will.
You want your kids to do well.
Otherwise, why have them?
They cost money.

And after that?
the homeless man asks,
almost finished with his beer.

I’ll retire and buy condos
in Paris and London,
go on safari to Africa,
buy gold against inflation.
Once I retire I want to have fun.

And after that?
the homeless man asks,
lighting another cigarette
the young man has given him.

I’ll die when I get old
unless they invent something
that stops death, maybe a drug.
I’ll arrange my funeral
in advance, some big church,
don’t care which one
as long as they have a choir
to keep the wife happy.
And I’ll hire a good lawyer
to handle the estate.
Don’t want Uncle Sam
getting rich off me.

And after that?
the homeless man asks,
looking for another drink.

Wednesday, October 29, 2014

This is What We Wonder ~ Seth Jani

When the moon raises its mast
Amongst the trees
They glow like bone-bright cages
In the night
And you stumble through the wood
Trying to pull one over
On the arresting wind.

The world is a prison perhaps,
Or maybe a pitying shelter
Built up to blind us
From the darkness overhead.

Either way we push the borders daily.
Always wondering if on the other side
We will uncover
Some marvelous secret
Or just the shambles after the show:
The goddess who revokes all I Love Yous,
The scenery dragged out
To a dumpster in the rain.

Seth Jani is the founder and editor of Seven CirclePress ( and his own work has been published widely in such journals as The Hobo Camp Review, Foundling Review, Eunoia Review, Phantom Kangaroo, The Buddhist Poetry Review and Gutter Eloquence. He currently resides in Seattle, WA.
More about him and his work can be found at

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

City of Ideas ~ Peter Taylor

You must be in your own right
a member of the city of ideas
                             C. P. Cavafy

Habits line a path where bonecage
drags idea to his death,
raw metaphor locked
in the mind's erratic crucible.

My selves enact a war:
the one animal, needing
restraint; the other escaping
the skin's excursion

into raw zones, suburbs
of a universal sanctuary,
the conscious hologram
of thought's flawless crystal.

The Glass Flowers at Harvard ~ Peter Taylor

Engorged with blood, the ravenous Eden

bends unabashed in timeless copulation,

seducing generations of dazed onlookers

smeared across the glass.

Pistil and stamen, the glazed gynoecia,

lie sheathed in a whorl of calyx

and corolla, their ecstasy exposed

in perfect Engler-Gilg classification.

Unsated, these, too, mock nature’s cathedral.

Fixed in the intimacy of exquisite,

breathless as to fool butterflies,

they are almost the illusion of touch itself.

First published by Pirene's Fountain 

Chicago Picasso ~ Peter Taylor

The two wing-like shapes that are her hair suggest with equal truth

the fragile wings of a butterfly or the powerful flight of an eagle,

while at the same time the rods that connect them to the profile

seem to contain the music of a guitar.                                    Sir Roland Penrose

One hundred and eight floors up

in the Sears Tower

you can see it all:                               

vertebrae of a city

hugging the lake front

like an exhausted animal,

steel wheat

rising from the plains of Illinois.

I think of Lincoln and fires.  

After two hours in the Loop,

the mind still wanders 

with the despair of a commuter,


coming down Dearborn there it is—

50 feet high, unreal at first,

icon, grotesque butterfly,

the bird in the horse in the woman,

162 ton offspring

of Picasso and US Steel,

weathering graffiti

with the patience of a saint

in the Richard J. Daley Plaza.

Across the street

a 39 foot Miró looks on,

its sensuous ceramic

nestled between

the First United Methodist Temple

and the Chicago-Tokyo Bank.

