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False Positives

by Dan Wilson

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1.
YE OLDE NIGHT OUT What is this foul and fetid petri dish? Hunched, shivering, soiled culture Gingham fiddlers strum out filth With contrived American vowels Twisting with coils of cigarette smoke The stench of reheated hatred Born anew, brewed in the bogs Christening the gutters Whilst the drainpipe moustachioed circle jerk Quaff, quiff and quiver Along to infantile beats Tightly held mugs Of organic British backwash Spill over like roaming hands On the cab ride back The “in her” crowd Stay behinds Suckered in by flesh tentacles Spat out and thriving Swept, mopped and bleached A merry go round of the familiar Resenting, unrelenting, sameness The umbilical cord of hollow applause Crows at dawn A revolving door Of crossword puzzles And cocaine bubbles Friendly disgust Piss, vinegar and dust Tattoos and barn dancing Lounge room jazz romancing To empty seats And tired eyes Hand cooked classics Served by fascists Then the middle age lull Before the slow acceptance Of what’s to come The travelling minstrel show Decked out in checks Play loud and slow The same but worse than before Through half closed lids you spy A face you know and had Where boredom meets disgrace my lad Way past chucking out your thrown Into the great but too well known Enveloping blackened skies Where the watchful moon averts its eyes Much later on when calm, half dead The light may find you in your bed A breathing bruise, a living dread Then you rouse yourself once more To give the night another go.
2.
HIT 02:01
HIT Hit the streets Hit the pubs The clubs The bars The Roof terraces The Wineries The Vineyards Smoking rooms The Make you own gin experiences The Pop up cookery classes Home wine tasting Wild camping zumba, zorbing, zuma pilates, karate Breakfast crack pipes Midnight snack bites Hit the gym Hit the hay Hit the deck Hit the sack Hit the beach Hit those parts that others can’t reach Hit the skids Hit the kids Hit the wife Hit the roof Hit it and quit Hit the heights Hit rock bottom Hit em high Hit em low Hit the countryside bungalow Hit the books Hit the banks Hit the brakes Hit em for six Hit a nerve Hit back Hit big Hit out Hit it off Hit me up Hit and miss Hit and run Hit the bottle Hit the headlines Hit the road
3.
To Bavaria 02:26
To Bavaria The day was as dull as dish water We were hurtling into the darkness The light would be reclaimed by the impending night The withered trees lined the highways reaching upwards for fading inspiration. They stood as reminders, victims clinging to memory Visited only by the wandering crows Theirs was a brutal unrelenting winter The richness of the forest seemed secure by comparison Emboldened by number We carved through the landscape Onward towards the yielding glow of sunset Bound for the city There were havens of light in pockets along the way Small proud territories kissed by the retiring sun Beacons of flickering hope along a long and miserable stretch Endless highways and faceless truck stops Sound tracked by the mechanised voice of the navigation system We had dispensed with conversation altogether Each to their own vessel Propelled by his own selfish thoughts Nursing his own wound Snatching at sleep Sinking further into the abyss The tensions amongst us were visible scars with solid foundations Years in the making, each had his own breaking point, his own shame, his own grievance. Civility was a hard yet favourable road There would be time for more Howling at the moon later down the line More lubricated home truths, incriminations And collegial truces Now was the time for quiet contemplation.
4.
HAPPY DAYS neighbour As the dusk ushers in the end of another Sun soaked day In a long line of springtime records broken Here in our respective hibernations I take out the rubbish, sort the recycling, collect the washing from the line A ghost, an apparition, barely alive, living off fumes Over the fence Taking cover under tarpaulin Sat panting with his glass of Rioja in hand Staring into the middle distance of a freshly swept, de-weeded yard A casualty Clinging onto the withering vine That sense of weary abandon dimming Fading with the natural light My name: whispered, exhaled even I meet his eyes Amble over with the usual mixture of tired warmth and resignation Obliged The brief; keep it brief But under the stars and through a stream of swarming insects, the passing trains The green flies, oversized Bees Neighbourhood cats and the sound of distant sirens, a nighttime sweep through nowhere land The pizza boys doing their rounds The dealers dropping off The pounding pavements of late night joggers Rekindling old couples weaving their way homeward But here, now, he wants to reach out “Happy Days” he says on more than occasion Happy days indeed "Partying alone again like some kind of saddo” His words I congratulate him on the house sale “230” he says “That was quick” I reply “yeh surprised how popular it was .. 