James P Honey

aka DULL FAME HONEY... cvlt leader of BURIERS... hack reports from no man's land

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‘Like a modern-day Leonard Cohen’ Volume Magazine

‘The Lyrical Power of a nose-splitting head butt’ Gold Flake Paint

’A musical Kerouac’ Micah P. Hinson

'Is this suburban golf-club president a dealer in death..?' Daily Mail

'If you are worried that you have sold out, or you may sellout at some point
- do it! kill yourself now!' Stewart Lee

In Honour; _or_ how hearts get lost

a wristwatch sank
in the sands of an old rich holiday haunt
gaunt model wasn’t curve enough
and the local young rebel wasn’t wild or strong

and along came the leaves to
clog up the Jacuzzis and ruin all the lawns
cocaine dinner party
hardly anything to do anyway give a damn

to speak of one’s own pride
as if an ocean cared who it drowned
and the moon was all but a hole punched through deep blue tarpaulin pulled real taught

and this is exactly how hearts get lost
inside cubes set aside inside valleys
of a ripple on the top of the Thames like glass
and the all-star child-cast firing squad
god complex, next level ambition
of a prison guard role acceptance speech
deep theory, dull dull prose
no hope for folk singer these days

and after all, we are all a figure
standing tall in a landscape
and the moon is all but a hole
a hole punch through
deep blue dawn

and the tower clock cast out cold all grey
in a city like war where paperweights
take Place of minds inside dead walls
and where does all the time get to? 

in honour of new endings and men that pen the prose
of dust and somesuch crystal carving out the paths
of all your dearest loved ones

and all at once it was clear the earth was only just
a girl asleep inside the greedy silence coiling in a gun barrel
this song is called in honour of the men that penned the dictionary of angels and smaller feats before the curtain fell


We Are Small; _or_ the way the valley made us feel

we all die twice
the first time when we cease to breathe
and the last time is the last time someone speaks our name
the last time
the last time

and the cloud is a halo about the mountain’s cold crown
and we are small
the cloud is a halo about the mountain’s cold crown
and we are small

we grew together, strong as a storm
we grew together, strong as a storm
grew and grew and grew
grew and grew and grew

so started out slowly all coming down silent in a tacky kind of hue made out of nothing of a uniform
cradling a sky torn open wound broad by the city park sitting down trying to be whatever man
let it all silent as a halo as cloud or the heresies of snouts sniffing pyramids of money see
never going to be the same. never going to be the same. never going to be the same let them roll down
in the end all colour like colour tv a kind of scratch made out oblivious and stick them all upon a shelf
always in the end you'll find. always in the end you'll find. always in the end you'll find.
that we grew together as strong as a storm


Goat’s Gloom; _or_ call off the hounds of fate

on a pedestal where all men bleed the same as goats
and here’s to hoping for something pretty
flee with me my love
flee with me or leave me be my love

such is the way of the heart of the fool
to pull apart the coals and let them cool
all for a spark
all for a fear of the dark


A Lesson In Skinning Goats; _or_ a murmur within the breeze

keep calm and make the logo bigger across the sniggering face of your un-appointed spokesman. go ahead get even. dragged to a dead end you strike me down blame the parents, designer watches or broken handbag replicas. what a stench. protective hands placed on the small of very awkward arching backs in very black alcoves - throw me a ruffled plumage - come along and heart me
burn these ventricles pulled from my chest and dressed in a ridiculous, photographic, super slick scratched scene. 

scratched montage. an end to envy. not need lantern. how to deal with isolation and how sweet in a deeply corporate way they tend to seem. lie down, scream and gaze listlessly as the emptiness reseeds into nothing. gentlemans’ feuds, public floggings all is true and clear as the moon is carved. it’s really all brandy and business cards, body language, who owns whom in dull order and full coverage copper wire like incandescence. 

or a lesson in skinning goats on the end of rotting piers and here’s to integrity belly flopping in a puddle of crass taste, hypocrisy and hysteria. remember when we were made of flesh? and yes, an understated glamour of stretch glamour, come now detest brackets you and your cute dog-heart bark as cardboard arm reaches out from monitor screen wielding scalpel stumble hungry through the village home. sitting on a spit of reclaimed land, your son and heir prepare to let it get serious and who are you calling dummy? chin up and rally on await the intermission or leave the pantomime mayhem blend in masticate and make moves. for all the bruises traded in taverns a world of water awaits tethered to a moon made out of body parts, opalescent prints of past passions beamed from badly broken overheads. fed forever on minced lung, sunday supplements, colour and war, tourist routes and fancy dress - let me be i’m busy! for the flowers of our hedgerows, sniffer dogs and all sacks of silicon. a stretch of utter black fitliest called discord and how we crave for honest graspings or ducking stool experimentation. place one’s head in one’s oven which way to stumble for comfort, stony-souled little city?