First published in StepAway Magazine

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

The Grand ~ Steven Waling


bust      we have the truth            gull sentinels
on every lamppost            we keep it in a bag

everyone needs to be touched            donkeys
with card readers on Blackpool                     by

morning                        grey sky settles blue            keep
calm and have a milkshake            walks

the inevitable hills            whenever you
walk through the door     a reservoir drowns

creamy stone and stream thru            the dead
arranged on comfortable sofas    village hall

the middle of life                    the message
is simple            I came upon a dark

why go on a cruise   just to play bingo
signs    CLEAN & TIDY              horse blankets

half my e-mails              ask me to sign petitions
worthy causes            a speciality            sometimes

I’m a sore thumb            wherever I go
and a somnolent line            of mobility scooters

CASH MACHINE INSIDE out            lettered rock
bedded down for the night            on ancient cabaret

some of my finest works


faded glamour edge of the cliff             he says
arrives from a feeling of profound            tumulus

whetting the appetite                        weather
does not come into it    eating sandwiches skeleton

of a man in his sixties   on the path      more
like it    a thermos of tea               strong and big

his worldly goods his             sadness of a moment
dagger his gravegoods his            passing

remarks                        global warming and the air
voice emergent with song            fresh orange juice

from the musicals            I’m always touched
hotel opened 1867 and was            by your presence

light      iron age                  steps everywhere
in our eyes obscurities                    holding hands

down to the sea                        on the walk or following
behind              twist            look up at the

cornices            well I suppose            herring gulls
lodged on their ledges            inventing something

that doesn’t exist     frontage shabby genteel
as the sea takes a bite                   climb the steps the

rules of abstraction


Spicer Flarf ~ Steven Waling

evil boy genius

my vocabulary

slowly become

a towering only

getter of Collected

Poetry of Jack

comments the older

of two sons listen

to the complete

perhaps object-

ionable now I

take pictures and

have opinions on

composition by

“dictation” most

of my friends like

words too well and

if you had a chance

to eliminate diff-

errant goals the

world’s largest

business notebook

in a list of his poems

I should credit the

same kind of hook

introducing his diiffi-

cult friend the night

custom reserves

from the spirit world

Bullet Point ~ Steven Waling

He used to work on the railways                       goods yard

Fascinated by language shape sound               heft

If you could have your life over                         no use

Crying over spilt bullet in the arm                     blood

Don’t know why he came to me                        tenor

After all this how one thought leads                 sax

To another in unstraight lines                            house junk

Everyone has to make a living                            alone

War he said was always a crime                        useless

Could have played in a dance band but             left arm

But you can’t go dwelling on fought                  jazz

I think he once said in the desert                      music

Nothing else he wanted but to play                  no wife

His long life’s improvised broken                      solo

Steven Waling is the author of several books, including Travelator (Salt), Captured Yes (KFS Press) and most recently, his book of internet updates, Hello GCHQ (Dept) which is being launched in November of this year.
He lives in Manchester.

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Blue Babies ~ Lucy Hilton

I see a generation of
Remixed geniuses
Weakened and dreaming
And seasick from unrelenting undulation,
Caught between destruction and distraction.
Conditioned by the screen and watched over by machines
of loving grace.
Connected but never seeing.
Never Being.
Swimming in dubious data pools,
Transmedia, transcending.
Their new age appetite
demanding instant enlightenment.
Too bored and blundering to boycott
The Ipad is their Clairvoyant
Demonstrating the presence of spirits in the room.
Notable charlatans.
Ringing bells, levitating objects, performing the rites of passage
Coming of age in the technological rocket ship
and moving freely through unutterable margins
Infiltrating the co-operations,
Sidestepping the protocol.
Power to the hijacker,
hacker, slacker,
Happy slapper.
The twinkle of his phantom eye
Stills behind their webcams.
No where is safe for the pilgrim.
He cant escape the omnipresent rhythm.
They must
Draw the line between truth seeking and obsession.
Answers lead to utopia or hysteria.
You have a choice
to live in
Permeable membranes, spindly fringes of the hive
Or reach the limits of what you can cognize.
Neil Armstrong is Alien backwards.
Space helmets are halos.
Over saturated and shattered by
Broken promises of salvation
The pool of inner peace,
Your true nature is a
Watery end.
The future is transcendence.

