IP-121

unreleased and lost album from a couple truly amazing cats.

Josef Motley and the lost & found sound
'Orange'

i'm starting to feel sick.

writing is kind of like hook, line & sinker.
a big chorus ad infinitum: "he can't cope with first person"
the revolving bookcase in the library with a lead pipe
dredged up from the village refuse dump the hamlet tip
walking home from the local pub across a motorway
and a road unimaginatively entitled "the street"

turnabout
turnabout
let me off this merry-go-round

i'm spending christmas on the internet in a dirty dressing gown...

i'm ultimately unnessecary
it's just as well i can't fight for beans
or else i would be a nightmare.
it's just as well i can't fight for beans
or else i could be considered some kind of bottom of the stairs monster.
it's just as well i can't fight for beans
or else i could be viewed as some kind of two dimensional character.
like a begbie justifying your outbursts with your own insecurity
you know this will only wash for so long...
you have to stop this oneupmanship or revenge will eat you alive from the inside
take a deep breath... count to ten...
ha fucking as if you would think twice before resigning from your job?

you can stick your fucking job...

stretched cruciform taut
skin brimful of pus
across a second hand locker with a vague cave painting scratched on
a schematic diagram of my last chemistry set (TM) - with a little trademark sign behind it
i made a moth from mixed up toiletries when i wanted to be a mad scientist
it's antenna poking out entwined from empty skull like eyesockets
from washing up liquid bottles, sticky backed plastic & PVA glue
i fashioned a fully functioning fembot for fun -
"for fucks sake"
madness looms like some oversized weaving device that helped me dye a whole field of sheep green
are these voices in my head...
or just my thoughts talking aloud?

"i'm sorry, is my friend the meathook still with Amy?"

30-31/7/06

14:20 I shot an apple off a dog's head... it all went Willian Tell thankfully rather than S.Burroughs.
14:24 Paikes displays continueing worrying inclination towards carry on films / american high school rom-coms
18:29 stretching of shrinking stomach rubbed up against twisted spine
forced retreat to lie straight-backed in this sweltering heat
18:32 splinter fingered splintered fingers in makeshift splint split fingernails on nail sticking out from splintered wood
19:21 notes on & under doors: subsidising or subsiding - ???
pangs. roof of mouth. possible ulcer.
??:?? back to neck. ha.

music drove me to repeat prescription request
that mackly gets left, yes, in the chemist for ten days
them and my second supply went their seperate ways
she cares for her carer
staring at walls in invariable citalopram & largactyl melee
staring up at blank ceiling
what do you expect to see there?
a pteradactyl beating back leathery wings
or the statue of liberty surrounded by packets of chewits
as some bitten godzilla rip-off stomps by
it's grin hillocks, skyscrapered, toothsome & gaping
making nusiance in cardboard box city
built from claymation animator's patience, sweat & grit teeth
that's what i used to see when i stared at the ceiling
before i spied a screen and it switched on expelling dry ice
and a head burst through cracking plaster
like perfect imprint of face in sand bunker
and thus the incursion of the monsters began.
i became gradually afraid to gaze at ceiling
and later began having the strangest dreams
about gravity failing for nobody else but me
and i'd float away like a helium balloon released from grip of hand
the people around me grabbed for my ankles dangling like the string
but they always missed and i slipped away
into imagined opened mouth in high ceilinged hall
or falling backwards upside-down into empty blue sky....

(i also used to stand on my head, imagining the ceiling to be the floor in some surreal house which i would then dream about.
in one dream i was wandering this house and i came across the attic door visible from my old bedroom on the wall as if a cupboard door.
suddenly first person vision zoomed out and i woke up lying in bed, staring at the attic door - circa '87)

everything was going fine
"we were so healthilly levelled-up"
and didn't expect to encounter a western-only version boss
that dealt 9,999 damage to my entire party in one hit?!

low on ammo and a herb just a distant memory
searching this mansion fruitlessly for a crank
one ink ribbon left.. typewriter in the next room... unexpected cut scene - shit!

not realising you could jump off one side of space station
and be sucked into the gravitational pull of a sun
was so intense whilst hallucinating you never wanted to do it again.
respawn respawn frag frag...

