Symbols and Sounds

by Paul Green/Greg Segal

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released December 3, 2017

Paul Green: poetry, vocals, sax
Greg Segal: other instruments, arrangements, production, cover.

Recorded in England and the U.S., 2017.
All titles Green/Segal

Buy Paul Green's poetry book, "The Gestalt Bunker", here:


all rights reserved


Track Name: The Deep State
switch my breakfast on and onwards/repetitive strained eye movements
around around it/until you are dumbed up the rite way/
pubic schools must keep faith up the arse of least resistance/
Tiberius ruled minnowing his history boys in bubbly
hush with money and the unexplained death of dogs we entered a deep stateπ

in the depth of the Tate modernist state/behold the magic meat
a brain of Anthony Blair is exposed/his sacrament deprives them of their bodies/
the inconvenient brown people/dowse over their dusty cellars gripping magic bones/
I can’t quite fry the Bilderbergers who give me stelazine and dog-breath
so do his brain/so doable/I’m down/I’m down here as Dumbo/in such a state

dig it down/bunkers under Chelsea for oligarchitects of-oil oi oi!
they come across/all over the Little Queenie/like the patience of spiders
morphic attractors driving change from futures marketing
owners of the elite the deep fuckers fake over their dungeon for Kirstie
install her pony-fat for a good hiding in the smart art-of-the state

the deep statecraft cruises my secret space ways the inner earways
infested with electric ants/those throaty microphonic
dub me with a statement/voice-pox/does in my amygdala
installs a dark mandala back of the eyeballs gone googly
to match your profile ALERT! you are re-entering a right state

TORMENT OF THE BASILISK! twittering to the death of millions/
the glitter of new micro-nukes/in the glare of an eyeball
I was obsessed by the deep state of ‘Burlington’/pyramid of official toilet rolls
fossils of atomic chairman/dusting the red phones to dial up a Jezebel Spirit /
Green aliens scrabble in the deep cabinets to find last words WE ENTERED A DEEP STATE
Track Name: Descending A Tree
unbearable nuclear light/white hole/a void/flux-trap
vast countenance of Odin
calibrate her vinegar distilleries of justice
crystalline rings interlocking a dark matter
he crossed on the rope ladder woven of frogs
we are your Martians now/battle-trucks of Planet Blood/out of meat/out of mind
a control room in the sun has the complete settings but too late
our tigers are burning baby/cackle of green stuff /her Venus catch my fire
machine chatter under a yellowing sky
dreaming breast again against breast/apertures in flesh defences/
frack an Earth-God in the depths of his plummy bowels/mix down water/fire in an alchemy of muddolls/festive tramplings
Track Name: intervoid
Metal scrappage from our Intervoid will be sorted, according to reliable sources. The chant of the weed, nasal angels, all the normalised sound tracks will keep you on message. Crump went the golden lights of old Baghdad. Keep staring down the telly.

The Void tried to get into my cot, it put its metal angular head over to say hallo, my darlings. The angels and maggots are line-dancing across my screen. I’m pluralized by the bursting stars. It’s dark inside the radio.

The statement said they desired men of iron. I felt trapped on the wrong astral plane, barred from the consummation areas for a half-life. The others, brighter young things, chortled with entitlement, but I forgave the girl in the pirate hat.

A green-backed angel with scalloped tin wings crawls into a stone. Its priests who smelled of old soap smelled danger and the terrifying simplifications of old age. The slang of love was verboten. Her every cleft would be botoxed by now.
Track Name: Leakages
At the end of the day rhetoric was the only placeholder
I coloured in the cut-ups
‘prostitution/was sold out’
Allah and Dick Cheney/will take full responsibility for updates
‘targeting British/worldly life’

Anti-social media stream the dripping memes:
screaming Liz and her petting lizards hired old paedophiles of Zion
to stage another Gallic sacrifice, more puddles of glorious blood
Conspiracy geeks share selfies right there
you so like being so liked
Tonight I write sadly
Christopher Logue crackling on vinyl
jazzing Lorca over Brit bop/his red bird dancing on ivory

Tonight I’m on and off
doodling some pinky humps of emotion
as described in the text books

Tonight I write straight into the false present
the moments on hold
scattering like rain

Tonight I write my self out
the lightning rod of our superior fire power
pierces my foggy lungs

