1. |
Alienathan
01:52
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My father was an alien:
he came in the night.
My Mother woke from her sleep
to find me inside.
And I grew, I grew in her womb—
nine months on, I was born.
I was a little alien
but I looked like a little boy.
And I knew there was something wrong
as the cries dried from my eyes:
the world in which I found myself
did not fit with my world inside.
But I grew, I grew, I went to school—
couldn't play their games, they called me names.
Didn't know I was an alien
and neither did I.
Then at sixteen things went very wrong
and my mother was horrified
to see the alien inside
appearing outside.
My hair it grew, then it turned blue—
my eyelids too, and my lips bloomed.
Ditched my school uniform and made my own
and a universe in my bedroom that I could call home.
And at eighteen I left my home
and I found aliens from galaxies unknown
orbiting round London like planets round the sun
and I tried to join their solar system.
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2. |
UFO
01:48
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I'm looking for UFOs.
I'm not looking in the stars.
I'm looking in the streets,
in the bars, in the clubs and on the night bus.
And when I...
I'm gonna...
Gonna...
When I find my...
Unexplored Foreign Orifice.
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3. |
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[SHIPWRECK]
Sailing through my Saturday like a shipwreck, still sinking
from that Friday night iceberg I wasn't supposed to hit—
oh no, not this week. But hit I did:
with my eyes in the other direction
with my mind upon other things.
And now I'm sinking, I'm sinking:
I walk the streets like a drowned man.
Everything is underwater, every sound a distant tremor
that has nothing to do with me.
And everything I see, I cannot see
for the million floating pieces around me.
And I slide down the side of this iceberg, and I discover
that what I thought is everything is nothing:
that what is up there, out there in the air
is nothing to what's down here.
[SATURDAY MORNING]
Got a frosted pain of glass installed in my head:
it distorts how people look, it distorts what people say.
It's made of stale alcohol and too few hours sleep:
I think I'll draw the curtains until this time next week.
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4. |
Suspended Animation
02:27
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The bin in my kitchen needs emptying,
the plates in my sink need washing,
the floor in my bedroom needs hoovering,
the sheets on my bed need changing
but not today, not today—
I'll close my eyes and make them go away.
A bill from my bank needs balancing,
a call on my phone needs taking,
another red letter needs opening,
a knock at my door needs answering
but not today, not today—
I'll close my eyes and make them go away.
Somewhere there’s a life I should be living,
somewhere there’s a wife I should be loving,
somewhere there’s a god I should be praising,
somewhere there’s a wage I should be earning
but not today, not today—
I'll close my eyes and make them go away.
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5. |
Grey Day
03:38
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I can't feel anything.
I can't feel anything.
I can't feel anything.
I can't feel anything.
I can't feel any pleasure.
I can feel only pain.
I can't feel any love.
I can feel only hate.
I can't feel anything.
I can't feel anything.
I can't feel anything.
I can't feel anything.
I can't see anything.
I can't see anything.
I can't see anything.
I can't see anything.
I can't see any windows.
I can see only walls.
I can't see any sun.
I can see only clouds.
I can't see anything.
I can't see anything.
I can't see you.
Can you see me?
I can't feel you.
Can you feel me?
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6. |
Day Return
03:59
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I stand by the sea:
it's cloudy, it's cold, a strong wind blows.
The tide's coming in:
the waves keep washing and my life comes rushing in on me.
I want a god, I want a drug, I want to love and be loved—
want to be safe but somehow stay free.
I want money, I want success, I want purity and excess—
want to change but somehow stay me.
These are the things for which a boy longs
and, when a man, he will find he cannot have.
I stand by the sea:
I pick up a stone, I imagine it's me
and throw it to the horizon
but it falls short, like I fall short of my dreams.
I want the best, I want better, I want more, I want to matter
but nothing matters here by the sea:
whatever I want, whatever I need
the waves will wash on without me.
I stand by the sea:
I could walk out into it 'til it covered my feet,
'til it covered my waist, 'til it covered my neck—
I could walk out into it 'til it covered my head.
I could open my mouth and just let it in.
