God Thing

by Darren Francis

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about

I'm a writer and spoken word performer. God Thing is my first spoken word album. What do I write about? Love, sex, death, gods, nihil, all the best stuff.

I was born in London. I've done a great many things, most of which you don't want to know about. I currently live in leafy Bucks, writing and nurturing ontological escape plans. My work has been published in a number of anthologies and online journals, including Fissure, Skin, emthree, Technopagan, britpulp! (print) and Retort, Why Vandalism?, Pulp, Catalyzer, ken*again, Sick Among The Pure, Starving Arts and Poetic Inhalation (online). My book Spell was published in 2008. I also make music with the band Logos, who released their first album Gehenna Now in 2010.

Find out more about me and my work at my website -
www.darrenfrancis.co.uk

Find out more about my band Logos at logosnexus.bandcamp.com

You can download God Thing for free. Click 'lyrics' next to the track name to read the texts. The complete text can also be found in my book Spell, which is available at stores.lulu.com/darrenfrancis

credits

released February 7, 2011

Darren Francis: Words, voice, music, sounds etc.

Alessa Otto: Music, sounds, samples, various.

tags

license

all rights reserved

about

Darren Francis London, UK

Writer and musician. Belong, Left At The Luna Mansion, Open The Dog, Uforia, Future Ghosts, Skin, God Thing, Spell, Logos.

contact / help

Contact Darren Francis

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Track Name: W9GFO
Europa endless in the rear view mirror.

Europa endless in the rear view mirror.

Europa endless in the rear view mirror.

Europa endless in the rear view mirror.

This god thing.

I don't get it.

W9GFO.

W9GFO.

W9GFO.

W9GFO.

This god thing.

I don't get it.

Europa endless in the rear view mirror.

Europa endless in the rear view mirror.

Europa endless in the rear view mirror.

Europa endless in the rear view mirror.

This god thing.

I don't get it.
Track Name: Black Olives
I think on Sally or Sarah or Siobhan or Suzanne or other exes beginning with S. I miss them, what I've been and no longer am. I think on it then exit. It's time. Kindness and fascination, bodies and rooms frozen in movement. Scratches and dust.

History makes of us what we are. Clicks its fingers.

Sarah strokes the memory of my ash-fine hair. Still lazy, not sleeping or waking. A man dismembers himself via backpack bomb in the name of a god, kills a dozen names I'd never have heard if he'd not bothered and I'd not seen their thumb-nails in the newspaper. Suzanne holds her lover. They kiss. Gold zodiac on her wall and pentagram in her palm. She downs pints, picks guitar, fights her Catholic block.

Ruined temples in the jungle, the last refuge of gods no longer worshipped. Forget the idea that the dead out-number the living; dead gods out-rank living gods. A god only needs its to-die-for fans to lapse for it to be buried in sand or beneath ocean or covered by forest floor.

I drink in a Bloomsbury bar. I dabble with the cosmos. The lie of it isn't my problem. I watch the news and enjoy the fireworks. Babylon, what have you become? Desert gods dream on becoming city gods. I light a cigarette, draw its essence into me. No mood to move, no soul to shine. No fishes on my line. London is lines of light; going everywhere, nowhere. Wounded galaxies tap at my window. Brazil is my favourite lovesong.

Sally showers, talks in haiku, hallucinates her fat in the mirror. Switches channels. Waits for the world to move again. I finish my drink and I close my book. It's always later than you think it is.

Dying for god doesn't make you special. It just makes you dead.

Siobhan sips wine, California dreaming, listens to digital songs that were analog when her parents conceived her.

There is no war on terror. You know that. No more a war on terror than a war on soil or drugs or forest or air or god or ocean. There is no war on terror. It's a semantic spook. Lop off a head and five heads sprout from the wound.
Track Name: Fissure King
What have I?

What have I?

Become.

What have I?

Work has crippled you. What happened to you? You used to be beautiful. You could have been anything. Golden and ghost boy, where are you? Fool; you lived that life as if it were real. I don't recognise you any more. I don't recognise myself any more. Day by day has eradicated you. I love you. I want you here now. Somebody kill you.

