Deep Fried In Kelvin

Oh children of the future ... conceived in the toilets at Meadowhall ... to be raised on

the cheap cold slabs of garage floors ... rolling empty cans down the stairway ... (don't

you love that sound?) ... whilst the thoughts of a bad social worker ran through his head

... trying to remember what he learnt at training college ... Lester said he wasn't

allowed in here ... so why don't you get lost? ... and if you grow up ... then when you

grow up, maybe ... maybe you can live ... live on Kelvin ... yeah you can live in Kelvin

... on the promenade with the concrete walkways ... where pidgeons go to die ... (a woman

on the fourteenth floor noticed that the ceiling was bulging as if under a great weight.

When the council investigated they discovered that the man in the flat above had

transported a large quantity of soil into his living-room, in which several plants he had

stolen from a local park were growing. When questioned, the man said all he wanted was a

garden. When questioned, the man said all he wanted was a garden.) ... Oh God, I think the

future's been fried ... deep fried in Kelvin ... and now it's rotting behind the remains

of a stolen motorbike ... I haven't touched it, honest ... but there isn't anything else

to do ... we don't need your sad attempts at social conscience based on taxi-rides home at

night when exhibition opens ... we just want your car radio ... and those Reflux speakers

... now ... suffer the little children to come to me ... and I will tend their adventure

playground splinters with cigarette burns and feed them fizzy orange and chips ... and

then they grow up straight and tall ... and then they grow up to live ... on Kelvin ...

yeah ... we can have ghettos too ... only we use air-rifles instead of machine-guns ...

stitch that ... and we drunk driving lights ... in the end ... the question you have to

ask yourself is ... are you talking to me ... or are you chewing a brick?


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