I love you from Holland to England ~ Lucy Hilton

Deep in a cathedral of spiny rhubarb
Stalks look like reptiles and birds.
Where stalagmites made of succulents,
Bloom around a primordial ooze.
Palm paradises are placed on leaves shaped like clawed dinosaur hands.
It’s all about scale.
Large stars through telescopes and tiny crystals resemble each other, and
that’s a scientific fact, not a belief. Moon craters are raindrops on sand.
Puddles of liquid onyx.
Azure screens are surfaces of dominions to different realities. Like tabs
opened up on Chrome. Browsers and house elves can enter with a click of the finger.
I sense a message coming through from the other side.
The radio is intercepting a spirit.
I swim between islands in the sky of
Ganges River Dolphin pink,
 wizard white,
 warmest blues,
 holy hues.
The printer spoke to me in handwritten letters,
there was an
Image cannot be framed.
How does it feel when you are experiencing the impossible?
Tangerine porpoise shaped bolted together
papery sliver.
Aluminium seals
floating on one push over aquarium tunnels,
morphing obscenely obese then stringy
in Escher’s orbs.
Transcending time zones and species boundary in the belly of a narwhal.
A fish with a womb.
Buy a ham and cheese melt and receive a free twix!
Why do planes make your armpits stink?
Unanswerable questions.
The Netherlands are watery lines and drowned worlds treading water.
The mouth of the Thames is a lizard of languish
lovingly lapped in snakey snails and shingles.
The moment of reunion with my mother is imminent.


Lucy is a 21 year old fine art student studying at the Royal Academy of Art in The Hague, Netherlands.

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

Angelus ~ Howie Good

I began this fall by watching a thin red squirrel it would be worth it to go ninety miles out of your way to see. So what shall we do about this angel, broken wing on the left? The smell of piss is what. When I woke up this morning I knew there was horror. It will always be invisible, it will. My friends, still of this world, follow me to the bottom of the river. Suddenly there are hundreds of fishermen on the road.

Every Everything ~ Howie Good

The needle goes in / never pausing to narrate / just like the 9-year-old at Joy Farm firing an Uzi / the pretty young maidens / eat a pear in the French manner / jamming a fork in the top / & cutting chunks from the sides / the ghostly traces of a past life / every day for three years / drawing new maps of hell / in the French manner  / intimately / with a scalpel / & he who says doesn’t know  / & she who knows doesn’t say / that once it goes in / the wolf in the heart never comes out

Bergasse 19 ~ Howie Good

The sexperts are bewildered as to what’s causing the rattle in the production line of happiness. Others say it’s Freud who established a great emporium, a sort of museum of human misery, with parents and broken dolls and old crumbling shadows arranged according to the laws of chance. By coincidence, you’re visiting a city that claims to be Kafka’s birthplace, his name, or something that at least looks like it, carved on the trees. As you act the tourist throughout the afternoon, De Kooning’s women, all pink flesh and piranha teeth, rear up around you, and ash borrowed from crematoria shapes itself into extravagant justifications of future suffering.

Bureaucratic Pathologies ~ Howie Good

Admittance requires your supervisor’s signature, the dust from another planet, dolphins that spout music, obscure, anxious errands (sticking stamps on letters you’ll never mail or spending the end of August at the Hotel Ozone), photos of naked women in strange positions, half your autobiography, a belief that the day is longer than the night, and that night is the machine that makes everything disappear – the Paris of Toulouse-Lautrec, manifestos, conceptions of space, regrets, the punk era, hat check girls, you.

La Petite Mort ~ Howie Good

There was a crimson hearse / ask anyone / & before we could cover our eyes / rubble had appeared everywhere / it isn’t just a theory / common household vapors / can actually get you high / what WebMD knows / how to heal a cut tongue / the toxicity of speech / can’t be taught / swish your mouth / with something intangible / we have liftoff /  our flesh inside & out / zebra-striped at so many feet per second

Wednesday, September 3, 2014

Footnotes ~ Sue Birchenough

1.  this pure Labour lineage  But far more influential was the power of commerce to deliver the free-market
gothic was architecture convinced it could influence.       It was infused      It became untethered        later it was adopted, for romantic reasons
when Victoria was on the throne, movements often arose