no sands of time left to rewind
so you gulp, take a deep breath
before trying to leap a bottomless pit
(sides lined with spikes)
but you messed it up again and....

you bumped into an apparently innocous item
in an old spectrum game
e.g. a light fixture
and...

life as a point & click game
a.k.a. graphic adventure
walkthrough:
left click
right click
double click
right click
and then...

selling videogames for food
and scoring drugs on MSN:

that's me - i am the man who speaks fast about nothing in a mutilated mask
that we bought by the dozen and clearly ripped off that one famous clouddead tour anyway.

do we any of us have one original idea in there somewhere?
nah, everything has already been said by other people, and better.

again check my pencil case, reminds me of my friend's back
or go on my webpage and yeah whatever.

the obvious influence is there to see
like the media and yeah yeah yeah whatever.

these sentences are too obvious to finish.

i laugh when people say that we're somehow original
when we're a collection of all our favourite bitemarks.

the girl behind the counter at threshers wordlessly colour co-ordinates my clippers
to whatever ripped rocked ragged shirt and shellsuit bottoms that i'm wearing at the time
shades various like my eyes change colour colourblind & sunburnt for the first time
in dry strip of mediterranean skin
which for once has its advantages
but i'm working on a studio tan
for these halfwit nits & disgruntled peasants
like myself all scraping resin like it's treasure
treated with total reverence
influence of... what?
influence of effluents
this is not effortless by any means
since my early teens i was a dim constellation
but if it's any consolation
the view was dizzying.

"MORI-BUNDLE!"
cried Buju at the two-for-one coffin deal in the window display of the co-op funeral directors
(also sells sandwiches)
I'm thinking how do you go about getting a job in a morgue anyway?
breathe through your mouth forcibilly?
and join the dead body squad
as they gather maggots from the kitchen fallen through rotten floorboard to the storeroom below?
the bluebottles are breeding
our binbags are seething
with their newborn writhing
around in our burnt toast
remnants of sunday roast
and something like soup
but not quite
and i think that this goop
was once glom not gloopy
maybe guacamole?

glass eyes & pulled muscle & broken latch
crossing fingers & toes never works in real life.

it's all workplace / workspace / workmates / work late
hate work / workdays / i'm calling in sick.

i haven't slept for four days
i think the honeymoon phase
of my medication has past its final stage.

trying to resist the urge to sell my six-track in my dad's old clothes
dirty washing by the road
i resigned from my family to spend more time with my job.

one foot in the shade
kicking the discarded porn outside frensham court
whilst the babysitter hits my baby sister over the head with a wooden spoon.

the police talk in handsigns lined up & down fratton road
when i was knee-high to a...
green cars were unlucky.

bed's become hell
legs twitch & convulse fitfully
nightime's become another chore that i do not look forward to.

A & E I.O.U

too tired to sit up / too tired to think
still my legs twitch
i am motion sick.

a downcast figure
like a ragged scarecrow
that's been brutally attacked by birds of prey
balding man with a ponytail.
what remaining teeth the same shade as my ex-landlady's tan
he's a mismatch of gothic gubbins & amateur tye-dye
all wrapped up in one ancient longsleeve
too long leather jacket hangs like broken wings
or something
nose in a pulp horror
surrounded by chipped ornaments & pseudo hentai lighters
jade locusts & pandas trapped in sheets of glass
same CD on repeat
decaffienated coffee
miserably squinting eyes behind dirty glasses
smell of rotten milk exudes from the broken fridge
(which someone may well have fixed by now,
my information's not that really up to date)
but i do know he still rolls single skin cigarettes with massive rolling mats
reads pulp horror paperbacks & distinctly right wing newspapers
despite the fact he'd be first against the wall
if the latter had their cake
and ate it.

dustbin hunger pangs:

two vegans starved themselves in prison
and became skeletons
on the bunkbed in bunker
but there wasn't any war -
we were bombing ourselves.

hitting blobs of mercury with a hammer
they explode into tiny silver figurines.

the hooked fish swims on
with an unwittingly pierced cheek
that used to connect to the reel
outside my bedroom window
that i would sometimes fish from.

