Spastic Max Lyrics

Spastic Max by Edward Scissortongue

• It was 1999
• Bonfire Night
• When the red mist first enveloped his character traits
• He found himself with no control over his fists wailing
• On some dickhead’s face from his council estate
• See many moons had passed since the hope of a 2 point 4 landlubber
• life style had been smashed into smithereens
• It was a year ago this very day that the intravenous
• Sludge pumping had taken off at a wild speed
• He found himself a regular at the phone boxes
• Cherry Lambrini
• Bicarb from the corner shop
• Back to the mould covered wormhole mattress stained practice
• bakky packs full of flints and butts stinking
• Nuff guzzling drugs
• Vein deposit lumps clogging his mug stuck in the mud the AM doth greet him
• Spastic Max sat in a deluge of acid tabs
• Flame retardant trackie pants and garage raps sketching
• Seldom seen was he between A-to-B
• Missions to spaghetti junctions paints on the underpass
• Hanging off the highest bridge
• Rangoose quackathon
• Throwing breeze blocks through speeding windscreens passing
• He would climb electricity mains and cut the power
• From his home town and roam the streets
• Reeling in the panic and cotch in cul-de-sac hedgerows
• Watching single mothers sparking matches in the darkness of their living rooms
• His grief flourished like anthill communities
• Couplets from an undercurrent colour source beneath the grey concrete corridors
• And monoliths in-and-around the pissy stairwells and pissy lifts in which he found his peace
• Beneath the bread line
• Bread knives sliced at the smart price car crimes carnage his hair greyed
• Cracked enamel pegs inside a garbage pail kid cabbage patch
• Tapping veins until the sun decayed
• He moved inland for better dope
• Cast away bastard face forgot the names of his school mates
• He moved inland like seagulls sacking off trawler ship cast off’s for landfill luncheon
• The coastline haunted his thoughts
• And so he thought ever more about taking a saw to his neck side
• He had visions of blood dripping over the floor of
• His four-by-four foot box bedroom next life
• He’d open paperbacks but only paint the pages black
• And use a magnifying glass to spark a map of memories
• Words would get deleted quicker than a 100 metre dash
• Another night laden with some fear and loathing imagery
• You might have known him
• The man behind those ram raids
• The man behind the letter bombs sent out to several primary schools
• You might have known him as the dude who scampered
• Down the side of your house and made off with your penny farthing bicycles
• He used to watch the freight trains
• He used to fish for carp and beat his catches to a
• Rancid mush with heavy ended claw hammers
• He used to sneak into the cinema and sit in front rows
• And laugh his head off to the hammer horror matinees
• He used to talk to people and people used to talk him too
• That was way before the crack the whores the drugs the sniffing glue
• That was way before the days of simply nicking pissy booze
• And jumping queues of peeps shopping for shitty supermarket food
• See life wasn’t ship shape life was shit mate
• Life was hookers tied to his bed frame with grip tape
• Blindfolded piss games
• Net curtains shit stained fist gape listening to Rick James’ mixtapes
• He was his mother’s only baby pains
• His mother’s only labour day
• His mother’s one and only angel saint
• His mother never thought she’d see her grave before the day
• That Max was raking cash and chasing pavements to the stock exchange
• His mind felt heavy cracked skull matter case
• Fragile flesh with lead brick sat inside throbbing
• He felt his face change shape and time ebbing away
• The vital signs of life ankle deep inside a teak coffin
• Sitting in the fourth dimension he felt the raw depression
• Of forty horsemen stretching his organs awful essence
• He was ever omnipresent as a portal peasant looking in the mirror
• Clock a devil dressed in his reflection
• During thunderstorms he found peace with life
• He saw the rain as writing letters with Jesus Christ and with his fingers
• He’d scribe letters across the sky in the hope that constellations would free his mind
• But deep inside his rancid flat
• Light flicker movements mapped white face wrinkled grimace lager cans and bakky ash
• Lost in the soil fodder
• Spastic Max
• Six foot two six foot box six feet deep inside the cancer tank.

Lyrics taken from UndergroundHH, check out our full database of Edward Scissortongue Lyrics.