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John Cooper Clarke
John Cooper Clarke


Информация
Дата рождения 25 января 1949 г.
Место рождения Salford, England
Жанры
Годы 1977—н.в.



Альбом John Cooper Clarke


Disguise in Love (1978)
1978
1.
2.
Psycle Sluts 1 & 2
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
Salome Maloney
9.
10.
11.
. . .


Here he comes now....

The fast fingers, the expert eyes
And the same old 'how'd you do'
Disgust is just his dumb disguise
He wants a word with you

His problems are the end
His mouth needs exercise
The last thing I need is another friend
I don't want to be nice

I don't want to be nice
I think it's clever to swear
Better seek some sound advice
Better look elsewhere

Your face is an obvious case
You shouldn't put it about
This is neither the time nor place
To sort these matters out

What you see is what you get
You only live twice
A friend in need is a friend in debt
I don't want to be nice

No we never met before
I'm very happy to say
Far from perfect strangers
I'd like to keep it that way

I'm not your psychoanalyst
I'd rather talk to mice
You're so easy to resist
I don't want to be nice

I don't want to be nice
I think it's clever to swear
Better seek some sound advice
Better look elsewhere

Your face is an obvious case
You shouldn't put it about
This is neither the time nor place
To sort these matters out

What you see is what you get
You only live twice
A friend in need is a friend in debt
I don't want to be nice

. . .

Psycle Sluts 1 & 2

[Нет текста]

. . .


Two-tone stretch nylon yellow stripes on navy blue
I got a brand new track suit
I got the old one too
I got the old one too

I got a new track suit
I wear it every day
Keeps me cool and casual
I wore it yesterday

I got a new track suit
I wear it everywhere
Track me down to the training ground
Maybe I'll be there
Maybe I'll be there

Wearing my brand new track suit
Medicine ball to boot
Knee pads, an airline bag
And the overall smell of Brut
The overall smell of Brut

Expert eyes have scrutinized
And scientists agree
One track suit would suffice
But you're better off with three
You're better off with three

Two-tone stretch nylon yellow stripes on navy blue
I got a new track suit
I got the old one-two
I got the old one-two

. . .


I scream all the way to the chair
And in the face of tanks
Take the stairway to the stairs
And I scream thanks
Fake snakes and mock crocs
And killers cut my throat
That's me in the callbox
Stepping out of my coat
I found a reason for living
Everyday I die
I was a teenage werewolf
Or was I

Fall off trains
Torture dames
Just to keep in the swim
I get slain on memory lane
And the people say “oh it's him”
Easy money play hard to get
Those love toys to amuse
The non-doctors penthouse pets
Who drink champagne from shoes
Walk in rooms and outta rooms
That's my cup of tea
I seen the world I didn't like it
What's in it for me
Invisible girls go haywire
I'll be their go-go guy
I was a teenage werewolf
Or was I

Murder victims talk to me
Detectives come and go
Their dangling receivers
Tell me all I need to know
We only live once or do we
Take advice from Mickey Spillane
Me hood Nazi blood brother
Never give the right name
Those dead delicious nudes
They hang around the necks
Moving raincoat
By the sliding doors of discotheques
Where boys are boys girls are toys
Not programmed to reply
I was a teenage werewolf
Or was I

. . .


Make a date with the brassy brides of Britain
The altogether ruder readers' wives
Who put down their needles and their knitting
At the doorway to our dismal daily lives

The fablon top scenarios of passion
Nipples peep through holes in leatherette
They seem to be saying in their fashion
'I'm freezing Charlie - haven't ya finished yet?'

Cold flesh the colour of potatoes
In an Instamatic living room of sin
All the required apparatus
Too bad they couldn't fit her head in

In latex pyjamas with bananas going ape
Their identities are cunningly disguised
By a six-inch strip of insulation tape
Strategically stuck across their eyes

Wives from Inverness to inner London
Prettiness and pimples co-exist
Pictorially wife-swapping with someone
Who's happily married to his wrist

. . .


Expresso bongo snaps of rome
In the latin quarter of the ideal home
Fucks all day and sleeps alone
Just a tiger rug and a telephone
Says a post war glamour girl's never alone.

In the seventh heaven on the thirteenth floor
Sweethearts' counterparts kiss
Limbo dancers under the door
Where human dynamos piss
Adults only over her pubes
Debutantes they give her dubes
Beatniks visit with saxophones
And the way she eats her Toblerone
Says a post war glamour girl is never alone.

Mau mau lovers come and go
Dreamboats leave her behind
A baby-doll to go man go
On the slopes of the adult mind
A murder mystery walk-on part
A dead body or a gangland tart
Near the knuckle close to home
Criminal connections you can't condone
A non-doctor's anonymous drone
Says a post war glamour girl's never alone.

The section of the populace
They call the clientele
The moguls of metropolis
Defenestrate themselves
In the clothes of a rabbit
You develop a twitch
One of the little sisters of the rich
Amorous cameras clamour and click
Her rosary beads are really bones
Rebel rebel they bug your phone
The post war glamour girl's never alone.

