Spinning Sarcophagi

By Archie McKay

I know a cat that acts like a sex therapist

But has never had sex

I've scraped the acquaintance of an individual

Who needs a Hungarian canon to break into the local music scene

See the idiots who believe themselves so outside

They are actually inside

Like antagonists in American coming-of-age movies

All jumping in the same car

To go to the same school

And the elite polish themselves to the tune 

Of roadside Instagram story piss-take

Read the magazine that boxes everything 

That drips drab and spits cool with blinders on

That covers up its waxed genitalia catching itself in its own nude dream

Here come the acts pronouncing "All the world's a stage and we its mere Spotify listeners"  

We are spell breakers

Spinning sarcophagi in Victorian front rooms

Playing the beat that is the tap tap tap of selfie doom

We are the weather outside

Flattening your hair

Anxiety thrown over castle walls straight from the pits

Astutely walking through beer adverts and changing backdrops

What are the odds you have seen us live?


Born in the now-defunct Hope Hospital in Salford with a birth cord tight around the neck, one he has been unraveling ever since. When not fronting The Young Shaven, he enjoys tying strings to plants, making up drag names, and long walks on the Bosphorus. Like any good citizen, he has interest in all forms of masturbation, except the written.