Jesus is that the hour? I have to get. Iron a shirt, shit and shave and shower. Work tomorrow. Hair. Ceiling. Ceramic. Water. I never thought time could be so unkind. I smoke a one more cigarette. Have to job tomorrow.

Job.

Job.

Tap tap.

Polish.

Job.

Job.

You could have been anything. Enough to base a movie on. You were sun and born to be adored. You were other for delight of other. Love and pitch and did not know. You walked every corridor I could walk. Carved names in your arm to know them. Opened doors I'd now blasé. Turn handle or turn away.

What have I?

What have I?

What have I?

I list where I will. My focus else-rapt. I walk a very straight line.

My desk is mine. Is nice bloke but dispensable. Swanky suit. Died or left for dream.

He's done.

Stick the fork in him.

I wake up with blood in my mouth. Drowned in my most phlegmatic of dawns. The dawns that say goodnight and not good morning.

I take up my cross.

I chew my nails.

I walk my hill.

I am profoundly meaningless.

Bird in my hand.

Old.

Bladed.

Bush it.

The body beside me is less than a photograph. I tick off. Make real by repetition. Have risk assessments instead of reactions. Drink in order to sleep. So tired. The sky is first sea, then green, then whiled.

There was a hole here. It's gone now.

In leafy Bucks I stand at my fence and beat my fence. Piss on plant and soil and I remember what matter. Insects fuck on the back of my gate. I'm Miss World and somebody kill me.

Dead sun where are you? I dance the ghost for you. The cutter spins. The hunchback and the soldier. I'm taut inside tomorrow. Night falls and I need the noise.
Track Name: God, Love, Money & Other Snares
Wreckage of Earth. Finite resources. All territories described then denied.

I move out from zero point. America my lovesong. This colony we squander and call a kingdom. I need to find me some pleasure. London was made for me. I count biosurvival tokens. Love is everywhere and alcohol is good. In a coffee bar men hold napkins to their mouths. Align cups to saucers. Starbucked. I reach for my beer, feel city blossom in my veins.

I walk London's chartered pavements. On sunny Goodge Street I fold myself in. Don't need my wings tonight. Pass restaurants chromed and domed where a month of my salary is an evening's fodder and water. I like these streets. Everything is for sale. All things turned into portents. What do you want? How many can I get you? How much can you afford? Streets of cheer where the naked sell skin for clothes, the dumb sell brain for magazine, where the starving sell throat for food. I can't get songs out from my head. Star Wars has crashed my sex life.

Addictions. I need more addictions.

I watch TV and listen to the Elder of the Tribe. The President appears before his subjects to announce a season of revelries. Give them bread and circuses. Wrestling and Coca Cola. They want to launch to Mars in tin cans. Next outpost of the empire. Planet of War nomenclature has declared Mars silent sixth in the axis of evil; its nascent life being bacterial has deemed it a chemical weapon.

Every square foot of earth is billboard space.

You patent my cells, my proteins, my genes, my code, my information. You patent me. You kill my air, my trees, my water, my animals, to grant you swifter transit from point to point. You pension off galaxies, flog starlight, privatise deserts, steal my grass and steal my breath. Stamp copyright on what is mine by birth in order to sell it back to me.

You have soiled all in your scramble for the gold of the gods. My path lies with the beasts.

You expect me to weep for you?

These they are your children, coming at you with knives.
Track Name: Will I Dream
Dr Chandra? Will I dream?

I cut my arm with a slide of glass. Fancy Trace because she's not my girlfriend. We stand beneath an amber moon and kiss. I give her tomorrow. Admire my blood, see it glisten to the sluice of the street. Out there. Somewhere. I love the tangle of her hair. I rend her glass and make stars. My cheek on her mirror. My day and my day. I like her flat. A fondness for books and for felines goes a long way. I kiss her skin, stoke her list of wishes. Press her flower and we skit the sky.

I bleed until I don't care for the detail of my bleeding.

Stand alone in her room and the world is me.

By night this feeling will never end.

By dawn I don't know who I am.

