lemon revolution

I've watched the league's opening weekend with the same, transfixed gaze as any other football fan. But there has been, for me, an unmistakable sense of excess to the whole thing. The kind of feeling you get when you've eaten too much sugar, or when a feeling of happiness falls into sharp sadness. The transfer fees passed around this summer begged belief, as always, from a financial perspective - "how can anyone be prepared to spend that much on a footballer" . But the fees are starting to lose any kind of proportion to player ability. There is no longer any obvious sense that the world's most expensive player is among the world's very best players. And plain average Premier League players such as Yannick Bolasie are trading hands for the kind of money that only one or two years back, was held in reserve for the likes of Fabregas: players who competed in Champions League and World Cup finals. This hasn't simply appeared out of the blue, and is o...

Dry scratched skin like rough old bark Sweating limbs in cabin yard Use eyes soaked black deprived of sleep Watch sadness rise from morning feet A smokey foam a mushroom cloud Not one lie could make you proud Throws bricks of freedom to windows of the mind which thinks it Crying mirrors to history's hymn image of tears and thoughts of sin And rivers of light below my legs The holes I use to see it dead Filled with pain and blocked in black The tongue springs out but words don't catch Nothing but the bitter glare of a bitter man who sits twisted in a ball of string Black whips crack across black skin The years of hate to hearts of tin In a hollow tone rips through our bones Where crying breathes in trojan groans Pregnant with our oil lives In leather fumes they sweat and die Trying to fix my way through a maze in the stone black darkness So don't fear If you hear A foreign sound, to your ear It's alright Ma, I'm only sighing Blood on b...