Tonight it is written all over
bleak blue lights of gendarmerie
spin around the trauma zones

Tonight it writes madly in pixels
for all the minds blown
into flecks of pink matter
Track Name: Marquee/Suicide '78
Alan Vega riding his ghosts
electro chemical voices
cooked in sweat box organ
a collector’s item in tranquillity

now it’s fizzling in my grey stuffing
the pudding of resurrection men
I’m here but not there is the matter

rain slashed my house last night
I heard voices japing in the hollows
memorised a poster for THE LURKERS
Track Name: On The Corner
Brighton 3/8/2014
This carnival adrift sky washed away in grey
I’m on the caffeine trawling my retrospex
tranquillity-based mass observation:

here come rainbow rioters a percussion of loin pride
maledom princess in a priceless corset
serpent power tattoos the brown arms
those old studded leathers brought out special
trap the walkabout tourists/midriffs of old jazz geezers/
girl in a blue fedora and sharks tooth necklace/
eurasian girl exhausted by seaside jollies seeks refuge in partners/
your partners in helmets scanned painted faces for health and safety
the women just walked away handling hands
pale girl in her dream hat

I was on sidewalk caffeine alert duties
grime man reported squatting in Newcastle Brown
waiting for a change, any change to come
Kim Jong-Un lookalike clones himself to ground zero
I’m on the beat in the pocket no tattoo is taboo
behind plate glass I-spy dope-patterned hot pants

hallo sailor boys dangle hands Captain Mission has landed
tall man in epaulettes salutes gold bomber jackets pinky hats
Hawaian horror shirts/ ELVIS SUPREME BEING
a revolving door aesthetic/bunny ears can’t find the next whiskey bar/
sulking despite pink hair and a coronet/sequinned navels against the world
dump the Red Stripe in her handbag/I LOVE/EAT LOVE
Track Name: To Evoke Pharoah Sanders
Thothman calls the Pharoah
(aetheric timewarping in memoriam)

so the Pharoah screams forward through time
howling and hauling my ass backwards
New York August '68 242 East Third Street Alphabet City
where the scribe was inscribed in his depths
after the yellow cab over potholes, garbage bin, grilled door,
goggling on the blink in the blackness of Slug's Saloon
beaking a pale nose through fuming blackness