a sound like radios fighting.
the scabbed residue of a nosebleed.
(waterworks fingerpicked porehole)

how many people have stopped smoking at 20
to stop a stranger drowning in his own mucus at 45?

i'm having trouble breathing on this morning that's really afternoon
lulled into an unusual lie-in by the white noise of hoovering next door...

life looks better through the bottom of a modified bottle
or the inside of a cathode ray tube...

this day
when you
wake up
this late
life looks
better.

the quickfire route to success
among avant garde circles
is the proper growing
of a large moustache
and square beard
or shaving off half of all your hair altogether
and looking like a cancer patient
from a side profile
and an unkempt hermit
from the other side profile.
yasson's mohawk has flopped
into some sort of flock of seagulls affair
and half our friends are now engaged or married
or even more scarily
have proper jobs that they actually enjoy
and bring their work home with them
i wish i shared their enthusiasm
for anything other than bong mix
and gratuitiously complicated
role-playing games
that are big in japan.

bear traps bear traps everywhere
and not a bear to trap in this backwood
also i'm thinking that clearly magicians
have an unfair advantage over the common man
when it comes to being strip searched
a retinal scanner for a glass eye
or a leapfrog over a roundabout
that's how stunatic left buju's snooker cue
in the back of a written off van in the west country
kicking up red sand i think i see emma ridley
when i'm lost on a golf course at night sleep deprived
in a squall while you're in spain with your little sister
trying to avoid the jellyfishes sting.
i'm sticking my fingers down my throat again
and throwing up nothing but alcoholic bile
kneeling in the street with my face down on the pavement
and my mullet in the road and my fingers down my throat
i'm retrograde i'm regressing i'm devolving back to soup
a single celled organism in a primitive tin can
no ringpulls jar windows i'm stig of the dump i'm the missing link
with the rigid spine that can't bend backwards to look up at night sky
replacing a long term relationship with stargazing was Sam 'Afro' Hughes advice
to the unkempt boy that shared his namesake mis-sized odd lengths
singing spiritualized but it's out of tune at the front of
the top floor of the dishevelled double decker bus
that we took to school.

stepping through the door in her head
i was aghast at my discovery which led
to the rickety staircase & broken glasses
of an overpriced collection of subcultured accessories masquerading as a person
all trinkets present and correct from the fuzzy dice to the lucky rabbits feet
locked away in her room serving tea to her posters
whilst her ex mod parents laugh at the eyeshadow under my sunglasses
and reminisce on how they used to beat my ex-rocker parents up
and push them off the pier
it seems every generations is a repeat of the last
only more extreme and even younger
and in our mid twenties as we find ourselves suddenly now
we are already beginning to become outdated
we are already beginning to become phased out
so kids - make even more mistakes than we did
do too much of what we've done but younger
and ultimately have more fun than we ever could have dreamed of having
- yes, we are jealous.

i wave a knife round whilst yelling my new catchphrase;
"stab you in the face BITCH!"
repeatedly.

it's hard to look cool in a supermarket car park
when you open your beer up & it foams up in your face
or sitting on the train with a can of butane gas up your sleeve
trying to get off your face inconspicously
or watching a real life game of frogger
then watching it splat in the last lane
i'm past caring
about hiding
in the cellar
listening to
the same loop
of music on
someone else's
mobile phone
how can a couple survive in such a small space?

the avalanche process starts with a single snowball
that as it rolls grows picks up people and cars
like a katamari of snow and dead parts
we admit we were misguided in our ideals it starts
with sitting on the bench of dejection in a smiley face hat & a duffelcoat
when i'm a pensioner i'll always wear smart suits and golfing socks
and maybe a flatcap or a moleskin hat
with a fake fire burning in an ornamental fireplace
white walls and wood panel flooring
with all the furniture wrapped in plastic
crossing the road as slowly as possible to upset traffic
and in my garden i will have an apple tree...
so i can complain to the paper when the local kids go scrumping
(even though i used to sell stolen rhubarb to a newsagent in southbourne)
i have no pension plan
i'm planning to get hit by a bus
and decide my behaviour until then by the roll of a ten sided dice
which you never really see outside of AD&D playing circles
which by then will surely be replaced by the internet
and the everlasting virtual middle earths of infinite length.

