Snooze Button, Gruesome Features - Jam Baxter

Verse 1

He slept through it, bled fluids

Sank in it and swam to sea

Dreaming of his killer, sticking stings in his hands and feet

Sharpening the tangled teeth, twist them round his jaw liner

Skewered every organ, glued loosely to his warped spine

His self-seared griddled skin seems seamless

Never dazzled by their flashing LED Jesus

But the grainy jets of pressure spewing from a squeezed fetus

Sandblasted every sleepless second from the sea creatures

We, the undersigned, slumbered on the underside of HMS Slash-and-Burn

Sailing through the troubled sky

Face-up in some swamp as millions of jungle flies slide down our nails

Curling ever longer up the vines

Electric blue dagger sliced his head in two

And now he’s half asleep, and half ejected in a petting zoo

Losing count of countless hopping sheep that never let him through

Screaming, 'We'd be better off beheading you.'

Guess it’s true

Verse 2

I slept through it, let’s do it

Fill me in in four minutes

Spend the fifth spewing disbelief until my fourth Guinness

What do you mean, 'it's all finished'?

Fucking backstabbers

Which gang of youths slashed my hammock cut from bandannas?

Haphazard, hazy figure drifting in the warm brine

He left forty winking widows on the shoreline

I swore blind I never tasted evil as I stand covet

Then they saw the keys to Hell, gleaming in my back pocket

Ah, nothing

I’m above suspicion, was I dreaming, drunk, propping up the pub with double

vision?

'Till fate brought a pile of files plundered from a sunken prison

Every unforgiven act was cataloged and numbered in them

He said it with the kind of crumpled arrogance reserved for every squashed sack

of scum that runs the battlements

And that was it

Top board, chloroform, belly flop, trust

You’ll have found a bed of tenners when that penny drops

Verse 3

I slept through it, bet you it backfires later

Snoozing on the circle line, tapped by a stranger

'I think you missed your stop,' he said, pointing at the carbon dust

Trust me, I couldn’t yam the tramadol fast enough

Parking up the spy plane, puking on the dashboard

And cutting bits of ultra out the engine with a hacksaw

Is routine procedure when you’re scratching at the backdoor

To every nightmarish situation you could plan for

I think I saw it aura, start to end

Must have steamrolled my damn face across the stars again

I should have circled every murder merchant with a marker pen

So when they don a mask and start charging we can laugh at them

Oh well, next time

Just hold this tonne of filth

I’m still reeling off the cascades of multicoloured silks

Just the moldy-covered guilt for the twisted little glutton

I got a fist full of minutes when his finger hit the button

Sitting on the edge of it all, pressed to the wall

Marinating in some sick, sweet sauce evaporating

These patterns changing, faster than the ill-painted, ill-faces

Littered all upon them, watch him build cages

Tick, basic installation, lifetimes of information’s

Stored on the blemish of this illustration

Ripped invitations, littered in a little basement

'Please attend a crash course in fitting into his equation'

Televised mission statement

The red eye reduction can’t quell the dark crimson irises behind the sunken

sockets

Not a knife to cut them

Red hot, giant mushrooms, handshakes all round

High five, fine eruption, hide in London’s undercurrents

Love to love them, learn to leave them

One singular sun blushed, eternal season

Reeling into distant futures, fingers of forgotten ages

Prised off the shiny, newer models, confiscated

Fetch them at the end

Pixelated God’s telescopic lenses, sitting taking shots

The great grand electric killers never knock

Apart from when they’re sure you’ll let them in and let them cotch

Let them off

They’re all just naturalised, clandestine movements that tranquilise mutants

That sat inside, eulogise yourself

And if you’re speechless, it speaks for itself

Deleted in a scream and a squelch

I sit in a circle where I filed a thousand solaces

Cycle spinning on a ship

Once I was an honest kid, office in the sky, house inspectors from the suited

age

Who are they?

Answer’s on a postcard, but who can say?

Take these, two a day

Have a lolly, shutup

Of course you ate the pavement kid, you had a shoddy run-up

Drug up any wide-eyed, long of the tooth, crew of dreamers

Grin as the ballistic missiles shoot them through their gruesome features