big Afro-Sheen dashiki brothers guarding the bar
check out my white threads, my queasy minder
attorney bro-in-mob-law from Tudor City
who expected Dixie jazz in hats
not the bullroarer tenor raising funk demons
blazing pyramid of percussion avalanche piano
a long yodel mastering the universe
Track Name: Sphere
CKLG FM 102.7 1971 oozing McCartney, then out of radio darkness:
jerks around
a corner hunting ivories
sticky insects between the keys
trinkets dropped right in there
fell off and on the stool in his Polish hat
SPHERE called unto his self THELONIUS
in nowhere man
testing tone science like Ra
God of the
he stuck the bright knife in
black icicles between the keys
an epiphany such an epistrophe
cats wigged in and out
to catch notes on the fly
obliquely in the bleak light of Minton’s
Track Name: The Long Poem
The long poem is drawn out like graphite rods
raising my centigrade, my chaos of nuclear gasses
for my long lines are melting, the linear bedtime story
in the safe-rooms of Enlightenment - the long-lost locked room mystery…
…collapsed in gulps and weights of hot metal, regurgitated gold bile
and the flower-bedecked raves are festivals of desperado recycling
the West is a boiled submarine
we tremble before the Unfuckables with kalashnikovs
hooting Allah Akbar from the high ground of digitised martyrdom
a collective noun behind the mise-en-scene narrated our monetised death jump
(SHOW-TIME! sponsoring oil-drenched camels nibbling the Queen’s Baton)
you and I mean you click-through reincarnation as an addiction
self-flagellantes cruise lobbies of the dead
ready for to carry me home let’s give the Illuminati a go
all I can do is my routine about Anthony Blair, the ultimate selfie, and his sacraments of bread ’n’ blood… knavish red-eyed demon is a great traitor to these islands and should be quartered at Tyburn, his vitals to be thrown to the hounds. A pox on him! telly-tubby antics in the glassy desert…
The Peoples of the Book ripped up/off each other’s First Editions
each page from the finest skin of girls and babies slightly foxed
to fit their agendas of slicing post-human genitalia
Rival monopolies of the Near Death Experience
jostling in Jerusalem for market control as I fondled my smarty slab
to flip into uploads: severed heads/last night's paella/bomblet celebrations/
poor little cats/the black/ blackening flags of St George
even your personalised Russian bride in red rubber
but the Pentagon has Jesus on stand-by in a flying saucer - all is well…
All is the omnivore stalking you and the kids in the TV movie they have made all about you
in which you consume your own toes and work upwards to fall off the ladder
slaving to an inner banker for quantified appropriate beans and re-formed porkers
I have no choice but to re-invent the author and slip into my own body for an ID change
lively up my personics to talk the walk-through (a blizzard of signals and fractured crystals)
experiencing quite an increase in Tulpa activity of late /I am Goth Wookie
to centre myself into the exploded moment, it’s right here, in Hastings
in some fattened mums dragging their kids swollen with dog-food around and around
a circus for IDS the Quiet Killers of ATOS and government by egg-faced management
The long poem stretches me in nine dimensions I shall run out of space-time screaming
for refuge in a black notebook where I ate fast food at the base of the World-Tree
my footfall was in Malkuth, the Earth-Sphere, a sun-spotted day in London Town
humans in perpetual motion on the other side of the glass, sixty women a minute, the male
glaze over hijabs, those pert bums, the long march of my ant-people across Pleistocene ice-
Are we, ladies and lads, a story arc directed by a future attractor, morphogenetic field-hands
on the bumpy time-scapes of space… Set the controls for the Black Sun!
eco collapse is a strategy of the world-mind/the cure for depression is jihad
my eye is in your black triangle - watch it…
The long poem is lined up against the wall to be branded before it is shot
No let us give a booby prize to the long poem it is more humane quite humungous
like a dose of ayahuasca in the House of Commons Bar - George Osborne shitting in a vase -
the Woosterfarians yodelling this is not never the weapons system we commissioned
meanwhile your long poem must get its marching orders from Sun Ra via the Saturn hotline
at checkpoints for multi-temporal bifurcation/tectonic plate shifting/smash-up of the paradigms
where history splits its infinitives into moon walking homunculi/the intervention of insects
before the cells turn round and start wandering home to get spiked in the lobbies of Hyde Park
as massed faith-school vuvuzelas proclaim end times and special offers on reconstituted flesh
The elongated poem voyages into blackness, all-corrosive nigredo ground-burst
as I’m struggling for my time allotted to out-think the blue sky-boxes, drill down into Being
before it’s even advertised by oligarchs banking their food against a collapse of watch-towers
no time to talk to a fistful of bent dripping coins it’s red-eye alert in Phat City
sperm warfare those anti-sin ramparts excrete the gold bugs implanted earlier
don’t filter my mucus my head is unmade like Tracey’s tarty old bed
the long poem must be uncompressed for I am the last of the Analogue Men
I’m spinning on the long-playing poem extruding my spider-map of bowels
from the epicentre of the galaxy according to latest reports I am going plasmatic
This poem is contracting as a consequence of globalisation saith the dead pundits
it will shrink unto itself like a reverse universe a glut of light on the Godscape
for the West has briefly fizzled and phuts into a great brain of dark matter
dreaming of Space Virgins of the Third Reich © and Barbie-dogs rescued on the Lost Ark
or the jingle-jangle Singularity, seven billion bugged copies of it rewiring our queasy wetware
I am in a force-field of shadow photons, sickly as a puree of dead parrots
artisan cuisine for whitefolks frolic - the mystery brain has runaway with its night train
flash back to Children of the Lost Planet/Crash of the Red Moon/blind groping of the Triffids
my trove buried in our Gestaltbunker your ontology on the over-ride to a dead end
The long lost poem went time-worming into the wrong hole
for we are all coded from junk DNA bearing alien assembly instructions
my neurons have already made up my mind but meanwhile the long poem drones on in Urdu
for heat-seeking readers in Waziristan knitting their waistcoats of martyrdom
William Hague still sitting in the lap of George Bush his oaken mouth clacking open and shut
The Bush paints Antony Blair by numbers a brush strapped to his pizzle
and assorted pre-loved naughty bytes are frantically sorted by the Tarot Readers of Cheltenham
- it must be in there somewhere that sigil of zero, the Salafist Dada Nihilismus…

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