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?
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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.
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