We drowned Europe and it feels great. London's nicer now it's a swamp. Heat is rushing up through my veins. Can't tell what is real and what's Triassic. Life's more fun now we don't work. Just float around and loot the dead. Heat is rushing up into my brain. Don't care what is real and what's Triassic. A cop pursues. We don't mind. It's always good to have a fan. Get the jetskis to Piccadilly. We'll swim in whatever's left of the Ritz. You just have to know how to have fun.
Track Name: Four-Colour Wonders
Hero of the beach. Man of muscle mystery. Lost long ago. No room left. Seems like I deconstructed the fun out of this place. Because no matter how many alleys I peer down, I never seem to catch a glimpse of Russian super-spies battling giant brains, or crystalline aliens trying to turn the world into glass. Once there were allies. Tom O'Bedlam turning the eye one step from tedium, and even dull, straight old Superboy used to have the decency to reimagine Moby Dick with a red-winged space whale. Want Steel Claw. Not this mockery of our once grand, strange joy. Not even Lord Fanny's going to get us out of this one. And she keeps giving me, me this look, like I'm the one who went and packed away the glamorous rocket-men. Maybe it's not too late. Maybe we're not stuck with the flabby-minded dreams of middle-aged men. We can still tell Garth Ennis we've grown tired of his macho power trips and reject this conservative, monotone wailing that passes for gritty realism. But my feet sink into the concrete street, and as my skin forms a chitinous carapace and insect lungs burst forth from my legs, I hang my head in shame at this pathetic excuse for transhuman possibilities. Ah, forget it! We're still feral, and our minds are filled to bursting with copulating images from stranger times. They'll never be able to stop me visiting our Martian neighbours, or exploring the dangerous sexualities of the mole men. Need Rachel Pollack. Bring Coagula. Find Dan Dare. Get Starman. Because I don't know. No I don't know. I don't know if even Alan Moore knows the score anymore.
Track Name: Mothra
Mothra! Mothra! Flight of Mothra! (X2) From Infant Island, she's coming to Leeds. Gonna battle Rodan by the DWP. She's heard the call, knows are buildings are shit. She'll solve the problem by flying over it. Mothra! Mothra! Flight of Mothra! (X2) The cocoon has hatched, it's all too late. When Bridgewater falls there'll be no wake. They gentrified the city centre, but insect love leaves a glorious crater. "Pigs can't do shit", the skyline's tedious. My airborne god makes it all meaningless. You poor fools, you made Ghidora your king. She'll show you, Mothra will raise everything. Holy shit she levelled Opal One! Trinity's gone, we'll stand in the ash of your dreams. Aesthetic wrath, to free us she'll use any means. It's alright. If it's still standing, it's ours.
Track Name: Deterritorialise This
Cruising the hallways and ready to roll, our bodies ain't got organs but baby we got soul. Rocking peasants jackets, better get it right. Keep our fingernails long, always ready to fight. We're both many so we got a gang, Deleuze and Guattari hit the scene with a bang! Birthing monstrous kids and riding war machines, psychoanalysts run, we're schizophrenic and mean. Bastard nomads, you know our turf's everywhere. Deterritorialise this, rumble if you dare! (second verse, same as the first) We only wanted to be pop. Well, Mr Corman? Did we get the job? You better watch out. Our rhizomes got leather jackets. And switchblades.