Left At The Luna Mansion

by Darren Francis

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it's friday night i'm still in suit i'm kicking a garage door i'm kicking drunk england pissing itself in its sleep kicking god in the din that shat me here kicking miss inkling for wanting a pint kicking cigarette as i light it
friend be man with the gun strut all you will i'm the one with the bullets
i cigarette flick tooth-nocked each star has a name for me future twitches sine stripped to nation point to field sown disappears back down on street where i pledged some time slept by day in sally's fleeting house
i rap on the bedroom door in my sleep feed the cat drink beer and write bad poetry wife coughs and says 'do i look like your girlfriend?'
buddha's mistake was talking about it he should have kept his epithany to himself as soon as you explain it to others it causes trouble same mistake christ made same mistake krishna made same mistake crowley made same mistake carroll made write it down it becomes what it isn't render it in words and it imprisons you
'my darling what did god tell you?' she says 'my darling where are my shoes?' she says and takes the back door back and spits out her gum and runs through traffic and bucks any car that threatens to run her over and i catch her up in a bar on charing cross road where 'my darling they found god's corpse' she says 'on a planet orbiting zeta reticuli astronomers saw it washed ashore' so we train-surf and goth-dodge play skittles on the strand and play straight in cxr where 'hey babe where did the mystery trend go?' i say 'hey babe it just did get over it' she hugs
when i'm sober i'm ashes when i'm drunk i'm raw when i'm straight i read when i'm done i write i'm an ass in the face of god pucker and faun at fret i fret i fret for mother england my body of work is seventy thousand ejaculations two dozen folders binding scrawl thirty three women i didn't fuck a crop circle habit fret i don't care for fret for misses for desk for cat for i don't fret for spiders have no addictions aside from alcohol and fecund wheat fields moon ink and kook goth minxes i work within those time-zones spiders spool and eat each other i map my mind a line at a time hustle buddha for spare change am in this for the long haul constellations work against upstart stars so eager magpie my eye my time then swipe my girlfriends
i drink because stars are dead because there are as many living stars step into my garden to smoke a cigarette to toast them in their failing but sky is dim and only hail not starlight beats my brain
the breath of god stinks of sweat meat stale beer spent semen wet soil stamen vagina friend quit reading your text the writ you seek is here
'my wife doesn't understand' says a drunk standing beside me at the bar 'does your wife understand?' he offers me a cigarette says 'it's a proper cigarette not like your fag roll-ups so what do you do?' i watch the bubbles in my beer glass think on the ten thousand things my ten thousand rooms my ten thousand ontological uses of the word 'fuck' 'to have and to hold' he says 'forget it, forget it; i tell her i tell her i tell her i tell her' buddha, mohammed, krishna, christ those guys made it simple sit in wild without distraction and god will stoke your third eye 'have a crisp' he says 'is it my round or yours? what was your name again? my wife's a bitch' i swill more beer say 'i must get going' have work tomorrow have a monday or a thursday a mortgaged cat to get back to 'you ever been married?' he says and slaps the bar 'you can cram an hour's worth of talking into one good smack in the mouth'
honey i've drunk the world to death honey there is no world now i've guzzled the fucking lot of it the stars are in my belly men order taxis but there are no taxis men throw fists because there are no taxis i'm sorry; i drank their taxis in trafalgar square we're hanging pavement i'm on my knees, say sorry babe; i drank your night bus this world; i drank the whole of it i drank your cat and i drank your lamp-post the kebab-shop that is your last stop
the orange carton you couldn't open the beer you could but didn't drink the wine bottle you pissed against my fence the poem you left on my doorstep the tom waits song you cannot name the arm you promised to cut but don't the cop that laughed as i picked you up the taxi driver who took us home who smiled because i didn't see the london on the nod
fucking is not the answer what are you talking about, boy? fucking is only answer fucking and death did you have a question?
copper sting of star to lips speak in tongue with which i sup linger am the lap of gods swallow chalice content
christine still strawberry me i pick your flower press my mouth never had your storm hand lips on mine lap finger you reel the world where matter mama revolution want cicada i won't hang your song on me pound rides shotgun eliot in the backseat i drive i'm driven miss your slide in soundless when you come soundless when you leave
this universe that creaks and stutters spits matter for no reason now i know why we are death why gods are prone to suicide you no need worry i've had words pushed it up against a wall showed its throat a blade cosmos backed down saw sense agreed and we made a deal nobody else has to die
as soon as i'm not an alcoholic as soon as each star don't have name for me as soon as i can piss out ten books a night in my sleep cut for my half-dozen reason miss nothing i've not told spade in one hand sheath of dead flowers in the other
i'm done with tonight aside from come my stranged wife asleep in the room next door my taste in porn not far from her make it so swab and be done with wish it her but it isn't wank about her when she's not looking honey are we divorced yet? honey where's the paper?


All tracks created between January and March 2016, and mixed in April and May 2016.

Text, voice, music: Darren Francis.

Guitar / piano / crowd ambience samples public domain/creative commons 0.

Drones, tones, everything else, Darren Francis.

All texts were written between 2007 and 2008. At the time I was living in Aylesbury, Buckinghamshire with my now ex-wife, drinking what I might charitably describe as "heroic" amounts of booze and wrestling with all manner of matters ontological and eschatological. I believe the term is 'functioning alcoholic'. Alcohol is definitely a theme here; alcohol, and quiet desperation in middle-age middle England.

Why the title? Aforementioned ex-wife made a custom mix CD which we'd frequently listen to during the period these texts were written, and which she named Left At The Luna Mansion. I've wanted to use it for an album for a long time. Much as I liked it, though, I never did ask her why or what it meant to her.


released October 31, 2016


all rights reserved



Darren Francis London, UK

Writer and musician. Alice Dee, All Things Left On Earth, Belong, Left At The Luna Mansion, Open The Dog, Uforia, Future Ghosts, Skin, God Thing, Spell, Logos.

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