Aide Mwah-Mwah | Deep Rectal Temperature
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Aide Mwah​-​Mwah

by Deep Rectal Temperature

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1.
01. End of the World Mall 01:38
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Man with a busted hip Man with fake hair Woman with a tight hat Woman with spongy shoes They’re all here at the end of the world mall Nail bar, eyelash tinting too Cut price optician That will Do you a hearing test too Butcher shop with pale meat Jeweller selling Lord knows what To Lord knows who They’re all here at the end of the world mall Dollar shops here and there, smelling like chemical fresheners A barber shop with a sad-eyed Greek man A doughnut shop with a queue out the door Sushi sushi sushi all around and not a drop to drink They’re all here at the end of the world mall Tiny plastic merry go round Squawking Bananas in Pyjamas tunes Yellow Caution Wet Floor triangles Sprouting like seedlings after a shower The click-clack of walking sticks The trundle of massed supermarket trollies with worn wheels They’re all here at the end of the world mall They’re all here at the end of the world, ma They’re all here at the end of the world mall They’re all here at the end of the world, ma
2.
02. Alibaba's Alibi 03:48
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Alibabas alibi Snuff movie gore Battlefresh and lupidine Bensamoric floor Taking pride in sliding wide Hiding mites with angel's tithe Croupier headstone golosh Oh gosh Posh nosh, tosh Pish tish and tish tosh, bloss Haha the harbinger house The huffing ham-lover's hue and cry Hellzapoppin' hooty And the hinterland hootenanny havering like a hapsichord Hoping for help from an hubristic helleborine Enough Of That Pish Posh Orchid arachnid opiad Otherworldly ochre ohms from ormskirk saltbaths Breathing in the fibreglass and asbestos of love It's the power of love It's the tower of gloves, love It's the spooky tooth's loopy droogs It's the spirit of california You randy mantooth Forsooth, bruce You and me both crude blossoms And the bridge, its size Wearing a short boot With a long sock Like a spatchcocked poltroon Like a Himalayan haiku Diminishing effervescently Silently Gently Over hot coals in Autumn Fiendish and friendless Craven and skirmish With a dervish called nervous Ichabod the stunted dastard Sinkhole tripwire stunt hole Vacate the energising quarry deep Rocking theatre coward of pain Return the nosegay to the oasthouse And begone before the tumult arises Begone before the campfire ash Stirs on your loft space and causes Welts of love and gore and leopardskin mittens Freeze framed in a foxtrot pose By a snickering stuttering paraffin lamp A bitcoined smutcoin tarnished by tinseltown Rough shanks glimmer like pinholes in the snow Moist, sharp, edgy and limp It cannot be done It cannot be sung It can only be drummed Burundi style and quick Native talking froth Cocked and cockerel coking cooking Winking, primping, preening and pulp It's a pulp It's a pup It's da pope Wearing a long sock With a short boot A long tooth with a houndstooth A bounder's truth Purfled and chamfered with a chamfering cloth With a dancing cloth With a spoon With a nude spoon in the gloom room A doomy plume to the piper's tune To the jumper's croon The dumper's broom The crumpler's spitoon The warthog's high noon The padfoot's craven rune Sinking beneath a mouldering sack of hemp At easter by the light of the brilliantine moon The Billericay dickie Swarfegas his coarsen lumpen hands after a day sorting crankshafts with his vile brickie's engine oil Calmly placating stirrups Lightly powdering kegs Frightfully blundering through hogsheads of bobsleds top shelf golf treads Looking behind for relief from the wind-up crime drop hot spot hip hop bag drop dewdrop crop Riding sunsets pretending plume Tabbard with tabernacle treacle tune Like Wimsey on a whimsey with a whopping wind A guileless clueless feckless worm Insinuating otherworldliness through the sporadic use of hand gestures sublime Taming shrews and turning blue Tapping tapioca trellises through unctuous unguents And careening careers advisers carriages covered in calamine and cobalt crumbs Buccaneering braid weavers bilk Mr Pobjoy's blunderbuss Where have all the bees gone? Buzzing bees make honey, doctor Feel good about deluxe ducks And Kursaal flyers flying Are we nearly there yet? A vanilla slice in time
3.
03. All the Bangs and Whistles 02:10
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All the bangs and whistles Tickling with thistles Muckying my bristles With tiny little kissles Never eating tissles Who would build missiles? With material that was fissile Not parrots, that's for sure A loneliness descends Like an unwanted raincoat Questioning the habits Querying the formula Turning again to the sodium lit screen To escape to hide to feign Averted eyes and ear bud deafness Calmness concealing tensed sinew bone and muscle Fright flight or fight Looks like a fightnight Deep breathing techniques to release the coil spring And what is it all for, this pretence, this sham To avoid dying alone Every one Alone and responsible and then quite forgotten but two generations hence So much dust So much trust So much rust Nights alone flights alone fights alone Twelve years on and those words were never truer Caffeine's not your fren, fren Toothache jawache boneache Rude stare fruit stare hebdomidaire Loquacious propatious Rottenburst skyfall hapsash All the bangs and whistles
4.