But I don't: I stand and I stare,
seeing my death there and refusing
to die and feeling somehow more alive.
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7. |
And Transfiguration
01:53
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Another day, another morning:
I'm here again, oh god, I'm here again.
Last night I prayed when I opened my eyes
I'd be someone else, I'd be somewhere else:
I'd change these human limbs for a fish's fins
or a bird's wings. And I would live in the sea
or I would live in the air: I would live anywhere
but here, here, here.
And now it's day and now it's morning
should I pull back the bedclothes and open my eyes,
draw back the curtains and look outside
to find I'm here again, oh god, I'm here again.
Or should I stay in bed and keep
shut my eyes, hold on to this moment when
these things on the ends of my arms they might not be hands,
these things on the ends of my legs they might not be feet—
I might be anyone and I might be anywhere
but here.
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8. |
Lap Dog
01:29
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I've got a little dog.
He sits in my lap.
He goes yap, yap, yap,
yap, yap,
yap.
He's always hungry.
And sometimes I give my dog a bone
and he's quiet for a wile
but he's never quiet for long.
I wonder why I keep my little dog—
he does nothing but eat and sleep and play,
he spends my money and he wastes my days
and sometimes he makes me happy.
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9. |
Present Conditional
02:04
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If I were a book would you read it?
If I were a song would you sing?
If I were a game would you play it?
If I were a phone would you ring?
If I were a road would you walk it?
If I were a drug would you drink?
If I were a shirt would you wear it?
If I were a thought would you think?
If I were a vow would you break it?
If I were a bill would you pay?
If I were a war would you fight it?
If I were a prayer would you pray?
If I were the air would you breathe?
If I were a door would you leave?
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10. |
Subliminal
01:15
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Don't want your name on me.
Don't want your name on me.
Don't want your name on my feet.
Don't want your name on me.
Don't want your name on me.
Don't want your name on me.
Don't want your name on my TV screen.
Don't want your name on me.
Don't want your name on me.
Don't want your name on me.
Don't want your name on my magazine.
Don't want your name on me.
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11. |
Liminal
02:33
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I don't want you
and I don't not want you
but I don't want to be alone.
Don't want to meet your friends,
don't want to walk your dog,
don't want to make your bed
or do your washing up
but I don't want to be alone.
When I wake in the night
you've stolen all the covers—
this bed's too small for two.
Can't get comfortable, can't sleep—
I stare into the darkness,
the darkness outside our white sheets.
And the darkness says, 'come with me'
but I won't go, I'll stay.
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12. |
Well Worn
01:26
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Trying to find a boyfriend
is like trying to buy new jeans—
no matter how good they seem
there’s always something wrong with them.
This one’s too grey,
this one’s too green,
this one’s too dirty,
this one’s to clean,
this one’s too wide,
this one’s too thin,
this one’s too neat and
this too frayed at the seams.
I’ve had a drink,
there’s not much light—
I walk along the rail,
I think that one’s alright.
I pick him out,
I try him on—
he seems to fit,
I take him home.
And in the morning
he’s rumpled on the floor
and I think maybe
he should go back to the store
but men are like jeans—
if, at first, they don’t quite fit
the more you wear them
the more comfortable they get.
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13. |
The Fall
02:12
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You’ve been holding it back for weeks—
words have been pressed to the inside of your lips,
ripening like berries, now heavy
they fall between the gaps in your teeth
and you hear yourself saying, ‘I love you,’
and he says, ‘I love you too,’
and it's there in that moment you know
to get ready for the fall.
And way back in the Garden of Eden,
God made man and an apple and God made a serpent:
God made many things
and God made man want them.
Pity poor Adam for he did not know
and in a few bites it was gone—
left with only a core, wanting more.
Left waiting for the fall.
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14. |
Road
02:57
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I left my home when I was twelve years old:
I didn’t know where I was going but I knew
I had to go, so I shut the door on everything
I’d ever known and set off down the road.
I was on the road; I was lost and it was raining.
I had no map; there was no-one to give me
directions. Suddenly a car pulled up beside me.
