Category: Uncategorized
Too many people
Too many views
Too much Product
Too much to choose
Too few solutions
Too few clues
Too many conflicts
Too many tunes
Too much opinion
too much news
Too few answers
Too few truths
Too many schemers
Too many needy
Too much grasping
Too much greedy
Too few rising
Too few leaving
Too many reasons
Too Many meanings
Too much overload
TOO MUCH INFORMATION
Too few silences.
Brent.19/11/2018
I dunno why
I was driven
to come spit puke shit piss my soul
onto the tiny white fields of snow
pages seeking the movement above and below
microphonic bellow
with no sideline in the straight shit show
the insane circus
there you go
joined up joined in disjointed joinery
carping, carpentry maybe?
A young me Raven coated
crazy feathered
railing against the conformity
before the roar of my furious gleeful crew
ancient youths hell bent heavenly
Lunacy.
and it’s late
because the smog n smugness is thick
on the slaves as they masturbate and negate their fate
consummate consumers expert in gathering
clockwork clogged clots in the vein.
conformed and performed
the ritual of cooperation
again and again
as the money press
mamonumental case
ground on and crushed the rest.
I watched from my hiding place
useless
helpless
dissipating dispossessed
mysteriously designed for disinterest
in the progress of the projectionists
in a suicide belt and bullet proof vest
unwired to implode
under howl wake
I dunno why
I was driven to this bleak edge
watcher
voucher
witness of the witlessness
winter eyed
weeping at the wickedness
numbering the numbness
fearless furious
a figure of fun spurious
serial seriousness
menial meaninglessness
I dunno
I dunno
I dunno
why the gung ho tongue
the blunt blade
came
to
be
clamped there bloodied
in my mouthy teeth
I’d spit it out
and indeed
thought I had
but it wont leave me
it wont
it’s ingrown
and I can’t shake it
it’s an immortal pain
an endless fucking ache
sounds like a horn
for fucks sake
under Howl wake.
The day starts with pouncing practice as the new kitten ‘Scampy’ stalks my waking wiggling feet
under the duvet..nice to have helped the youth develop before you’ve even left the bed..er..
That’s the kind of sentence that can bring the thought police to the door.
The theme here is precious time.
It’s a heart attack theme
a washed up old fart theme
A quick step with the reaper is enough to remind us ‘this is it’
we better get on with it, be funnier, finish stuff, confess, I dunno.
I share my bands masterpiece (The Firedogs philistines better than Blurk)
‘Tick fucking tock innit’ again on Face bonk..no one says much only a thousand and fifty seven views.
Bastards.
Yesterdays unique and fabulous creations all went round the u bend with the other shit.
“How are you coping with things Mr. Jackson?”
asks doctor patronicus In the heart attack check up sketch.
“By drawing cartoons of myself in a blue onesy and claiming I’m one of the greatest artists ever on social media, I answer.
He stares a while in my poker face, still writing..
Eventually we both glance down wondering what he wrote.
I like the easy funny writers, the nearer comics ones..I’ve got nothing to prove by struggling through some convoluted doorstop of doom to impress my imaginary friend. fuck that.
Milligan, Vonnegut, Pratchett, Townsend and Hornby are the kings..funny clever and nearly as lazy as me..I’m a better cartoonist of course.
Just Saying.
Life is fucking sarcastically ironic really, Me and three talented mates pour a lifetimes experience and quite a lot of effort and skill into a musical opus (The firedogs LP philistines better than Oldplay)
and all we get is a five star Mirror review and eleven and a half sales.
I knock off an electro track with Asian female singing and sequencers throbbing semi automatically and before I know it I’m an award winning soundtrack bloke.
So it goes.
I find this scrawled on an envelope by the bed. The writing is a blind child version of my already partially sighted infant script.
“Now I’m slowing and shrinking I’m at odds with the rest of the universe, which is, they say, speeding up and inflating, or fucking showing off as I call it.
I’m super reluctant to live in this grotesque insane circus shit show they call consensual reality
I withhold my consent, preferring to live in Middle ear, or Risk world as they are nearly called.
If my parents had encouraged me properly I could have made Leonardo look like a shady chancer who doodled a bit, still, the pubs were open.
Did I mention I’m one of the greatest artists who ever lived?
The only way to end tyranny is to educate.
Countries and races are a sham..do the research..we’re all one literally..not a dewy eyed liberal dream but historical and biological fact..The flags the ‘cultures, the divisions that lead to wars’ are a childish embarrassment perpetuated by vested interest on the make..if you’re evolved and open minded you’ll go and look..then throw down your stupid phony allegiances and get on with returning to and living in paradise…
Stop being ignorant backward fear bots and look into the history, of India and the Phoenicians…
Stop making infantile excuses and believing pathetic lies.. .
Peel of your moronic labels and we can build the world our children deserve…
This is the paragraph I was born to form. I’m done now and can add no more.
Good luck & let love rule
I’m sat here with Brent Jackson and Andy Coupar.
The Firedog poetry in chief whose tongue they call the ‘Flawless blade’
and his long time musical collaborator called mainly ‘Coup’
Jacko is reading something over an earlier Firedogs jam…the overall effect being JCC and PIL mutating exile on main street…
Coup is layering in a guitar whine that’s almost certainly disturbing local pets equilibrium..
*mutters darkly*
“I got no shangri la to head for someday
Just notebook raving- nameless craving- and a sofa to crash on till Sunday.
The rebel rock curse in my bad blood runs black..
It pulled me from the factory farm and i’m never going back
I am the dirty road now you cannot folla
This is my fate now my slave holler
no more hollow competition that brainless game
This place is a circus for the insane..
