merry xmas / bonne année / bye

dearest aficionados,

we hope you have each had a splendid year and we wish you the most spectacular happiness in the next

this is simply a short forewarning to say that as of 2018 monster island will be ceasing trading. all creditors please liaise directly with our solicitors - TUCKERS 24 HOUR CRIMINAL LAWYERS

to commemorate this event we will be erasing all trace of our existence from the internet, including the thousands of albums on Bandcamp http://monsterisland.bandcamp.com

if you want to download these before they are disappeared please do so ASAP. If you receive this message post-dissolution and still want any of the songs drop me a note and we will arrange something.

we will continue to make music under various guises until the heat death of the universe but they will not bear the monster island insignia which is being sun-setted for it is poisoned with the passing of time.

some MI songs may re-emerge under a different brand name. please don't be upset if this happens.

if you are interested in knowing about future musical projects please let us know by responding to this email with “aye” or similar

and as we slither into oblivion I leave you with these words of wisdom:

"don't be sad that it happened, 

just be happy that it's over"

thanks for listening

monster island XXX

never ending renovation

in a panaroma of partisan land
the king of the minglers idly stands
and pleasures himself by the endless fences
and dedicates the act to past and future apprentice...s

read all about his heritage in luminescent lettering
as a look of the hunted creeps across his forehead
as lonely as a lamp-post in a peripheral development
as nature re-arranges itself all around him

he said "the curse of perpetuity is nothing really new to me"

a million different disciplines of minimal coherence,
ending every sentence asking "any other business?"

in the city of no-known limits...
eternal selfless servant to each one of his senses.

lo siento

in a curse-d unit
we can set up shoppe

obliterate all the ancient vacancies
with our favourite new song:

"starbucks, costa, cafe nero,
come on England give us a hero"

he hobbles out from under the arches and mutters:
"yo tengo un dolor en mi estómago, y en el pecho, el ritmo nuevo - lo siento."

in a voice devoid of danger - sing of exponential loss
at the mercy of total strangers - SAME OLD SHIT / in DIFFERENT SHOP

singing starbucks costa caffe nero - come on enger-land give us our hero.

the new vernacular

everyone would gather on a
saturday and laugh at the cladding

like rows and rows of developers teeth
ceramic veneer of that which lies beneath.

somehow we became hopeless proponents of a new vernacular
where momumental masons are designing their own gravestones and
it's hideous from every angle. hideous from every angle. hideous from every angle.

sing it in the mirror - from the yawning trenches
of Camden and Kensington to the horse guard parade plague pit,
an unofficial history of our existence. told through jokes and
shit fan fiction, more important than any photograph or social interaction.

and we're already bored
of our new national anthem
and this knackered old vernacular.

but
johnny shall love his new master
johnny shall love his new master.
johnny johnny johnny shall love his new master.

MoFaK

dumping ground for dead ideas
hidden deep in the museum of finders and keepers

a new exhibition of true ambition
presented to you by dr prudence and mister diligence

sudden bursts of colour above the blankest of all canvasses

an anxious narrative announced
the last of the mass distraction techniques...

offer up your commentary
rigid and anonymously
on this celebration of quantity

a synthesis of cynical myth
and declarations so designed
for minimal disruption that are
airlifted to brilliance from rivers of indifference

a retro infectious feast for the senseless
born of a canyon of laboured conversation
where celebrity has not met sophie ellis bextor's expectations.

dig for victory

each one of us is a witness to
that which is glistening in the distance

spinning it's soliloquy of silence
into the brine that surrounds us on
all sides in times of great stress

and above a town without any honour
the sky is alive with lancaster bombers

as i whisper all my tips unto the grizzled god of the ad hoc
he sat me down and me talk of topics, ghostly and ferocious

and how we might stitch the rustic to the rigid and digital

it's the time of the year for incredible gestures
something to minimise the difference and stitch us all together

and somewhere in a village stripped of all visible history
our siblings have somehow learnt how to drink themselves to victory

to victory, to victory, to victory.