The door opened: a man was driving. He said
his name was God and he asked me where
I was going. I said, ‘I know I’m going somewhere
‘but I don’t know exactly where.’ He said, ‘Get in.
'I’ll take you there.’
And I said, ‘Give me more than I see
‘give me something bigger to believe in.’
God said, ‘Believe in me and I will give you
'everything.’ So I got in.
For seven years I sat in that passenger seat
and God sat behind the wheel and as we drove
he told me about heaven and he told me about hell.
He said, ‘Heaven’s where we’re headin' and hell’s
'what happens if we stop. Keep your eyes
'on the road ahead and never turn to look.'
So for seven years we never stopped
and I never turned to look. I saw the world
through a windscreen and I only saw it:
I never touched it.
But after seven years I was hungry
and I needed a piss so I asked God
if I could get out for a bit. God looked
disapproving.He said, ‘Can’t you wait?’
I said, ‘How much longer?’ He said,
‘As long as it takes.’
He dropped me by the side of the road.
He gave me money for food. He said, 'Be back
'in ten minutes,' and I really thought I would.
But I left God sitting by the side of the road.
Perhaps he’s still there, perhaps he picked up
someone else or perhaps he’s driving on to heaven
alone.
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15. |
New Nothing
02:31
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Standing in a station, waiting for a train–
been waiting for a while now, the train has been delayed.
And in every pound you say I'll pay another percentage 'p'—
for what, for waiting in the rain?
Oo, it's funny: things keep getting worse for me.
Oo, it's funny: you're not what you said you'd be.
I'm eighteen again, want to go to university.
My parents are poor and I'm scared of owing money:
do I go to university, do I learn a little more than me,
or do I stay at home and just earn money?
I'm twenty-one again, just left university.
I want to see the world but I owe so much money:
do I go see the world, do I learn a little more than me,
or do I stay at home and just earn money?
Oo, it's funny: things keep getting worse for me.
Oo, it's funny: you're not what you said you'd be.
And if this is earth then hell must be great
and I'm booking my place. At least in hell
you know you have no hope: there's no
carrot and no rope. This life is such a joke.
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16. |
Yours Regrettably
02:19
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Wrote a letter this morning:
another 'Dear Sir or Madam', another 'Yours Sincerely'
but beneath polite phrases and word-processed pages
was scrawled a big 'help me'.
I don't know what 'yes' means
'cause no one's ever said it to me.
Only know what 'no' means
and 'sorry', 'maybe', 'unfortunately'.
Posted a letter this morning—
another stamp, another twenty 'p'—
and, as I posted it, I looked up to the sky
hoping to see hope there in big neon lights
but there was only clouds:
God was not at home.
Today, as every day, I am on my own.
I don't know what 'yes' means,
only know what 'no' means
and 'sorry', 'maybe', 'unfortunately',
'probably', 'possibly', 'regrettably'.
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17. |
Bitchy
01:50
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Posh bitch, parading her privilege in public—
which is horse and which is human?
Go back to your pen. Your road was so smooth
you made your own stones. Go and pop
another pill. You wear your depression
like a lifetime's achievement but I know
depression and where I come from that's not what
they call it—they call it life and they just live it.
And when they're sad, they don't talk about it.
When they're hurt, they don't know about it.
They're too busy making money, paying bills,
changing nappies, queueing in Tesco's
for the bargains, telly weekdays, pub at weekends.
So fuck off to your meetings, 'My name is...'
Tell your sad stories. But you don't know...
Posh school, posh job, posh house, posh kids,
posh life, posh death, posh funeral
and I only hate you because I want it too.
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18. |
||||
It's 1992: I'm wearing
a tie-dyed t-shirt and hair down to my nipples,
paint-spattered denim and unlaced army boots.
Mum says, ‘You look a fool!’ but I know I look cool
as I shut the door on our semi-detached
and I make my way to the local art college
where I know I'll be more at home 'cause they're
all wearing tie-dye and paint-spattered denim
so I don't know why I fix on you with your
ginger crew-cut and your dodgy DM shoes—
maybe because you looked like you didn't want to be spoken to
and you're halfway out the door before I dare to approach you…
Oh, Patrick—why d'ya do it?
