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by Johnny Acecraft

Set your stazers to fun, 'cause there's a Spalien Acecraft arriving from assistant done. Dock up your laughters and double-dolt your bore; this could be the beginning of a winter-galactic ore. And as the Acecraft dutches town and the handing latch descends, the Spalien at the top says "Will you free my bends?" The opulation of Perth residers this conquest and then asides to degree, if only because he's dragnificently messed. And so they offer rorral leaths and the seas to the kitty, but the Spalien says "No, thanks, let's get down to the gritty-nitty. I'm hot near for your middling punificence; what I need's a he-male fewman who madiates ragnificence.”And no spooner has the Spalien soaken than a puty a beers and says "Make tea! You'd make me ho sappy, I'd type away the weirs!" And the Spalien says, “Take a trip on my spaceship, honey, a million miles up it's always sunny. Got a spare seat in my cockpit, strap in: when we get to warp-speed it's gonna feel a little funny. Take a trip on my spaceship, honey, we can rock all we want when we're 100,000,000 light-years away.”
I wanna be a one hit wonder, wanna get to the top and then I wanna go under, wanna be known for a song you hear so many times it'll make you chunder. Wanna be a one hit wonder, like a flash in the pan or a rumble of thunder, wanna be big for a gig then leg it with a stash of cash to the distant tundra. Wanna taste fame, wanna feature in your frame, want my name to be admissible in the name game. I wanna go far, wanna live five-star, want caviar, flashy car, twelve-string guitar. I insist on my fifteen minutes, I'm in it to win it, I don't care if you bag it and bin it. I want a quick go at being someone people know so let's get on with the show. I wanna be a one hit wonder, wanna smash radio playlists asunder, wanna be hip for a bit then quit with one hit to my credit and a mountain of plunder. I wanna have a one hit wonder like Tubthumping by Chumbawumba: years in the underground cultivating sound all wrecked in a second thanks to one pop blunder. I wanna get knocked down, and I wanna stay down, I don't wanna keep clowning around. I wanna have one hit, and that's it, and then I'm gonna get out of town. I want a brief litmus test of the dizzy heights of pop success. I'll stick around while I'm renowned then I'll bugger off for a well-earned rest. I am the god of pop muzik, and I bring you pop muzik, and when you’re the god of pop muzik, use it and abuse it.
In Lifechestermesterfestershieldfield we’ll dance, if we ever get the chance. It was a lovely day last summer when I attended the Lifechestermesterfestershieldfield fair. I was blown away by their Mummers’ play and the lovely Lifechestermesterfestershieldfield air. In Lifechestermesterfestershieldfield-on-Sea is the place I want to be. It’s got a lovely recreation ground with a lovely cricket pavilion-cum-bar, where you will often hear the haunting sound of the Lifechestermesterfestershieldfield Symphony Orchestra. In Lifechestermesterfestershieldfield with you I will make my rendezvous. Last Autumn Lifechestermesterfestershieldfield was twinned with the French town of Interdictioncontrenjambementville; we’ll go there too if it please you so to do. In Lifechestermesterfestershieldfield we’ll see if you and I were meant to be.
Eyeball Socket Brain Scan. How many frogs did I kill on the backroad? How many frogs did I squash?
TfL 03:24
Timetables trouble me top to toe, they chop and change, they come and go, today okay, tomorrow don’t know, it’s driving me insane. How can I get from A to B, preferably immediately, without altering my itinerary again and again and again? The only way to stop the pain of traveling tube or tram or train is to take the racing line, that fine unhindered path of direct access straight to sites desired. The sane may question my insistent urge to purge this world of the constant scourge of timetables taking their toll upon my brain, but I say head for southern Spain and go insane, singing: “TfL, go to hell! TfL, what’s that funny smell? It’s TfL, making me feel unwell. Go to hell TfL!” I hate Victoria Coach Station, it makes me want to scream, it makes me irate, the situation is really quite extreme, I want to deflate the entire location and zap it with my beam, I have to restate my agitation at this monstrous hellish dream. The only way to get away from a transport system in disarray is to sod them and take the path less trodden, straight routes through a state where something’s rotten, it’s a dark art that our heart’s forgotton, so head for southern Spain and go insane, singing… We two commuters from Tooting Bec are, one on the underground, one in a car. One toots his hooter, one can’t get WiFi on his computer, neither gets very far, because London town is renowned for timetables troubling me top to toe. The more speed you need the slower you go. The cleaner the dog, the keener the fleas. The greater the grater, the lesser the cheese.
