Image 1

(all photos of Ouija performance by Mark Jordan)


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U04sl2XuH6Q4 May 2012 – 17 min – Uploaded by Moongoosetheband
MOONGOOSE & JEFF YOUNG – ‘DON’T PLAY!  La MongooseBand – Chimbo by JavibiGuitar302 views 

1)    The mid watches of the night are the darkest hour

The metal of blood on the tongue and the wild wind mind

My pillow beats with the secret clocks of the heart

And the lullaby murmur of loss as the hours unwind

Where did you go and why are you not here?

Why can I hear your voice in the night machines?

My murmured name, your whisper in my ear

Your frightened face in the shade of broken dreams

I rise and walk to the river where we once played

The promenade still echoes with your bright song

A diamond kite and a thermos flask of lemonade

Are waiting in the past where we both belong

The sky is morning mouthed, it doesn’t rain it bleeds

The river is low and the oil refinery glows

Why do the ghosts of our loves deny our needs

Why aren’t they waiting where the River Mersey flows…


   2)  Printers ink on dad’s rough hands

He wanders through the warehouse

Pile after pile of comic books make a maze

He is amazed.     images-15

A thousand, thousand Eagle’s – Dan Dare

And Digby on a mission to Mars,

My dad fingering the comics as if saying goodbye

Before they were set on fire.

And then, in the night the incinerator

Spitting flames and smuts of ash

As the comics perished in the fire

My dad’s sadness weighing down his shoulders

As he sat in the parlour telling us

He’d only managed to save one comic.

He had it in his hands – the first ever Eagle

With the spaceship Anastasia in the centrefold

We read it at supper time; I sat on dad’s knee

If a grown man could cry then he would cry at this

And somewhere on Mercury, Dan Dare

Was watching over us, watching us through the flames.

Image 10


3) An Uncle with sawdust in his turn ups

Dancing to Glenn Miller 78’s on Boxing Day.

My mother was smoking a Woodbine

I’d never seen her smoke, it made her fade away.

‘Pennsylvania 65000!’ They all shouted

It was 1960 and we wished like mad for snow

A tin train set went round in circles

Its clockwork key spinning ‘til it died.

Norman blew cigar smoke into my toy car –

Donald Campbell’s Bluebird, blue as dad’s eyes

It was a roll back the carpets party

Feet tap tapping on linoleum, fat men jiving.

Where did it go that smoky day, 1960?

I can never get it back hard as I try

It was nothing special, just smoke and uncles

And my mum singing a sweet As Time Goes By



4) Bombsite demons are crawling through rubble

It’s the morning after bonfire night, smoke rises

I saw the devil collecting rocket shells and dead sparklers

He huddled in his overcoat, fire in his eyes

A boy had a saucepan full of baby mice

Pink, naked, writhing, helpless as they whirled

Around and around in the wall of death saucepan

As he hurled them into the burning void of the world

We picked them up – fat shrimpy corpses

And threw them into the embers of fading fires

The air thick with the stench of gunpowder and ashes

And the dirty, tarry stink of burning tyres

At school we swapped the casements of dead fireworks

In the playground sang the lyrics of the song

‘Light up the sky with Standard Fireworks…’

The pyromaniac joys of being young.