Yes there's always a method actor hanging about
There goes Mr Tic-Tac out of the back
With some bric-a-brac from the knick-knack rack
The dumb waiter reminds you of home
And the nice boy from Sierra Seone
The action painter's got up and gone
Nevertheless it's never been known
For a post war glamour girl ever to be
What you would call
Irrevocably - alone.

. . .


The milky way she walks around
All feet firmly off the ground
Two worlds collide, two worlds collide
Here comes the future bride
Gimme a lift to the lunar base
I wanna marry a monster from outer space

I fell in love with an alien being
Whose skin was jelly - whose teeth were green
She had the big bug eyes and the death-ray glare
Feet like water wings - purple hair
I was over the moon - I asked her back to my place
Then I married the monster - from outer space

The days were numbered - the nights were spent
In a rent free furnished oxygen tent
When a cyborg chef served up moon beams
Done super rapid on a laser beam
I needed nutrition to keep up the pace
When I married the monster from outer space

We walked out - tentacle in hand
You could sense that the earthlings would not understand
They'd go.. nudge nudge ...when we got off the bus
Saying it's extra-terrestial - not like us
And it's bad enough with another race
But fuck me... a monster ...from outer space

In a cybernetic fit of rage
She pissed off to another age
She lives in 1999
With her new boyfriend - a blob of slime
Each time I see her translucent face
I remember the monster from outer space

. . .

Salome Maloney

[Нет текста]

. . .


Around the block - against the clock
Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock
Running out of breath - running out of socks
Rubber on the road... flippety flop
Non-skid agility... chop chop
No time to hang about
Work out health fanatic... work out!

The crack of dawn he's lifting weights
His tell-tale heart reverberates
He's high in polyunsaturates...
Low in polysaturates...
The Duke of Edinburgh's award awaits
It's a man's life
He's a health fanatic... so was his wife

A one-man war against decay
Enjoys himself the hard way
Allows himself a mars a day
How old am I - what do I weigh
Punch me there... does it hurt... no way
Running on the spot don't get too hot
He's a health fanatic, that's why not

Running through the traffic jam - taking in the lead
Hyperactivity keeps him out of bed
Deep down he'd like to kick it in the head
They'll regret it when they're dead
There's more to life than fun
He's a health fanatic - he's got to run

Beans greens and tangerines
And low cholestrol margarines
His limbs are loose, his teeth are clean
He's a high-octane fresh-air fiend
You've got to admit he's keen
What can you do but be impressed
He's a health fanatic... give it a rest

Shadow boxing - punch the wall
One-a-side football... what's the score... one-all
Could have been a copper... too small
Could have been a jockey... too tall
Knees up, knees up... head the ball
Nervous energy makes him tick
He's a health fanatic... he makes you sick

. . .


A copper's nark...
The cautious talk of a city under suspicion
A perfumed collision...
With the real meaning of a girl

Working in the dark... from the velvet shadows...
In the... black-wood of engines
YOU'RE in suspension...
In the best of all possible worlds

Furnished rooms...
In tune... with the frozen taste of money
A broken television
Flickers in the corner of one eye

A variety show
That goes below......the freezing point of numbers
To understand.....an episode
Of a dream that money can buy

When a necromancer's crucifix....
And fifty dead assistants...
A beer by a dried UP fountain
It's the festival of the spoons: whatever that is

TWO scrumpets dance with rainbow feathers...
On the lines of least resistance...
Into the middle distance...
Of a supermarket tune

Familiar ground....
He stops her breath with the sneak-thief kiss of a roscoe
Love letters from Moscow
Calling for the hard-ware of surprise
In a jealous town...

Where desperation...
Isn't worth the trouble
Meet your double....in an episode...
Of a dream that money can buy

Bye bye love
Say goodnight irene: to the magnetism of the MOMENT
The future fails to feature
Beyond the forcefields of their eyes

Decadant waves: Depraved Danger
Or a plaything of the rodents
Not quite the kind of creature
With whom they socialise

. . .


The windows are frigidaire icebergs
Frozen in prickly heat
The vanishing cream victims
Are drip-fed amnesia neat
Where the test card melodies warm you
In powder blue pseudo Bel Air
Germs and flies alarm you
They whisper the word expelair
The eyes of the night sub-zero
Peep through the windows of sleep
Everyone's husband is a hero
And ghost insurance men creep
Through the valley of the long-lost women
Dreaming under the driers
Eating and sleeping and slimming
According to what is required
They walk through three-colour brochures
Depicting palms on aqua-marine
In the half-built hotels out of focus
They're mending the vending machines
Where sixty Italian love songs
Are sung to a million guitars
They lick their frozen drinks on sticks
Among the men with important cigars
Numb to the digital numbers
None two three
Four five six
Lost in a far away rhumba
Where the oil-drums are beaten with sticks
She left her heart in Frisco
She left her room in a mess
She left her hat in the disco
She never left her address
The diving board springs to assistance
Throws you off from the shore
Telephones ring in the distance
There are lifts getting stuck between floors
A truck turns into a cul-de-sac
Springtime turns to ice
Rucksacks turn into hunchbacks
Musclemen turn into mice
In a painless panorama
With its perpendicular might
The women are going bananas
And disappearing from sight

...what do the girls say?

. . .


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