5 viewings in 3 days A lady doctor… she’s been straight with me No times for games at my ripe old age” “must be sad to see it go’ I ask… out of duty more than anything but.. Thinking of the bridge, where hours earlier I’d spied him wistfully gazing brow beaten, smiling, half crying Paralysed by decades of memories and regrets Near misses, promises unkept Dreams by the wayside Thirsts unquenched The view from his window; A direct line through those huge trees with swaying branches The dual carriageway below Where microscopic life throbbed, swarmed Dispersed, decayed and seemingly replayed this fate ad nauseam “half my life..” He says “nearly 30 years” ‘Happy Days” We skirt around the current crisis, facts, fiction, party lines Then the wild years, how he bought it for a snip, on a whim What it needed, what he couldn’t give, The ammo up in the attic, the things you amass The things you throw away Then properties A future unwritten But the pauses weigh heavy and begin to multiply Soon we’re exposed, threadbare Shivering under the surface of our conversation I shift from one foot to the other Fumble for an empty phrase Then turn inward, “night” I mumble “happy days” he says “happy days”
5.
Yet You Wait 02:55
YET YOU WAIT.. Wind raging Collective breath held Dropped From the heavens Down with a thud Feet on dry land Then speeding homeward Back to captivity Life under the heel of your own choices The tyranny of domesticity Every ounce accounted for Every second someone else’s Always on the clock In the sick bay At panic stations The unwanted guest at your own party At each other’s throats Life through the window The slow turning of the wheel The tightening of the vice When work is your only indulgence Exercise your debauchery Patience the virtue Sacrifice the aim And yet you wait And yet you wait .. You must relearn The art of tongue biting Pride swallowing Point scoring Passivity Meekness The rising damp of resentment Door slamming Finger jabbing Blood boiling Oh the parts we play The lies we tell Tied by the chord umbilical Tethered, aligned, destined to follow the same star Through burning deserts and howling gales Thick fog and dark forests You are both the hostage and the captor.
6.
7.
White Noise 02:00
WHITE NOISE A blanket of white noise An electric box fan A small ambling river A highland stream Its drizzling softly somewhere in the north of England The clothes are wet but drying I can hear the rapid gunfire of tiny beating hearts A vacuum cleans The car rumbles on Through the creaking pines There are showers deep within the forest Crickets out in the fields Weave me a tapestry of sound In which to dream Enveloped yet free The windy desert palms Waves rushing against rocks Tweeting birds and croaking frogs The steady droplets on an umbrella The yawning winter creek The rusting leaky tap Ice cracking A suburban night in The Ukraine Inside the carriage of a high speed German train A rushing mountain stream On the blustery outskirts of town Along the desolated coast Distant ships sound From outside or from within You hear the cry building Fighting, struggling neath the skin Ready to burst And tear this firmament down to earth
8.
City By Bus 02:35
The City by Bus Skriking brats on sweaty buses Brexit Blair behind the bushes Trying to see what all the fuss is On heat teens and birthday beats Rozzers blocking off the street Scag heads on the cadge 5 a siders talking vadge Satchel’s got his ears in High Viz erections Helmets giving out directions Window licking reflections Steds with dreads, tats in cravats Bearded dicks and flying rats Wrinkly dog’s dinners A bookies pen and no winners Damp is setting in Thumbnails in the buff Runners up in Crufts It reeks of old man’s chuff Groping in the back row Schizoids on the home grown Ripping off the plaster Tarquin’s communal pasta Out here on a limb Discounts with ethical finesse Pop up’s at the Officer’s mess Its just another Tesco Express An open top parade Through the slave trade Escorts on the lamp posts Cockle pickers on the coast Survival looking slim
9.
A HOME UNDONE Wax work politicians Paper thin slogans Glass eyed celebs On wide comfy sofas Auto cues Regurgitating breakfast Chewed up has beens Disappear Down Orifice Dale Up the cul-de -sac The City’s just for work and back Chat to Pat about Tuesday’s bins While the television’s listening in Ergonomic kettles A mixture of precious metals Sweeping up dead leaves Damp proofing… Let the music play on From the commercial radio Spewed into bewildered middle aisles Soft home furnishings Falsifying need Arguing the toss with energy providers A chain of furiously robotic emails and automated responses Seething missed calls from unknown numbers The chemical water filtered glacier crisp The condensation The twitchers and the early mornings Hand scrawled notes from delusional postmen Smoothies that stick between the teeth The neighbourhood lunatic screams at an SUV That creaking gate The baby stroller’s awkward mate Up in the attic of detritus Postcards from the future sent back to haunt (warn) us Appliances and unread manuals Styrofoam and moth bitten clothes Menus from take ways long closed Manifestos for the status quo Regional crime stats Snotty kids sitting SATs Screen time and yoga mats Deep fried vegans Rechargeable humans Holidays go unbooked Dry rot goes overlooked Re Plastering short cuts Eye rolls, sighs, tuts Lost between growth spurts and endless visitors Monthly instalments and lazy solicitors Where the silent war is lost and won A home undone.