5)  Sugar mixed with boiling water makes it stick to the skin

And burn and sting your flesh so much you scream

Night horses ride like wild fire through my bed at night

Burning horses, burning houses, burning dreams

Elsie Barmaid hovers at my bedroom window ledge

She’s draped in funeral rags, she calls men to her bed

I can hear her witchy finger tapping at the glass

Her laughter echo, echo, echoes through my head

I’m too young to know she’s fucking punters from the pub saloon

She has them down the alley for a quid

She sucks their living daylights out beneath the moon

Then tells the whisky priest the dirty stuff she did

I lie awake at night each night, I’m six years old

The chimney birds are trapped, dawn brings their death

And dad gives me dead sparrows that I gently hold

As if willing them the gift of one more breath



6)  The gypsy fairground on the wasteland is a wonderland

The generator humming like heavens engine

You can almost hear the shimmering stars that light my dreams

Cat’s cradle constellations suspended over my ecstatic reveries

We cast magic spells in the drains and rain clogged gutters

Twisty fetishes made from lolly pop sticks and wire

I was scared of scarecrows, epileptics and lunatics

And the drunkards drunk on whisky and desire

The beauty, danger, wonder of this world where girls

Untouchable float through the night, perfumed and pale

I almost touched the skin of a yellow haired beauty

And I kissed the night cool air within her shadow


The man tied in chains by the landing stage

Sweats in his dirty vest, drips brown ale on his fat gut

He’s a Scouse Houdini, the smell of the devil about him

Oil and spit quiff and a fag in his yellow teeth

Old Man River leans and gobs into the Mersey mud

The river is black with oil and filth and shit

I am a child astronomer looking for shooting stars

In the dirt and myth of Liverpool’s mournful heaven



7)  Kendo Nagasaki sits smoking on the wasteland

His mask is peeled back on his head like a balaclava

The ugliness of his wrestler’s body showing through his leotard

Sweat stained, too close to the Gods to sign my programme

I hallucinate a vision of shooting stars tonight

As dad and I are walking home with bags of chips

Nothing is said as usual; his blue ice eyes strike fear in me

A man never loved his son so much but he makes me shakeImage 12

The vision of stars falls across the city, such beauty

It takes my winter breath away, I almost swoon

The terrible shadows of fear and confusion

As Gods carving knife cuts slices off the moon


Image 3

8)  How many deaths in the same iron bed can a mattress take?

Upstairs is stacked to the rafters with old peoples bones

The wardrobes and dressing tables are cluttered with dead fingers

Grandma’s hip and pelvis bones bundled in like cutlery

The dead’s bones are stored carelessly in the back bedrooms

Of derelict houses in Grey Rock Street

They make their presence known to frightened children

Percussing like piano keys in newspaper lined drawers.



   9)   Billy Fury’s brother was at the car auction

His platinum hair and golden skin shining in headlights

At home we put Billy on the record player,

I even said his real name – Ronald Wycherley – like a spell

And mum sang the words to Wondrous Place softly

‘I found a world full of charm

A magic place in my baby’s arms…’

And it was the most beautiful teatime in the world

At night beneath the blankets I listened

To the roar of the crowd at Goodison Park

Rolling over the rooftops like a cloud of men’s voices

Like weather and angels all mixed up in the night



10)  On Goodison Road on match day the police horse falls

I can see the lather of its sweat and its fear filled eyes

The crowd move towards it as its legs give way

Grim fascination pulling them towards this animal’s death.

And then the dark blood pumps out of the horse’s mouth

Thick slicks of treacle blood gushing out of its guts

It takes the rider down with it; his uniform smeared with blood

Horses blood stinks. It stinks. It fucking stinks.

And then it thrashes itself into silence and stillness

And the lake of dark blood stains the cobble stones

A haemorrhaging horse watched by a five year old boy

Too stunned to cry, still clutching his rosette.



11)  The Russian cosmonaut Pavel Popovich

Was orbiting Earth ‘To extend the domain

In which human reason reigns over the elements.’

Laika and Yuri Gagarin were in my scrapbook

And space hung over the streets of Liverpool

Like a glittering science fiction comic

The twinkling stars and planets dot dashing secret signals

And the Sea of Tranquillity beckoning me to heaven



12) It’s a heartbeat in the pillow kind of darkness

Where the daylight pours into the mouth of night

We are children, slipping into the under river

Looking for the engine room of starlight.

This is where the old men said the stars are made

Beneath the rolling tides of waters brown

This is where the constellations are lantern lit

Before they’re hung to illuminate the town

The Magic Furnace navvies hammer out the sparks

In the pandaemonium of fumes and fire

The old men drive in silence deep into the darkness

Their eyes alight with longing and desire

We are looking for the light ahead, we hold our breath

In case through river stone the waters seep

Grandfather’s hands point out the shadow shapes of death

And the ghosts of sailors wives who never sleep

This is the horror my grandfather filled our dreams with

Our seaside holidays were stained with fear

We’d dream the dreadful ocean rolling over us

As the dreaded long drive home was drawing near

Then again into the claustrophobic bible night

We’d sink beneath the river, hold our breath

My sister and I looking for the mouth of night

In the under river, star blind home of death.


  13) The water up above our heads

Was full of dying eels and sunken boats,

And drowning men weighed down with rocks

In the pockets of their overcoats.

We closed our eyes and held our breath,

Our eyelids glimmered, fish flashed, bright,

A few minutes of nearly death

Beneath the river night.

A memory gloom of Billy Fury,

Marvel comics, measles and lost shoes.

The caravans of May, cold sea,

I Spy – mum in the front whispering clues…

Through darkness and through mystery,

The salt and blood of Old Man River’s veins.

The years are floating out to sea

The ultramarine remembering remains…

In imaginary submarines we sail

In secret through the closed eye seas.

The tunnel ever echoing

With forty years of fading memories.



14)  Dad talked about when he was a boy during the war

The thrill of shrapnel gathering in the debris

Climbing through the skylight and lying flat on the rooftop

Watching the Luftwaffe bombing the Liverpool docks

After his accident I could hear his lungs inside him

Like broken machines winding down in the warehouse of his bones

I pressed my ear against his ribs and listened to him rattling

His skin was damp, oozing a hospital smell through his pores

A man’s blue eyes can begin to fade until they look like ice

His pupils were like smears of printing ink, smudged

Seeping into his retinas where he could still see himself

Falling in slow motion down a chimney shaft, death calling him home.