2.  there's a lot of it
I know more of some of it than you
you know more of some of it than me

3.                          paint brown trickling steam
                             runs into mosaic breaks ov
                             er time drops off in little pla
                             stic curls gunge compresse
                             d death from the softening
                             rigid silent long  ing to melt
                             on deep searching tongues

black gunge compressed death(sheet) mimics deathrings millimetres thin

(i) too numerous to mention bloody nuisance also

(ii) sloshing ecstacy of easy greed

4.   I can see you, DOOR !

Left Luggage ~ Sue Birchenough

future is
in my gut
                        stretch out
                                        out beyond
                                            I know
                                            an other
                                            some days
                                            far corner                                                 corner    right moment
                                                                 tongue’s tip on
                                                                        step by..........
                                                                      infront of
                                                                 broad shoulder

Sue Birchenough lives in Buxton, Derbyshire, and regularly attends workshops and readings in Manchester. She has poems in English PEN anthology 'Catechism', the Peter Barlow press anthology 'No Spy Zone', and the forthcoming Like This press anthology 'Austen, Bronte, Shakespeare'. She has a poem/object accepted for zimZalla. She was Highly Commended in 2014 Erbacce poetry competition. She has a sound poem accepted by Alan Halsey and Martin Archer for their antichoir Juxtavoices.

Thursday, August 14, 2014



We are glad to be able to accept new submissions from September 2014.

Thank you for your patience.

Available soon...

Tim Allen's Default Soul reviewed

Default Soul by Tim Allen

Steve Spence ponders Default Soul over at Rupert Loydell's wonderful Stride Magazine

Thursday, July 24, 2014

Gleams & Fractions ~ Colin Winborn

Excellent new limited edition chapbook now available on the Red Ceilings Press

Gleams & Fractions by Colin WinbornCan seeing be seen? Can the unseen? Colin Winborn’s poems and sequences tussle with these possibilities, these paradoxes until they appear to turn themselves inside out in front of us. This is a vantage-point: the resulting affective echo-chambers seem to see from - and to speak out of - writing itself. The very first line of this new chapbook asks ‘If you can find a language for this’. He does.” –
Rob Stanton

chapbook [rcp cb30], A6 60pp 30 copies
£8.00 inc. p&p (UK)

Friday, July 11, 2014

anyone for anymore ~ rufo quintavalle

Excellent new free ebook available on the Red Ceilings Press website

anyone for anymore by Rufo Quintavalle

Rufo Quintavalle
is a British poet based in Paris. He is the author of Weather Derivatives (Eyewear Publishing, 2014), moral hazard and the chemical sweats (corrupt press, 2013), Dog, cock, ape and viper (corrupt press, 2011), Liquiddity (Oystercatcher Press, 2011) and Make Nothing Happen (Oystercatcher Press, 2009). He was formerly the poetry editor for the webzine, Nthposition, and has served on the editorial board of the Paris-based literary journal, Upstairs at Duroc.

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

Submissions ~ Temporary break

Due to a larger than expected number of submissions over the past weeks and due to other pressing commitments (and a holiday) , I can no longer accept any new submissions for the blog, chapbooks or ebooks until August at the earliest. I will update the blog and website ( when the situation changes.

Thank you for your patience whilst I work my way through the current backlog and thank you for your interest in being published by the Red Ceilings.

Crabtree ~ Tom Jenks


Excellent new limited edition chapbook ~ Crabtree by Tom Jenks 

"Crabtree reads like a cross between Mercian Hymns and Viz, as if Barry MacSweeney’s Ranter has saddled up with Johnny Vegas for a night at the end of Blackpool Pier. Crabtree is a thumbnail guide to a very contemporary England: we never drive far through these umbrous hills before coming to a Travelodge. As the audience delights in the frolics, Jenks, Albion’s greatest surrealist, is found finetuning his metrical gifts : at least that was his excuse for taking longer in the shower. Through the humour of the sequence the shadiness of our times is revealed. I’ll carry mine as a pocket-sized Magna Carta to swat back the saturation of all extraneous data" – Chris McCabe 

chapbook [rcp cb29] A6 48pp 35 copies
£7.00 inc. p&p (UK)

Friday, May 30, 2014

Aquaviva Climb ~ Andrew Spacey

Creeping mists, an evolving pantheon
of Italian shadows that play and whisper
peak by peak, son by son. It hangs near
and far, inhalation steam of minds.

