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Epithet

by Cassels

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1.
Coup 03:33
We form an army of waifs and strays Caught somewhere between the minimum and living wage Confidence and apathy + alcohol = ecstasy Whereas a particularly stirring speech on the inner-workings of agricultural policy From some sickly side-parting in Savile Row finery doesn’t really do it for me To be honest, I’d rather play Call of Duty or something Turn off the news and illegally stream The latest blockbuster hit can’t-miss-this television series I wish I’d paid more attention in History Because I’ve got the distinct feeling everything seems to be repeating itself And with this; the last back-breaking camel straw A slackened jaw and dead eyed stare We enter a new form of Huxleyean nightmare
2.
Let 04:05
The decision has come through to reduce our flag to white And replace the red and blue with a bulldog fucking a lion The Sun will rise when the printers come back off strike At which point I’ll race riots to the pub And try to drown myself In a £10 pint I feel I’m beset on all sides By old bigots who take pride In peddling Old racist lies Then there are those Too poor to afford rent Unable to climb a mounting mountain of debt Still living at home with their despairing parents Yet too bored Or lazy To bother And try And even Sit on the fence What choice do I have left? I’ll try my best to pen Some sort of epithet Britain; home of the ignorant, arrogant, and scared
3.
Are we the swaddled bombs that marked the start of your war? “It’s not your fault” That line is ages old So is disbelief and doubt The children always blame themselves Around half of the choir find no comfort in their hymns And can’t help but feel like liars begging mercy for their sins When their mothers and their fathers promised each other so many things All of which were meant to last As long as they both shall live Lock up your sons and daughters if they’re from broken homes They’ll only blame you for their faults but little do they know They were supposed to be solutions They were meant to rescue festered love So let this be a lesson Kids only fuck things up
4.
Every tweed-clad soul I despise and hate Crawled by in a procession of top-of-the-line Range Rovers with personalised number plates As the crops grow tall all ambition decays And is instead replaced by a rudderless rage Expounded each week Same time, same place By white faced racists Who crimson to pink After seeing red At the bottom of their tenth drink down The Kings Then it’s on to B&T That stands for ‘bitter and twisted’ I don’t think a better example of irony has ever existed Or perhaps of atrophy Time drags and sags off brittle bones in the country There’s no cartoonishly chipper ‘very big house’ in Chippy “You alright my duck?” says someone’s Nan to someone’s Godson’s Mum’s sister As the sound of the hunting horn – brought forth by some bloated, birth-defect, incest lips Is heard reverberating in the distance The pathetic sound stirs the withered genitalia of the pugnacious huntsmen Proof once and for all that slaughter is the most miraculous cure for chronic erectile dysfunction
5.
Unfiltered over-enthusiasm and frenzy Leads to spasms and contractions of hatred and envy Grimacing Wincing Alluding to pain or distaste Or irritation Or impatience Clearing throat Rattling larynx Firing off shots of disapproval like a mucal Gatling gun Looking haughtily down on the automated group performances Distorted through small appendix Instagram lenses And re-spewed as fun U-turn on utopia The old luxury Of having no itches and rashes in pockets is gone Sartorial affectations are airborne contagions Debasing all nations to meaningless configurations of memes Our culture is reaching And touching And groping And stroking Our offspring inappropriately They’ve grown up too quickly Let’s blame it on Nestle and Disney U-turn on utopia Darwin’s Law will be enforced once more; Survival of the selfish It’s no use They know your code They know your 1’s They know your 0’s
6.
A living, breathing photograph of the best parts of my life Her eyes are glazed and see a stranger Mine are pained as I look at my wife Our final hours are now broken up by weeks Designated visits strictly limited to 60 minutes Should leave things left unsaid Should leave things incomplete But without fail there is silence As she searches for memories I obsessively check the time And try to bury thoughts of her decline beneath Thoughts of the sepia good times And there are occasional glimpses of recognition But I’ve learnt to dismiss them As the well-oiled pistons of a driverless train Yeah her face occasionally flexes Into shapes so well practiced When her broken synapses Spark in the right way But it’s never quite the same…
7.
A broken figment Compound fracture Smile it off Laugh it off Stitched up psyche Sutured complex Bandages on foreheads All better now Lollipops Back to work Sympathy No No Wait Reality Awkward conversations over cups of tea Tentative smiles Potentially hostile animal let off leash Be careful Do nothing Don’t rile him up Don’t rile her up Back in next day with Kalashnikov Found under a train just outside Lowestoft Who knows what they’re capable of Who knows what they’re capable of Lock them up Reopen the asylums Shut the doors Padded walls Best place for them All the while the patient falls Spirals Declines Just stop being so fucking miserable all the time Cut It Out Lighten Up Simple As That
8.
Motor Skills 02:32
My incapabilities frustrate me I don’t know how to think At least not really properly Fucking send me to a shrink With a jet stare that burns through me Well I begin to panic At the thought of fucking up once more Give up And you’ve had it in for me anyway Well at least that’s how I see it Try to figure it out myself And you tell me just to leave it I’m a nuisance and a wreck And the sooner that I see that I just can’t do anything - I just can’t do a thing The better Just give up Just give up
9.
One of those days When your face feels like a papier-mâché Approximation of a face One of those days Where your head droops Weighed down Hanging off straining fibres and sinews Now every stuttering sentence you speak Seems to leave your chewed up cheeks Incomplete and… Thoughts are circuitous Repeat on an endless loop Thoughts are circuitous Repeat on an endless loop Thoughts Are Bleak And these are the times when writing things down Acts as some release for me But I know for most of you the same may not apply So while I’m usually suspicious of the pithy and crass The cheesy and officious I think it’s time for me to speak as plainly as I can At those times when I’ve been at my lowest Music and songs have kept me going So by all means cry There’s no need to be stoic But in the darkest of times I want you to know this: this song is for you This is the sound of my suspending my cynicism for just one second This is the sound of me inverting my self-indulgent introspection This song is for you

credits

released October 6, 2017

Recorded and mixed by Rocky O'Reilly at Start Together Studio, Belfast.
Mastered by Bob Cooper.
Released by Big Scary Monsters.
Trumpet on tracks 1 and 9 by Richard Crawford.
Flag designed and made by Hannah Richards.

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Cassels London, UK

A two piece band comprised of two brothers.

Music for misanthropes and malcontents.

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