sara sold her levelled-up character for a pittance;
equivalent of a few pence.

ending up sharing with charade of smart-suited
businessman on the outside
made of squalor on the inside
from the disgusting bathroom
to playing shithead like some sort of havant student
who i burnt my lips giving her first blowback to.

stunatic claims some dealer he knows
cuts his coke with the ground up mobile phone
imagine the damage that could do to your nose
when you hear in one nasal passage a muffled ringtone
it's hard to keep your ego intact
or the money that you owe to the people exact
maybe that's why my nose used to twitch like a rabbit's
a phone set on vibrate mode had made its habitat
in a cavity in my nose...
i blame cheap base from the dealer whose mobile phone
only ever worked in a certain room in his home
maybe cause he'd filed bits off and ground it up
to sell to gullible goth / grunger schoolkids like myself?

i disagree with myself more than anyone else.
i've thrown away
the only three
good women
who were ever interested in me
that i'll probably ever meet
without even realising anything at the time.
that's how clueless & naive
that i probably really am.

now i collect keys obsessively to doors that don't open
mine is warped woodgrain,
once graffitied in coloured pencil.

the C64 style suspense of waiting for a cassette that may never load
OR
the irony implicit in any given situation or a satirical abuse vignette
OR
the anniversary of the worst mistake that we've both ever made in our lives.

the one thing i would take back
is the video of you dancing down country roads holding a cheap synthesiser
beatboxing along to its demo of greensleeves as passing cars honked
in most abject confusion.
the woods nearby the location:
for burning of old posters of bands i'm embarassed to admit i ever liked
like limp bizkit
and bands i never actually liked
like the mighty mighty bosstones
who we once threw woodchip at during massive outdoor event
not properly prepared for in the slightest
by tube station
fools.

godheadcase:

your nightmares are not enough
theres a camera in the rotting battery of your charred smoke alarm
after all, what's family for?

hey! self fulfilling prophet
melt down your bedstead for the war effort

splattered in phantasmagore
nose red from too much blowing
sprouting fresh whiteheads
speckled across the raw skin below
the sky below:
raw knuckles
raw nerves
raw muscles

carnival music:

after all, what's family for?

hey! self fulfilling prophet
donate your typewriter to the war effort
we'll melt down the metal and we'll cook up some arms
we'll melt down the metal and we'll shoot up some arms
these days you can't even get your son or daughter's arms
back in a box when that's all that's left of them.

buried in the desert
a man overboard
in a dehydrated sea
floating in the dead sea

(or a baby on battlefield.)

don't let anger take the vein.
i'm following myself around.
sometimes you can find me inside a computer
on the weekends.
Fitzroy Valentine, superimposed on your wing mirror:
"we're looking at dry rot"
two minutes till hotplate.
hey, taker down of signs -
a flaming syringe of tumours to you.
i can walk over the road without touching it
like i'm wearing winged boots
it's out of the frying pan and into... the frying pan?
you're the one who wants to make everyone else's lives hell -
an asbestos abcess on you.
the bone of contention: how high is a chinaman
and exactly how long is a piece of string?

beautiful women make me want to kill myself.

if it gets out you've been harbouring a dissident in the sometime
then you'll realise that mediocre is worse than bad.
don't do anything you'd be ashamed of being caught doing...
like... eating cold chips and warm salad?
we stuck a toddler's painting of a snail under every stop sign
grape bruise / scabtoe / dancing on the horseshoe's grave...

the downside of achieving total enlightenment is
that you'll never care about appeaing attractive again.

i wouldn't give a brouhaha
(definition: a broil over a minor or ridiculous cause)

this city is a factory for living in
we are worn & eroded by supply & demand
and our city centre is a surrealist's offcuts
i often eat my lunch on a giant fruitbowl like first year still life
and since they banned smoking in public places
there's only emissions to breathe from spluttering exhaust fumes
from old fashioned smokestacks of ancient design
that they added a concoction that would change our lives
46 & 2 gas - an extra chromosome for everyone
till we realised that heightened senses were not neccessarilly a good thing...

a ticking timebomb noise from the shanty train gates
near where we were attacked by the small yappy dog
the ticket machine completely enclosed in a small cage
and scottish lisa appearing as if at a scheduled time...
"the possibility of complete mental collapse is now very real."