it's the opening night
and the opening notes
and the room is alight
with the hologram of hope
reflecting off varifocal lenses
miraculous happenstance
miraculous happenstance

fulfil your attendance with no hint of duress
at the festival that never lets you forget

miraculous happenstance
falsified in electric light

exit strategy

chewing on pigmeat
in the cold call economy
as three beers burn warm inside

making some memories
I know will be too intense to face
three or four weeks down the line

I'm in frankfurt or munich
this side of security one can never really tell.

we met atop a structure so hi-vis and vulgar
in infinite withdrawal, we were light-headed and lawless
making sense of any situation through that same old poetic cadence.

from colony to colony
the devil is in the decision tree
perfecting his exit strategy
I saw his face and I ceased to believe.

badges for the boring

a litany of administrative errors
have somehow sent us back to the incorrect era
where nothing is ever spelt in the way you would expect
and they don't seem to pronounce half of the letters

i was a man for all seasonality
wrapped in historical authority
rich in experience and ready
to wrestle i delivered all of
life lessons in one easily
digestible session

as the saddest demographics
scribbled in their finest biro
about the boy who came
and breached all local by laws

in the last of our licensed premises
I had finally mastered the imperative
I chiselled my commands into the
hearts and the hands of those
ancient acquaintances with ageless faces
who heap emphasis upon irrelevance
and drizzle their opinions in the syrup
of significance in a lazy display of
tremendous new weapons, but
we don't make em, we just sell em.

you'll never see a more effective rendering of the
western alphabet than "badges for the boring"

single source of truth

five bearded boys

they sing about the devil

they sing about the devil

the sing about..... 

the one 

with unholy 

combover

sells us a dream 

of infinite growth

of infinite rollover

and as our stock

reaches critical levels

the bearded boys

sing about the devil

they sing about the devil

they sing about the devil

the devil the devil the devil the

cutting out the tongues 

of the office whistlers

in the dim-lit halls, 

we kept the witnesses to a minimum

citing ourselves as the single source of truth,

gravid with anger, but with one too many masters to answer to.

lips 

were still wet

with 

pre-emptive lemsips

an idea 

for the ending

sewn into their

collective

senses.

vertical village

digitally detoxed
in vertical villages
digitally detoxed/detoxed
in vertical villages

twenty eight storeys
of desperate luxury

digitally detoxed/detoxed
digitally dexoxed/detoxed/detoxed

we are living monuments
to all the many hidden documents
and the microscopic moments
in the chemical toilets

neural connections on a virtual pilgrimage
extinguish all existence through his ritualistic showmanship

limited sphere of ignorance
invade all the districts and
play spot the difference

in ruinous pit
of rabid beauty
there's nothing
left to do but
you civic duty

broken molar (dental lecture)

I carried my broken molar in a bottle of rola cola

I count the scratches on my glasses 

and sit behind with the fresh-air fascists.

If only I owned some shoes with no holes in

and could chew on both sides of my mouth

I'd sidle my way across town to you and show you my splintering frown.

If you kiss me on my wooden teeth

and show me what you really think of me

there'll be nothing left but history 

to be passed down through our collective memory.

false energy

false dawn, false door, false energy.
false dawn, false door, false energy.

stitching the contemporary reference to song
where the work is never over and the job is never done
and the guts of the gallery won't amount
to more than a waste of good calories

it's a fifty thousand year lease hold of the soul
no amount of lying down is ever gonna resolve,
stricken with a lethargy I would not wish on my worst enemy.

false dawn,
false door, false energy

the second I speak the words
is the same second that those words become dead to me.

fizzing with bitterness and with spots in your vision
pushing your luck to its logistical limits

pinning all your hopes on the process itself
selling tickets to your next series of cerebral events
nothing more than a hunter who has forgotten any feeling of hunger.

if we all stick to swimming we will minimise the risk of combustion.