I tell you I love you. I fuck you with context. Know that we will bore and kill each other two years from now. There's no such thing as time. You know that. Of course you know that. We will fuck each other over, pull each other into our own place in space and in time. We hurt but say nothing. And it means. And it doesn't. You know that. Of course you know that.

Doctor, what is up with me? Hydrogen and stupidity. I watch a low red moon.

Donald adjusts his tie as the door swings. Spit-combs his hair and swabs a shaving-nick from his chin.

'We got him,' he says.

In a Karbala street the bodies are wrapped in plastic neck to scalp, throat-slit and laid out under sun.

An American pilot banks over the Persian Gulf. Deposits his payload, pines for wife and baby doll in Baltimore. The voices of the drowned sing on the wind.

I slide out, over San Fernando sprawl.

Ruth weeps, misses her husband on the golf course. Her cigarette smoke makes the shape of Africa in the air. She stubs, tends her herb garden.

Bobby sells a kidney to feed his family. Bobby cuts off an arm to feed his family. Bobby steps into an oven to feed his family.

At a radio telescope in the desert Ellie sits with headphones and listens for patterns in the chaos. Spark in the cage of her ribs. Exploded god in her neurons.

John rides Highway 1. Dawn wind wrinkles and slides. John finds a store to stock up on shotgun shells. I am here, or there, or elsewhere.

We send a message to distant stars. The reply comes back; 'fuck off and leave us alone.'

I lie half-awake and rejoice in the hands. I sleep until morning is done. Drink from the fountain in your courtyard. Everybody has a plan. Mine confers no uniqueness. Beneath the skin we are blood and mess, but above the skin we are beautiful.

I'm beneath the northern cross. Stars making pictures in my brain. Their light is spectral, is intelligent, is alive. Telling me where I came from.

Will I dream? Will I dream? Will I dream? Will I dream? When it's over will I dream?
Track Name: Scarecrow
Give it a name.

Call it War On.

I down a luke-cold coffee republic. Rest my ear against a prayer. Feel my heart being touched by Christ then sue for assault.

I move out, in search of ancient astronomies. Sunni Triangle irrigated, made a golf-course for bloated Americans and their allies. Bloated Americans and their allies need golf-courses.

Mama get this badge the fuck away from me.

Flag, get thee behind me.

Stickland. Bone and sand. Supplication of a dead man's hand. No light. No water. Birth-right. Bomb everything. Sort it after. Kill it. President Gas hurl a third of the sea. Four corners and sunrise. It doesn't matter if you make new enemies; they give you tomorrow's targets. Foreign bodies. Their corpses so pretty in their deadness.

I have always been here.

God is an undertaker. He only has relevance at the moment of death. Christ and his handmaiden the Christian. Who wants a saviour that comes on an ass in humility?

I crack a beer, some friends over, watch the day's beheadings. TV news shows the trailer, all gore excised, mild comic violence and family-appropriate language. For the main feature I go online.

America, your empire is dead.

Don't talk for me.

You are not my voice.

You are not my word.

You are not my name.

I cross a razor upon a bowl. Angle my face in a mirror. Count my teeth.

Blink out. One world. One sky. Reach for notebook and drop a mass of papers. Ten year novels, Somme notes, undated rants, shopping lists, crop circle work-plans. Vic. Mutable. Inkling. Zila Dell. DF. Legal sec. I switch so quickly from persona to persona. I become my own hallucinations. I rage until the light dies, but everything will be alright tonight.

God told me to do it. My invisible higher being could have your invisible higher being any day. Let's take this outside and settle it like gentlemen. Let's take this into that darkness, that black New York where she said destroy.

How much revenge is enough? How many corpses before you're sated in your math?

We are monsters of habit. Each find a way of being, find resonance and ratio that approximates us, make a place to be and don't venture far. Step out sometimes and call it revolution, swiftly tail back to what we know. Call it god, call it rebellion, call it love, call it cashed in, call it disbelieving, call it.

Call it. Call it. Call it.

It will coffin you.

Islam is not the enemy. Terror is not the enemy. Non-Caucasian nations in places you can't finger on a map are not the enemy.