So your name is Patrick, you're a mature student
working night shifts to put yourself through college,
‘A starving artist and not some stupid kid who
'thinks they're living La Boheme whilst sponging off their parents.’
You turn up your nose and take another road and I head home,
where there's Marks and Spencers vegetarian lasagne in the oven
and Mum wants to know, ‘How’s your day been?’
I tell her, ‘I'm not hungry,’and take refuge in my room.
Oh, Patrick—why d'ya do it?
Next day they give us a camera and tell us to work in pairs:
you lift your lens to me and say, 'So you wanna be in my movie?'
I don't know what’s changed since the night before but we shoot
together all that year—you are my director and I am you star.
You show me Jarman, Anger, Fassbinder, Passolini—
we pore over pirate copies and pour ourselves cheap whiskey.
I crash on your floor (I cherish even your snores)
and never tell my bourgeois parents that I'm staying over.
Oh, Patrick—why d'ya do it?
You gave me so much and I gave you 'Maurice':
an end of year present, I say, 'Read it. It's research.'
You say, 'They already filmed it.' I say, 'I want to live it.'
You say, 'I'm not like that. I'm sorry if I've misled…'
It's the end of year party, I've had six pints already.
You say, 'Maybe it's best if we don't meet after this?'
The last time I see you there's some girl around your waist and
I run home to my bourgeois parents and my bourgeois pillow case.
Oh, Patrick—why d'ya do it?
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19. |
Mothership (1 & 2)
04:10
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[1]
She keeps me tombed
in clockwork womb,
feeds me and carefully
selects what I can see.
Sometimes the kids across the way
come to ask me out to play
but she won’t let me go:
she’s afraid I won’t come home.
She did let me out once—
coiled a rope around her waist
and the other end to me,
told me to be back in time for tea.
I wanted to breathe,
breathe to the balls of my feet.
Everyone else was breathing
and I tried to join in
but however hard I sucked
the air just stayed throat-stuck.
So I wound myself in early;
she was waiting with her key.
Next time I’ll do it properly—
though she cry and cogs grow rusty,
though she set her clock against me,
though I go short-breathed and hungry—
then I shall be free.
[2]
'Hi this is Nathan, please leave me a message.'
'Nathan, it's Mum. Can you call home please?'
Should I ring her and tell her where I was last night,
what I did and who I spent the night with?
Should I tell her I'm in love and who I love
and how I don't know how to make him love me?
Should I tell her I love her?
Should I tell her I can't bear to look at her
and see the disappointment in her eyes?
Should I tell her how I cried
when her last cheque came through the post
because I knew she wanted to give it
but I knew she couldn't afford it and I couldn't afford to say 'no'.
Should I tell her I don't know any more
and I used to be so sure?
Should I tell her she was right?
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20. |
(I Wanna Be A) Gay Boy
02:39
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Mummy, when I grow up I want to be a gay boy
so buy me 'I Should Be So Lucky'
so I can pickle my brain in Kylie
or, if that fails, book me a lobotomy
for my sixteenth birthday then I can be
just like all the gay boys.
I wanna be a gay boy.
Mummy, please.
Mummy, when I grow up I want to be a gay boy
so buy me anabolic steroids
so I can get the perfect deltoids
or, if that fails, book me plastic surgery
for my sixteenth birthday then I can be
just like all the gay boys.
I wanna be a gay boy.
Mummy, please.
Mummy, now I've grown up and tried to be a gay boy
but I did it all the wrong way—
oh, Mummy, why did you nor help me?
I have failed so put me from my misery
for my thirty-second birthday 'cause I'll never be
just like all the gay boys.
At least, that's what I say—
do you believe me?
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Nathan Evans London, UK
Nathan began songwriting on a Casio keyboard in his bedroom, had recorded seven cassette-deck concept albums by the time he
turned sixteen.
He returned to recording in 1999 with the bedsit four-track 'Alienathan', which he's releasing finally to mark its twentieth anniversary.
In his other lives, Nathan is an award-winning writer, director & performer making books, films & theatre.
... more
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