Hair is moist in visiting clouds, a smothering
shuts out trivia. We want to tickle these giants
the trembling ones, white and loose as whores.
They wait posing in blissful sunsets, potent

crusts pastel washed or smouldering as six nuns
ecstatic extras ghost past scrub beech
having kissed graffitid rock. I am a personal blur
to them despite Roccamagiore's beef tomatoes

bulging in pockets. Lift all curtains. Delicious
seascapes to the east but not today. No fine
tuned trees. The travertine is cracked, tumbling.
A falcon mopes timing his limits of flesh

and bone through meshes of fine grey.

Thursday, May 15, 2014

Chamber Klezmer Punk Folk Waltz in A Minor ~ Peter Cole Friedman

Don't fuck with that bullshit.
I'm the kind of allergy that doesn't care.
If it's a happy thing, just pluralize it.
Obviously this is an act.
Literally millions of skies are forming in my mouth.
Congeal makes it sound planned.
A small hummingbird weeping for everyone.
Birds can't cry in 3D.
For my birthday, give me my past.
Hall and Oates knew a thing or two
about hair product.
I'm not informationally sound.
I bleep myself constantly.
There was a forest
and we lied about it
with concrete. I have a jumbo feeling
that I'm on a menu and you're ordering
the number next to me.
You'd be surprised how many fossils you can buy
on eBay. I asked a girl if I could
get her a strawberry milkshake
and she said 'strawberries are yucky you lose.'
Ah, to be beside your own synecdoche.
There is no redemption
in this life.
That was a question.
Bending the rainbow:
an average task for Ridiculists.
I learned most of what I know from Harry Potter spells.
You're not wrong to ignore me.
In the center of the earth
there is a small gender-neutral ladybug
drinking picklebacks.
You need only look to find the answer
to the answer key. There are literally millions
of answer keys in my mouth.
I hate wide kissing.
A tessellation for your time.
A real ghost of a guy.
The utensils all looked like hands
so he ate them.
Cannibalism is a national treasure
in my heart.
Nothing is official.
I'm writing to you in a totally normal state.
I write the most avant garde shit
out of any of you persimmons.
I didn't know he was actually a persimmon. Tell him I'm sorry.
No that sounds impersonal.
Persimmon, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
If you cross me again, I'll eat you.
Have you read Li-Young Lee's poem where he uses you
as a metaphor for a vagina?
I am the most well misread person.
Keep the markups coming.
Wheelchair by Dior. Casket by Chanel.
Morgan Freeman is narrating something quotidian
and I have a life-affirming boner.
My ex-girlfriend is listening to Patsy Cline on Spotify.
What could be sadder to me.
Maybe it's not too late to make everyone fall in love with my flaws
I think in a problematic way.
I'm going to start stealing weapons
from action figures. Little empowerments.
I need to teach myself ESL.
Need vs. want is a false dichotomism.
A cloud for a cloud.
Give me one reason to stay here.
What about music, Tracy Chapman?
What about the late 90s?
I'm using you as a sounding board.
Let's let Li Young Lee use us both.
As we were.
A catalog, a list, a cluster of related categories, etc.
I only want a little bit.
I gave everyone in Vogue a mustache except you.
That was a love poem.
A pain in my side is revealing itself slowly
to be my love
for pain. I never got the whole
thorns & roses metaphor.
Big deal. Bleed.
No, believe me, as an unreliable narrator, I totally understand.
Literally kazillions of lollipops later
and I still taste your saliva.
We're all so gross.
How long does it take you to call the hotel home?
Before you take a picture of the moon
do you ask? Do you say, say cheese?
No wonder the gloom.
Rae Armantrout is giving a conference on arms and trouts.
I heard it's pretty silent.
Ugh, you probably already know everything.
The secret to getting your hands to stop smelling like garlic
is to let yourself chill for 3-4 weeks.
None of us have jobs.
Oprah demanded I leave this part in.
No, I don't remember that scene in Forgetting Sarah Marshall.
The neural pathways are already so narrow why
make your poetry dance even smaller?
Science is dead.
Science is a little pink balloon, anyway, so why should you care?
So, if it ends, it's meaningless?
I'm not following my autocorrects.
A worshiper of an oilspill of sunset.
A sunset revised as darkness.
Sunsets are good for the environment.
Go paperless.
Go ham.
Go home or go big.
Those are my favorite teams.
It's not opposite day.
The hotel is forgetting your name.
I'm a sucker for spitting.
A brief descent into the Montana of her heart
and then the long-awaited premature ejaculation:
a few pieces of confetti
floating with the brio of dinosaurs.
The past tense is so fucking strong.
I mean, Jesus.
In the light of that, I’m still deciding if I want to be
spared the technicolor.
FYI the treadmill is running away
making people exercise
like they had just been unparalyzed
for the first time.