*Howls like a dangerous lunatic making everyone jump*
6.26 AM.
Somewhere.
The aforementioned machine fires up outside the game begins again.
Andy Coupar a musical assassin and outsider goes to bed.
The dawn chorus laughs.
The Firedogs are recording their opus and Rebel Rock lives.
Johnny Someone.
They’ve been around. Seen a thing or two.
Chasing cars, as dogs do.
Gone briefly, but back again;
now renewed.
The old new black.
The old, now back.
Hallelu.
Lord knows what the bald one at the front is saying, but he yodels with conviction;
The bass is deliciously chunky and goes down smooth;
The guitar whines and screams and crackles
like the spawn of caged lightning and some cackling vixen;
and the drums, oh, the drums…
It’s all there mate. The real McCoy.
As good on stage as it is in the booth.
Thirty odd years in the making;
Grown near London town
but brewed elsewhere;
aged to perfection
in an oak cask
down by Brighton.
Fancy a drop?
Well, by all means,
so long as you savour the flavour
and aren’t easily frightened:
The back of the bottle recommends you drink the whole lot –
in through the ear-hole and prepare for a shock.
These ain’t your nan’s dogs.
Your old dogs.
Your sold dogs.
Your capitalist fat gods.
Dogs will be dogs – or no, not quite.
These are the Late Road –
Wait that’s not right…
These are The Firedogs
and be warned:
OMG The young are coming and they want social justice and fairness in society! Quick everyone refer to ‘The militant tendency and Mao and Stalin..and Sauron and Doctor Robotnic..FACE BACKWARDS AND POUR CYNICISM ON THEIR INNOCENT ENTHUSIASM FOR A JUST WORLD! SHIELDS UP RED ALERT…QUICK REMIND THEM ITS POINTLESS AS ALL HUMAN BEINGS ARE SELFISH SCUM WHO SECRETLY HATE EVERYONE…
Really the shit these balloon headed old guard apologist spout…painting Jeremy and all his followers as buffoons…to allay their panic regarding their privileged lifestyles…New popular socialism..driven by the young and similar to the Scandinavian model?
High tax for health and education and housing? Haha there you go…there’s the rub…If the young decide that level of self sacrifice is how decent people, tribal family people should behave, and that’s how you get a fairer society then the tax avoiding I’m alright Jack, Trump merchants (who obviously think the common tax payers an idiot)…can go live in the land of the free for all…if you agree please share..it’s important we see more of the elite cack themselves and spout more comedy dribble…keeps me amused children…Bullshit detectors to stun!
Can we find profound truths
Among the winged horse play
of our ancient ancestors
‘from whence we came?
is it worth the time and effort
What pray would we gain
from hacking through that thicket
from wrestling with their ways
insights that inform
illustrate,explain?
Take Hermes
Who is recorded as the messenger of the higher powers
and more,
“The translator of the god’s”
The interpreter of their otherwise unknowable will and words..
and more,
The patron of liars.
It’s ‘true’
Go check..
The gods are our leaders, heroes, Role models..
Hermes the media.
Whatever he tells us
we only have his word for
This proven king of liars.
Perhaps he invented it all
Stole it twisted from India
This proven king of liars.
Perhaps he brought the message
From bug eyed rapey Zeus himself
To Plato herself
“Exile the poets to where
They can cling to the edge
with leaves in their hair”
Thats right the father of our philosophy
Thought singers troublesome slaves
Enemies of ‘democracy’
Sympathetic to women
He was not mistaken..
Hermes told him about democracy
That proven king of liars
I sing
I don’t like the
city that doesn’t like me..
I’m banished
Home.
We have paddled here
in the shallows of the dawn
of our story
We have seen the liars and jailers
Who presume
to manipulate the innocent
In the name of freedom
They exile the resistance
Compelled by the father of our philosophy
His head shines
From all the songs that passed over it
and Hermes is confessing
His confession is lies.
Welcome to the perimeter you refugees
From the kingdom of liars
Here we sing.
we hide.
dogfiretribe.com
Brent, Peacehaven, 9/11/2016
We made money for faceless suits in The Late Road..it was deeply maddening..
We lost as usual, as so, so, many of my truly talented and ‘driven’ mates in this ‘biz’ have.
I do not include a single person in that who wants to be praised and overpaid, Bowie and Marley etc, the ‘titans’ are distant gods to them too..they are the real deal and will do the stuff they do and love whatever..
The world has changed and the marketing stultification consensus has crept out like a thin plastic film on all of us..from peace festivals and militant punk we moved to Utube ads and war-game soundtrack nervelessness..a loveless landscape where thumb twitching on the right beat is the replacement for the dance and singalong of youth…
You’ve all heard my views on the war games and blood films..The misogyny and objectification..the pornography of fame neurosis..
Well let me disavow you of the notion that i’m a miserable old nihilist repeating the same old ‘youth of today doomsayer dismissals..I’M FULL OF LOVE AND HOPE! ,..That’s right, I See the return of poetry, community, I attend wild anti-authority improvisations where no one present gives a flying fek about labels or competition hollow..
I see the independence of the unnameable creative impulse that cannot be quantified, tamed, marketed or controlled…I see the backlash where the indomitable human spirit gets out of the lonely game chair and runs again beneath the tree’s.New art new writing new films always and always compelled to chant down Babylon and proclaim the plastic emperors spiritually naked.
This is Moonset.
The firedogs ate the lunatics and it happened like this.
Brent Jackson Peacehaven Sep 2016.