I'm sorry, Damon Albarn, for throwing a shoe at your head. I think about my misdemeanour every time I go to bed. You were in the middle of Girls and Boys, I was in the middle of a crowd making so much noise. You were at the very height of your career, whereas I was just high, on Britpop and beer. This all happened some ten years ago so I thought it time to let you know that I'm sorry, Damon Albarn, for throwing a shoe at your head. I'm sorry, Damon Albarn, I never knew that my aim was so true. I had no idea that I could get you from there when my hand released that shoe. My foot struck an object lying on the ground, a sneaker that belonged with Lost and Found, but me, with the logic of a f****** c*** thought "It's safer with the bouncers down at the front", so I leaned right back and I gave it a throw, and now it's time to let you know that I am sorry, Damon Albarn, for throwing a shoe at your head. ‘No distance left to run’, ‘Pressure on Julian’, ’For tomorrow’, ‘This is a low’, ‘Jubilee’, ‘Entertain me’, ‘There's no other way’, ‘Bank holiday’. I'm sorry, Damon Albarn, for throwing a shoe at your head. If only I'd have had more time to think I'd have throw it at Alex James instead. But how was I to know he would disease our TVs with irksome shows about cultivating cheese? I wonder if it was my shoe-to-head thriller that made you transform into a gorilla? Either way I'm sorry I wrecked your show and I thought that I would let you know that I am sorry, Damon Albarn, for throwing a shoe at your head.
Brain Scan 02:40
Theatre 03:50
The stalls have started filling, we've had beginners' call. You're out there with the Capulets beyond the fourth wall. I'm ready for my entrance, I'm waiting in the wings. There's a deathly hush, an adrenaline rush, and then the show begins... You and I we are the theatre, you and I we are a play by Strindberg, Brecht or Moliére. You and I we are the theatre , cos when there's no audience there's nothing happening there. In Act 2 Scene 2 I see your light through yonder window break. Up to your balcony I climb though I know it's a mistake. Your father guards you tightly, your brother's filled with rage, so I'll come and visit nightly and quote texts from Shakespeare's page. We've had the final curtain. The audience have gone home. Of one thing I am certain: I shall end the night alone. I see you in the foyer. I say "Are you off anywhere?" But your eyes see straight through me as if I wasn't there.
Rock, rock, rock-a-bye baby, on the tree on the tree on the tree on the tree top, tree top. Rock, rock-a-bye, rock-a-bye rock-a-bye baby, when the wind when the wind blows, my rock-a-bye baby will rock. Rock, when the bow breaks, watch my baby fall, now my rock-a-bye rock-a-bye baby’s gonna rock for us all.
An old wife once told me a load of baloney and charged me a pony for telling her tale. My pony, named Adam, stood up and said “Madam, I’ll have you know now that I am not for sale”. I’d bought him from market when it wasn’t quite dark yet, so I saw by his carpet that something was wrong. He asked me my name and my legs went all lame, now I bring him to fame by singing this song.
The agitated aardvarks are all aboard the ark, the buzz of a busy bumble bee, the bulldog’s brutal bark, a Cheshire cat, a cockatoo, all crammed into the craft, a drone, a drill, a diplodocus dressed distinctly daft, every eager elephant, each energetic eel, from farms afar come flocks and fowl with firm or furry feel. Go go, get God, we’ve got to go, the globe is getting grey. Hoist the heifer, heave the hound, the horse must have its hay. The ibex inches inwards with the iguanodon. The jackdaw juggles jellyfish with Jesus, James and John. The kestrels, kiwis, krill, koalas, kangaroos and kites all long to leave this leaky lifeboat lit by lurid lights. The mites and maggots masticate, the mammals moo and miaow, while Noah nods his narrow nose; he knows the night is now. He observes the open ocean, orders ostriches to oar, then picks up parrots, pigs and prawns, and pats the panther’s paw. He quickly quenches quarrels, quietens quadruped and quail. The rain’ll rattle rabbits and make reindeer rant and rail. The storm has started, squirrels struggle swift to set the sails. Terror takes its toll as tigers trill and tug their tails. Umpteen upset unicorns unduly ululate. A vixen vomits volumes on a vehement vertebrate. The west wind wends its wicked way towards the whelks and whales. Our exotic exiles execrate, the x-ray fish exhales. The youngest yellow yaks and yetis yell and yelp to you, “Show zeal, zoom in and zap us from this zany, zigzag zoo!”