Image 6

15)  There’s a bowl of fruit on the table

Even when no one’s ill

A clock on the stairs full of insects

Out of nursery rhymes

The hole in the old man’s skull

Is as big as a ship ha’penny

I press my thumb into

Its warm hollow, feel his dreams

A blind man walking with his white stick

Folded in his pocket

Pouring boiling water

Into paving stone cracks

Out swarm armies of ants

A writhing snake of insects

Sidewinding across

The pavement to their death



16)  So we sail in pedal boats over the murky water

Frith Beach 1965 and there are babies rocking in the depths

Anchored in tangles of fishing line and kite strings

I look into the gloomy deep and see small hands

A tin half full of water floating tilt on salt and scum

Is a scrap of doomed spaceship, a signal from heaven

That cosmonauts are in trouble beyond Andromeda

I scoop it up and look for messages inside in Russian scrawl

Intoxicated by great disasters beyond the distant stars

I gaze into blue space, lying on my back afloat and yearning

For something to remember for as long as I live

Unaware that this old tin can will be in my thoughts forever


Image 13 Image 9

17)   The blind skeletons of burned houses, frail, falling

Mad vagrants poking sticks into braziers on the waste

Parlours where old ladies sat clicking their teeth and needles

Now heaven bound in the flames of this dead city

I walk through the ash pits of Everton and Anfield

The smell of ale, tobacco, peppermint from ghost factories

On the soot dark air where blind men’s sticks once tapped

And Guinness was mulled with pokers in hearth embers

Death is here, death and devils all around, eyeless and tormented

Stalking small kids in grey uniforms skiving off school

To run riot in the bombed out cavities of death terrace

Where catch a girl kiss a girl and skipping songs still ring

What happened to all the uncles and grandfathers who walked here?

Death came and got them one by one and made

Them into nothing, not even holiday snapshots, not even their voices

They are nothing, they are gone forever, everyone is gone.



18)  The dog ate party balloons

And skated across the frozen boating lake

I dreamed of balloons bursting in his belly

And of drowning howls beneath row boating lovers

A man threw his overcoat onto the pavement

And trampled on the pigeons trapped beneath

Pigeon bellies popping beneath his boots

Spitting chewing gum and phlegm

In the cemetery we rolled down the hill

By the war memorial, gathering feathers

And oak leaves and placing them

In the hands of stone angels

I stuck my thumb into a hundred graves

And planted acorns in each one.

Out of the hearts of old ladies called Mabel and Ida

A forest of oak trees is still growing. Listen…


Image 11

19) The dawn is phlegm and sulphur

The cutlery drawer of kitchen knives

In his head, blood stained

Stench of mildew, moth dust

Fate tapping at the window

Laughing at cheap opera

First thought, bad teeth, the usual

Catalogue unravelling through

His skull, metal, tannin, spittle

Hellhound Gospel on his pillow

Muttered prayer at daybreak

Let it be over.



  20) Three women on the bus like screaming popes in curlers

Mutter myths of dogs and horses and lottery tickets lost

Their teeth are in the bellies of a swill of drunken sailors

Who they fucked half to death down an alley full of ghosts

Crow bag ladies claw their way to Co-Op queue fronts

Runts in shopping trolley’s lifting shoplifter shit

The soot black city is bending at the river

Like an old hag coughing her guts into the gutter

Blind man with electric blanket underneath his overcoat

Plugged into the cigarette lighter of his Vauxhall Victor

Rattling breath like a fucked convector heater

Going through the mill and the mangle like a strangled dog

Pulling worms from his pockets he throws them at his feet

And dances a lunatic ballet, leg bones stripped of meat

Home from the bingo his lover holds his heart

Tight, tight to what’s left of a life torn apart

And this is this city and these are the men and women

Who scramble their dreams in mangled folklore

Hewn from the cobble stones and dust of poverty

Eyeless and glad of it in the ruins of old gin palaces.