foster brother alan's garden is infested with spiders,
which he insists are really "evolved wasps".
we are watching the nuclear world war on TV,
and the live run-up to the first missiles being fired,
each nation's launcher extends out of earth's atmosphere,
and progressively further and further into space.
now there is not much left to do but watch old home videos,
and hope for the best.

stop underlining prematurely.

writing from the first person makes me nauseus,
and the camera angle is all wrong.
dead pixel drop, the wrong route, etc.

lighters out for:

Josef Motley - voice, samples, production
the lost & found sound - loops, packaging

and time machine assisted guest stars:

Wailin' Asahbajj - harmonica on #2, acoustic guitar on #14
Rusty Sheriff - circuit bent devices & turntables on #8
Satanico* - voice & synthesiser on #19
Xaigon - beatbox & vocals on #11

cover by pp worcester, edited by motley.
photos of rusty's kit by rusty.

2008

1: christmas leftovers in reference to classic computer generated gameshow.
brief amsterdam catchphrase revival. lost first page leads to impromptu editing.
lost whole first take and did it worse. then erased that and did it better.
full throttle / grim fandango / wild man fischer.

2: white noise from the edge of the world, grim fandango.
a smattering of words stolen from china mieville. flow stolen from doseone.
intro flourish from the distaff of bobbin threadbare, loom.

3: an exercise in repitition on prescription.
no needless contortion of awkward rhymes.
background noise courtesy of the warriors.
outro courtesy of natural born killers.
harmonica from wailin' asahbajj.
dedicated to a friend i miss.

4: self explanatory.

5: is a product of fear.
outro from full throttle.

6: a snapshot trapped in amber,
when conversation goes jurassic park.
outro from grim fandango.

7: there's nothing better than a bogof. buju agrees.
i would like to point out also that he is not jewish. i am.
second part is a frank zappa cover.
being; the dangerous kitchen.
ambient noise from pompey uni halls of residence.

8: rusty sheriff wigs out with all his custom circuit bent delights,
including a feminine speak & spell. he also scratches.
speech from enhanced version of loom...
possibly recorded by the fans for the fans?

9: possible events, outcomes & worst case scenarios.
noise from the warriors and sam & max hit the road.
outro from day of the tentacle.

10: a character sketch, drawn from life. loom again.
samples joe black rants once again for a damn good reason.

11: featuring xaigon on beatboxing and husky growls.
background ranting from the fall. grim fandango.
curse of monkey island (grudgingly) also.

12: complete failure to attain beach boys harmony status.
satanico* at south downs circa 1999. also foster brother aslan.
interview from then current zappa mudshark obsession.

13: the title is a word stupac accidentally made up;
meaning shambolic & flamboyant simultaenously.
perfectly fitting said mood of piece in question.

14: wailin' asahbajj on buju's bizarrely strung acoustic guitar,
which he almost immediatley broke a string upon.
it has two A strings and a nice mix of nylon & steel.

15: noise from the dig except of course the flushing sound;
which is the chron-o-john from day of the tentacle...
although the song itself has more to do with resident evil 4.

16: intro wails and bite marks from grim fandango.
outro stuff from sam & max.

17: about hanging around with foster brother alan;
a friend to you and me.
whenever you are lonely, he's perfect company.
outro is my ex housemate's kids rumbling my influences.

18: based on a true story. again inspired by stupac.
sam & max outro, again.

19: being the moment when we give into jukebox requests from the audience.
synthesiser outro by satanico himself, as aforementioned in verse.

20: being a last minute addition but a worthy one as it's a captain beefheart loop.
words from world war dreams and stolen TV mishearings. as per usual, then.
outro courtesy of post vurt paikes & yasson dictaphone paranoia, also tenchoo.
eastern promise sirens. clockwork yes you guessed it orange. stokes's day.
even more outro originally poached from #10, genuine chinese ornament shop music.
also false light's drum machine, barely played by myself, and more loom distaff.
final scream from myself & yasson at family roberts circa when we still went there.
you may also hear the chuckle of ex-swampglow guitarist steve-o. if you like.

END
(RIP, kind Josef.)