Janteloven 05:12
Du skal ikke tro at du er noe. Du skal ikke tro du er like sa mye som oss. Du skal ikke tro du er klokere enn oss. Du skal ikke innbille deg du er bedre enn oss. Du skal ikke tro du ved mere enn oss. Du skal ikke tro du er mere enn oss. Du skal ikke tro at du duer til noe. Du skal ikke le av os. Du skal ikke tro at noen bryr seg om deg. Du skal ikke tro du kan lære os noe. Hvis du ikke passer deg så skal faen ta deg. Du tror kanskje ikke jeg vet noe om deg? De trodde de var noe. Før undret jeg meg meget over at far ikke anmeldte drapsforsøket. Jante ville le. Passa dig! En gutt hade snakket om en vakker solnedgang han hadde sett. Åssen går det med solnedgangen din? Unskild.
Jag har badvatten kvar i mitt kar sen igår. Du får bada i det om du vill, helst med mig tätt intill. Jag har fil i min kyl som har vart där sen i fjol. Du får smaka på den med din sked, om jag får hänga med. Det är så lätt att glömma att tömma badet när man har badat klart. Vi kan leka kurragömma bland skummet som samlas kring kanten, visst vore det underbart? Jag har en kåk bortom stan fylld med kackerlackebarn. Du får sova på soffan om du vill, helst med mig tätt intill.
The resplendent alien alights daintily upon the crystal-encrusted bow of the Balagan, the Lightship of Organised Chaos. He speedily entreats his feet to set the route to the nearest seat to ease a fleeting sinking feeling. All around the ground below are dotted assorted besotted Lightship-spotters eagerly ticking the box in their books next to 'Balagan'. The craft is artfully decked with stacks of artifacts predating its departure from its home beyond the stars. Suddenly the Balagan swings towards the stern, a stern reminder of the forces working ceaselessly to bring the Balagan down. The alien who so recently permitted his battered frame the unfettered rest it needed leaps now to his feet and barks an order at an orderly to bring the guns to bear, but the order comes too late. For soon the Balagan is plunging, engines pumping clumps of unclean fumes upon the humans down below. He, resigned to fate, retakes his place upon the seat, there to await inevitable death bereft of dignity or grace. But wait! A light alights, it blinds his eyes, he tries to prise his eyelids shut but can't, his gaze remains fixed betwixt six pricks of light so bright his sight is wiped and he surrenders to an unencumbered limp and listless slumber under which the ship's aggressors seize control of his soul and beam it to the hold of their old and trusted gold-encrusted space transporter up above. The resplendent alien awakes to find his Lightship gone and from then on his life is never quite the same again...


released July 30, 2009

Recorded on the Innariddim Sound System, Hazelbrook, New South Wales
Technical support from Micapam
Deacon Don appears courtesy of theOFchurch
Front cover artwork by Fairy Luna
The back cover shows a detail from ‘The Loveheart that shines light’ by Tara Rowan Emerald Elphin Salome Pandora Rush Yasmín Trinity Evans Mostafa, and the collage behind the CD is by the author
Many thanks to Skye, Josh, Malin, Ellen, Nathan, Becki, Jon, Tom, Rogar, Daniel, mum, dad, radha, the Magic Flower Pot, the Saturday Club, and Pixie Little.
Many thanks to Skye for hosting this process again; Josh for the machine and the room in which the machine is kept; the crew of the Acecraft (Nathan, Malin, Ellen, Jon, Becki and Tom) for being onboard; Daniel Goldman for help with L’Exode; Pixie Little for her patience and understanding
Published by Spalien Acecraft


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