Conspiracy Theory ~ Peter Cole Friedman

so much Jameson I'm practically ginger on the way
to excess in the backpages hey let's stop at the diner

talk about pretty things eat soup maybe Flight 370 disappeared
because I need a metaphor for you Paul and I listen

to Broadcast on his futon and choke on cookies and I don't know
about going to Brunnenburg this summer there will 

be people and then there won't and the whole thing
seems lame like an e-cigarette or pinball I want to 

start a dating website called somewhat-normal-not-flaky-
interesting-deeply-insecure-attractive-people-who- an obvious attempt to distract myself from
MFA debt too many theories about Beyoncé this mind of scissors

just wants to make beautiful origami a real swan for once in
gold lamé and skin and the beginning of spring can that be a thing, TMZ?


Peter Cole Friedman is a poet and artist based in New York City.
He is currently pursuing an MFA through the University of New Orleans.

Wednesday, May 7, 2014

from Endless / Nameless ~ Rachel Sills & Richard Barrett


Don't know if I’ve spelt that right
And I'm just not that bothered
I wondered "what's the quickest way there?"
For often I am permitted to return to a bookcase[1]
That joke about holes with the punch-line "jumper"
The cable-knit cardigan folded in two
On the floor that I step over daily
And the field that I cross on the way
To conclude “this thought is unuseful”
At the end of the day, at the end
Of the poem (in 3 lines time)
There'll mostly be a rollercoaster
Love versus friendship versus scared of causing hurt
Please do not stand up


Six miles of dazzling lights
I am sick
Of the tick, tick, tick of the track
Do not touch me
But do drop in for tea sometime
Airborne infections list
Or a la carte menu
My nose is bleeding
But my heart is intact
My heart is rotten
The ticking and the ticking, the ticking and the tocking
A stomach eating itself
And occasionally flipping
Side effects may include convulsions


I can smell your hair still
And trails of burning frankincense
Forming letters spelling
Salty tears
The Mancunian Way was where we sat down and
Wiped the crescents from our memories
Our out of focus faces (so close)
Fade to black
Davo asks : which way's north from here
And am I the shining light?
The reply: no, I am dim
And destined to be unseen
Til I’m over on Friday


Pangs of regret in the maisonette
And yearning. Mainly in the morning
By the Juliet balcony
I am a famous historical lover
With medals and certificates
And sadness on Saturday evenings
Which is something, for the weekend
Cheralyn: how are you doing?
And Brendon said to say "hi"
I spit in the sky it falls in my eye[2]
The way everything finally falls
Like us, down laughing, thinking of big organs
On Sunday mornings
In Northumberland

[1] after Robert Duncan...
[2] mark e smith, thanks