10.
THE CREAKING COLONY The gulls are crying The heat electrifying Steaming upwards from the sewers Through the traffic Circling crows Like static Bikes toot horns From every angle torn Rip through the blazing sun With fortified naval guns You gaze out to sea Drink in the shade of The gypsy’s tree In this quaint old Creaking colony Tonight the circus Comes to town The fasting broken In moonlight’s crown Now weary souls In shadows stalk An orchestra of birds squawk Victorious ants return from battle The baby reaches For her rattle Rats slide back below You sit and watch The grass grow They’re dressing the stage And testing the lights You feel a thousand Insect bites Ignite the aching Still unsettled scores The weight that pulls Us from down below Tricks you into Letting go But binds us tightly To the stone A home made prison Of your own undoing The body prepared for viewing When even here on foreign soil The same old scabs and boils We pick Tied to our shared history Creaking with the colony.
11.
FALLING APART IN PUBLIC Back From the bogs Mad box of frogs With the Christmas dos And the yuletide blogs I’m falling apart in public Some two bit tit And her thripny bit Want to shoot the shit About the pitfalls of going viral The inevitable downward spiral Silver bells! I’m falling apart in public Way off kilter, smoking the filter Down to its nub Can you tell the difference between the sick and the grub? Pulling up roots at the bar With a bowl of bruised fruit Dozing on the couch With a yard full of grouch I’m falling apart in public Pull me a cracker Jack Ever seen Mac in the knack? Leaves the mouth a little dry and the jaw a little slack “Man you can’t say that” I’m falling apart in public Little drummer boy won’t let me play with his toys And the lamb and the oxen Are just days that need boxing Taking a swing at glad tidings Lech and leer at a dress full of cheer That giggles and swoons Under the smear of a moon I’m falling apart in public Ding dong bell Here comes Mr show and tell With a pithy joke and a cheap noel All Cuban heels and wish me wells Joining the round with the hand me downs I’m falling apart in public Dry that twiglet’s tears Allay those finger bowl fears More dreams on the back of an envelope Wood worm and belly rot Bombing schemes and terror plots I’m falling apart in public It’s a revolving door for the puerile A refectory for the senile The toilet bowl of resolutions Creaking age old institutions This barrel of fish need shooting I’m falling apart in public How many lords were leaping? Sycophants creeping? Friends left weeping? Its grey skies and mourning suits Gold rings and dying roots I’m falling apart in public It’s the star of fucking David All coked up and wayward Full of vinegar and piss A pantomime hiss, and a misseltoe kiss But the kiddies don’t scare about the step on the stair The crash of sleigh bells that the neighbours know well But I’m falling apart in public Pa rup a pum pum Get your fill and leave em the crumbs The tongue tingles and the gums are numb A Christmas fist full of two front teeth Its aint the paper its what’s beneath But I’m falling apart in public That goose got fat off of penniless twats like me and you Glam Peado flares, racists charging triple fares Holly and Ivy, drunk and conniving The mince pies, the maggots The bar sings “cheap lousy faggot” O tannebaum! I’m falling apart in public A grope with the girl from HR One last whisky before I’m barred Hail down a sleigh and follow that car Fill it up to the brim No room at the Inn Down here I’m Tiny Tim A Shrivelled up Scrooge With just the present to lose I’m falling apart in public The black mass midnight choir Sing songs from the witching hour It’s away with the stranger All clear, present, danger Somewhere between the stars and the gutter With a tongue that cuts butter Its mud sticking, boot licking Shit kicking, house bricking It’s begging and pleading Moaning and bleating It’s all the best and season’s beatings All the best and season’s beatings I’m falling apart in public.

about

False Positives is a spoken word collaborative project with a diverse group of eclectic musicians from the UK, The Netherlands and Norway, (’The Counterfactuals’) interpreting the spoken word poetry of The Cubical frontman, songwriter and solo artist Dan Wilson.

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released January 29, 2021

Produced by Dan Wilson
Mastered by Sebastiaan van Bijlevelt at Galloway Recording Studio, Nijmegen, The Netherlands.

Artwork - Vince Patterson

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Dan Wilson Liverpool, UK

Dan Wilson is a singer songwriter. Vocalist and guitarist with Dan Wilson & The Counterfactuals and The Cubical.He is also a vocalist with Basque collective Los Separatistas, and a writer of poetry and short stories.

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