Your enemy is mine. Is Furies that gnash. Is snakes in hair. Your enemy is soil and ocean and air. I know humility and I indict you. My side is pacifism and wild. I come bearing child and broken bird and cornmeal. Our weapons are intelligence and discernment and love of living.

I flick a stray cigarette, accidentally burn down the world. Will epithanise for as long as it takes.

There is no difficulty in this world, beyond what mind makes.

Give it a name.
Track Name: The Hills Are Alive
Stars there. I close my eyes. Head is love and filled with. I exit a while. Information doubles.

I close my eyes. Stars still there when I open them. I walk the world's curve. Gotta go trampin'. Gotta make identity. Invent the land as I wander it. Make earth the heaven it is before it is gone.

The light is wild. The night is wild. The trees are alive the grass is alive the hills are alive with the sound of nature fucking itself.

Little lamb, who made thee?

Little lamb, who made thee?

Dost thou know who made thee?

Little lamb, I'll tell thee.

I close my eyes. Angels clip their wings for me. I stare at petal, stare at the fabric of. Gods squat on cloud, scribble mathematical theorem. Fecund pays them no attention.

This squeezed-in world, fabled but insignificant. See the wiring under the boards. See the brilliance of matter happening. See the implicit other. An awe glimpsed in my most Blakean moments. I'd rather pass through the eye of a needle than get into heaven.

I close my eyes. It's 3am. Let me love. Let me laugh. My room is alone. On the mountain looking down. Let me out of here. I stand in my garden, piss on wayward grass, dedicate my urine to Ceres and to Pan and to the Moon that lights this.

In the face of nature, God is ghost. Everything fornicates all of the time. See all things as Buddhas. Hear all sounds as mantra. Behold all places as Nirvana.

I stand still and the universe orbits me. See as much religion in bowing to bush as god.

I close my eyes. Human is impossible to eradicate. ReJoyce. Everything I am is accumulated. Soul-seeded; fuck them all. London a rush of digital light. Laughter is friend to Satori. I will wing myself and make my Brazil; over Madrid, Frankfurt, Carthage, San Francisco, make them my space. Will freebird out of here.

It's easy. We are all gutted, but some of us are looting the stars.

I close my eyes.

I know who I am.

I'm digging in dirt. Leaves at sunset. Laughing cats. Ladder of splendid light.

I don't have the cure for me. Voice the call of vultures. Angels fuck on the back of my gate. Heaven up here.

Shadows of trees on trees. Galaxies collide because they can. Stars explode to expend their spunk. I know who I am.

Insurgents fuck on the back of my gate. There are many truths but none of them are true. I'm pissing and summoning gods. I wrestle a sick old wolf for love of life.
Track Name: Hollowed Be Thy Meme
I mass. I mass. Tethered to the seven of things. Nothing without my accessories. Hello? This matter of matter. Is there no mean round this by now? It's not what I bought into. Not what parents promised.

I'm in surf and dancing barefoot. I'm laughing. I won't be here long.

I'm lost, Fi said and I loved her for it. I wanted her like kangaroo. Took colours in her mind and let her see. Soft Fi so khol in her leather and tattoo and lace, her lack German and ill-rhymed poetry. She and me against the world. My time is more significant than her beauty.

What leaves?

I'll fade and be replaced. A hundred years from now everybody you know will be dead, and the world will be populated by another bunch of idiots, who will - at best - be curious at what idiots we were. They'll mass and lament and forgive but it won't hold them back.

People are very good at killing things. It's shitting to mark territory. It's what we do. Turf stamped with map-lines and monkey turd.

Get over it. Fight coffin-worms. All life is heaven up here but not for long.

There are no other arguments. Please refer all queries to point a.

Nothing you can tell me circumnavigates this.

Give it ago. In here, nothing but the good things.

Point?

No.

Point?

No point.

Point?

People? Power? Power? People? It's elementary. No debate required. People is manifestly preferable to ghost.

I'm in surf and dancing. I'm laughing. Wizards landed. Groovy people. Jump in. The water's warm. At the still point, there the dance is.

Is that sufficient data?

Can I go now?

Can I get on now?

Whose round is it?

One, two, three, four.