The furious inferno of this place, these lives, this Liverpool

Exorcism, frenzy, wild eyed hymns to a dead god

In cold winter daybreak we traipse through our hangovers

Watching the cracked hulks of oil tankers sink in the mud


Image 2

  21) Baptisms of fire have scalded their skin

The boys walk the streets; they’re too scared to sleep

Foghorns like ghost wolves calling to them

Invisible demons crawling from the deep

The boys bite their tongues with black gums

With dirty hands they rub their rheumy eyes

They cradle their wounds like babies

And walk like ghosts beneath the bloodshot skies

They pass the Hanging Man house

Too scared of suicide to linger

The dead man at the window

Drinking sour milk with his fingers


Don’t look in the window

Don’t put your foot in the door

Don’t mention the mess on the carpet

And don’t mention the war


Once they have passed the ruins

They utter the pagan curse

They think it keeps them safe and sound

From the widow in the hearse


  22) In a shack out there by the landfill

Scavengers burn plastic off wire

The toxic PVC melts and floats

In the bin bag burning fire

The fridges door is swinging

Someone has been here

The grandma is too old and frail

To care about her fear

She takes her hands to pieces

Makes a book mark of her bones

Inside the family bible

Then she fills her mouth with stones

The ghost of her dead lover

Watches as she sinks beneath

The cold bath tub of water

And submits to tears of grief




  23) We pull potatoes out of the earth and eat

The scarecrows dance across the muddy waste

The lunatics approach in search of meat

They’ve smelled the smell and now they want the taste

The mental hospital is dark as night

A Ghormenghast we glimpse through woven hands

Our hearts embrace the dying of the light

We dance across these wild, demented lands

Our ancestors are rising from the mud

We howl like dogs, our suppers have gone cold

We have the wolverine within our ritual blood

We are so young and yet we are so old

The cobwebbed kingdom of the aerodrome

Is crumbling beneath our naked feet

We swear we’ll live like this and not go home

We pull potatoes from the earth and eat.



  24) Bodies are found after tip offs here

The hinterland where people bury porn

Landfill, power stations, pylons, canals

Old warehouses and bonfires of truck tyres

And this is where the brothers wait

Biding their time, terrified of their own flesh

Beneath their tattered Oxfam suits

Their bodies torment them, their ingredients

These half men are made of dog meat

And nail clippings, offal thieved from abattoirs

The fallen hair of the demented

Death dust from sheltered accommodation

We are five year old carpetbaggers

Carving up pieces of the full moon

And dragging it to the scrapyard

Smoking Woodbines and pulling our own teeth

Igniting dragonflies with burning corn

Our mouths full of flying saucers and cough mixture

We shelter in the shadows of dark Arkham

In shoplifter overcoats and urchin shoes

And when we meet the Golem Brothers

They are rocking in their chairs

They sing like mad Appalachians

Cobwebbed mouths uttering curses

The night horses ride across the rooftops

Their houses are on fire

And blind with cataracts and grief

The old men sing of their desire

And these men are the Golem

We get the Golem we deserve

In brown paper packages tied up with string

Beat hearts of pigs welded to limbs of dolls


  25) Their teeth are ground with glass, the lullabies are broken

The mouths that sing the nursery rhyme are tainted with neat gin

A dark forest encroaches and the tangle trees are choking

The primroses of innocence with wild weeds of sin

Oh the devil came at bedtime and he tucked me in a quilt

And he bundled up my childhood in a cat filled sack

In the night canal the drowning kittens scratch at my skin

And the Golem Brothers watch as the world turns black…



  26) In his attic bed my granddad transforms

Into the city that he loved so much

His wrinkled skin blisters and ruptures

Strange houses, high rises, office blocks burst

Through his pores, crippling him with pain

A dual carriage way ripples down his spine

And he is screaming, City that I grew up in,

City where I played as a child; It rips him to pieces

And the wires inside him tug at a heart turning

To concrete. He spasms, pulling rubble from his sockets,

And throws it to the ground with electrocuted fingers

He is bursting through the rooftop, he is Liverpool’s death.


  27) The death-bird in his open mouth

Rattling in the cage of his bones

I press my ear to his mouths cave

And hear the birds of hell in his throat

The craw craw craw of death

His fingers locked inside my hand

We make a pagan prayer of skin on skin

His knuckles are a string of beads

A rosary to bind myself to him

The craw craw craw of death

As if his final words were nailed

Into the blood and blister of his tongue

I pray for his last breath each night

I pray to fucking God that we were young


28)  Salt clogging up his skin, the river in

The whites of his eyes, dirt foamed, haunted

Marauding into the harbour crannies

The maze of shipping containers, blind labyrinth

The wild bliss of holy martyrdom and madness

Bewilderment at the terrible loss of things forgotten

Scratching at his nitty hair as if to claw a memory

Out of the dark recesses of bitter dreams

He hallucinates a vision of ruby whores

And drunk Jesus staggering down the dock road

When the moon is nailed to midnight

Spitting whisky, spitting regrets, spitting nostalgia

And for what? What did he do with the years

What did he do with the pissed away chances

And why is the gutter so familiar, so much

A part of the badly lit blind alley of memory

Fuck the lot of them, no wait, remember now

The child he was is looking at him, staring

Out of the acid glare of a headlight, smiling

Give it a stab, a last one, a fist of it. Please…

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s