1. |
Center Stage
02:42
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splintered nerves & cat calls that lead to the center stage; deodorized & pumped up, head of the cavalcade; the l.e.d.s are spelling out 'mr b bruizer, king of the ring'
so here we are, me and my sort of foe, two jacked actors and the referee ready to blow; stand up proponents of the right to entertain, and tickle the public with some scenes of athletic barbarity.
here it is, what you were all waiting for - the finely tensioned moments before the starting bell, the endless sea of signs saying barry 3:16, and the unity through mutual antipathy.
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2. |
On the Ropes
04:11
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throw it down next to the memories, the childhood fantasy that bore you along; you're losing ground somewhat purposefully, instructed by racketeers who say it's your final flourish tonight.. but the drama is running low in spite of your best attempt to be an angry man.
and the crowd is baying on several points, though mainly your apathy and lackluster optic-glaze; if there's one thing you can do to be infamous it's promotion of disbelief, suspension of their light relief.
he's pinning you down to the plain-woven composite and the mood is beginning to shift, though not in your favour; the count is bellowed allowed and mercilessly drawn out, all part of the sad brigade that you once had called your home. number 9 feels so empty, but it finally gives way to the eruption.
remember barry it's o.k. for people to disappear and relinquish their tired years; if there's one thing in this life worth fighting for it's your own damned happiness, you spiritual chrysalis.
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3. |
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cheers let rip, the punters waved their counterfeits, seeking a little scribble for their time; the spectacle ensnares, pork-pie hats throwing hands in the air spelling out victory with a pair of cleft fingers.
does this concern my sunshine.
it's creeping down the bleachers, and hiding in the hot-dogs, & waiting in the changing rooms for me; it's sponsored by the nations favourite brands, and it remonstrates my every attempt and carries me back kicking and screaming.
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4. |
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gimme a sip on that temperament, that hose pipe of irreverence - i'm channeling my everything through t.v. reruns and valium. i know the machine isn't everything, but jesus tom they said i'd win, i'd climb to the star and back again. slow-motion it offers a bitter pill and the concussion is starting to hurt like hell; the telephone is torn apart, those poly-fiends won't breach me now. i settle down and put you on, serve myself something to take off the edge, and if richard comes i'll blow him out - that creepy old ghost better know i don't mess around
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5. |
Driving to Obscurity
04:28
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poorly hung toilet door adorned with born to run, the stale smell of piss misplaced upon the floor; dry heave culminating in nothing much, but the weary welcome of dawn. two slack bags served up beneath the eyes, and a temper distended by thought; the somewhat nauseating scent of little chef's extractor fans greets you in parking lot.
back in the car engine's running and the radio's alive, the topic this morning is death - there's a lady on the line saying that if her husband had survived, she'd try her very best to let him know just how much he meant to her, and attempt to recompense all of their qualms. the d.j. demonstrates all his most sombre refrains, he says 'that's food for thought'
the creeping little limbs of light that are peeping up behind the hills as you pull out into the road, put your foot down and head towards home; tell yourself it's o.k., it's alright.
bleary eyed doing 40-45 mph, the sirens are calling ahead; blue lights flashing round and round as the the traffic keeps left, slowing to try and catch a glimpse.. the unimpeachable entertainment of a first class wreck, it's known all too well, and lapped up by the cross section with furtive respect - they can't wait to see you burn.
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6. |
Mr B Bruizer
03:52
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a walk in the park, the newly fledged apostate (after drinking his bodies weight) takes a little lie down; let them all stare from gated infirmaries, houses still ill at ease, in spite of the weather.
but who recalls the name of barry bruizer? the seething fighter who was one of history's losers
time to move on, the sentiment's getting sad, worn out and over-cast, it's dragging it's feet. and here they all are, the self-styled overlords, explaining his poor rapport and incapacity to maintain; their perfume clogs up his airways, reminds him of some better days and some worse ones as well. nothing matters now, not even the false reports, the interview that ended in court, and 6 months on hold.
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7. |
Boyo's Postscript
03:36
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no longer vivid, wrapped up in cellophane and debt - purchased a scratch card to try and get luck to give him a hand. the clerk rolled her eyes as he cursed the living day, foaming at the mouth with purpling temples, what a state.
..he will come around again i hope, but that night he kissed the curb twice and barely made it home alive at all.
steady exhaustion, smiles to try and cradle the days; the trundling onslaught, suspension of life outside the cage. 'mr bruizer, final notice i'm afraid - vacation is imminent, good luck finding a place to degrade'. the landlord closed his eyes as barry's patchwork began to fray; it caught upon the stairs and started unraveling as he went.
.. he won't come around again i fear: his life has been a tough one and barely able to accommodate him at all.
you should see them now lining the boulevard, screaming his accolades to the world; a selfish indulgence for his final moments upon this earth. the last drops of consciousness permeate nothingness, selfless abandonment, where it the hearse? the funeral procession is coming through clearly. eulogies thick and fast from people he never knew, the fractals are taking hold, well what can you do? please remember barry bruizer as he breached the unknown, into his final fight - the jest between life and death, the infinite precipice to which we all succumb, in the the end.
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