04. Big Fella in a Small Suit 02:43
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Big fella in a small suit Crumpling a donut bag and wiping icing sugar from 'is lapel Packet of soft toffees in his inside jacket pocket - sooooft'n'sweet And a stick of lip balm Coconut and honey flavour - tasty P'raps too tasty For a big fella in a small suit Big fella catches his reflection in Lord John's window Neat Neat Neat Short cropped barnet of flamey red fades to grey Gone too soon Gone to grey Born to be wild Born to beguile Born to begrudge Big fella in a small suit And it's a cheap suit But a neat suit Not a stretch suit Not a flex suit A very small suit A very smart suit Roll over keep down sing loud play fair Big fella in a small suit Sweating tho its not hot Not cool to sweat when it's not hot Not cool to sweat when it's hot Plastic shoes'll do that to a man Every Fuckin' Time Big fella in a small suit Cracked glass iPhone giving 'im tiny paper cuts when he texts biscuit stains on 'is tie Not an easy look to achieve But 'e struggles My 'ow 'e struggles Like a sunbeam Like a porter's daughter Washed her hands in the deadly water W'iout a bustle in his hedgerow Big fella in a small suit Dreams of retiring to a cottage by the sea Raising lilacs and learning to cook Shedding a few pounds from where it counts and doing the crossword Short walk to the village pub where the landlord knows his name Knows 'is place Knows his order The usual, sir? Light'n'bitter, please. In a thin glass And a packet of porky scratchings and a pickled egg Not good for the waistline and he's a little bit pissed an' all But hey, it was only a dream A bitter little daydream Believe 'er
5.
05. Hard Peace 02:09
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Hard peace Under milk stout Slush, concrete and a corporation bus Chip wrapper, Daily Record, band-aid with puss Sub-zero wind blowing just for some atmosphere Harrington and Sta-Press, dribbled with pakora grease Hand-me-down oxblood monkey boots With mucky yellow laces They could tell a tale or two Hiding from the polis Because you just torched a ‘phone box Pissed as a parrot, Skint as a rabbit Afraid to go hame in case the auld yin’s still awake In case the lunacy’s still smoulderin’ in the grate The promise of violence of one sort or another And the worst of it is not knowin’ any better Wee owld man in a bunnet Zig zagging hame, heid doon Arguing wi somebody that used to drink in The Bells Before he passed away, 12 year ago The year efter his wife died of something bad Two skinny weans, sixish and sevenish Dark rings roon their eyes Eating chips frae a bag Their tea and mebbe their breakfast as well Grime under their nails and nits in their hair Merry Christmas, son - can you open some tins? We’ll be better the morra We’ll be better the morra Starless and bible-black, right enough How does it end? Bad blood bad liver bad kidneys Hit by a motor car driven by a bam Hair doon tae there and a look in his eye Collapsed lung, concussion and a helluva scar Lyin’ in the hoss bottle dreamin’ of Largs It sounds a bit Victorian, a wee bit rough If you’re feelin’ rough, see The Puff But it’s probably too late already
6.
06. Ibrox 01:38
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Noisy toy train, rattling into Copland Road Rangers scarf wound tightly ‘round stringy neck Acid-looking man with sunken cheeks nods hallo To a sour-looking man with a straggly moustache and a grimy collar Drifting out of The Stadium bar Solitary drinker, mellowed by neglect and use and quiet living Staring fixedly at extended puddles on the pavement Like a mourner by a grave, heart bowed down by sorrow Disabled pensioner standing irresolutely by a burst mattress Feeling the cold through the soles of cracked leather boots Heart of lead in the steady rain from a cheerless grey Caledonian sky Thinking of what to have for tea
7.
07. What Makes You Happy? 02:12
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What makes you happy The wife’n’the weans’n’the brither of course Vera, Poirot, Endeavour and Morse The Orb, Dub Rebels, some metal and Scratch Green Penguins, Hardy Boys, Arthur Catherall, natch What makes you happy What makes you happy Melbourne, Lorne, Hobart, Penang Pickled walnuts, ice cream, samosas and nan Lime juice, lemon mint, orange juice and tea What makes you happy What makes you happy
8.
08. Lorne Rap 01:37
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Ivy Baldry sniffing amyl nye-trate Doug Stirling huffing glue Gordon’s bench knee deep in used condoms Dan dan the pippie man Carving a cadaver in a lather Ivy Baldry, gypsy queen Ivy Baldry, silver screen Ivy Baldry, kinky dream Ivy Baldry, seventeen She shells sea snails from a seesaw He files faux shawls from the foreshore She smells feet smells from a glass claw He fells freefalls every time for sure Ivy Baldry, gypsy queen Ivy Baldry, silver screen Ivy Baldry, kinky dream Ivy Baldry, seventeen She shells sea snails from a seesaw He files faux shawls from the foreshore She smells feet smells from a glass claw He fells freefalls every time for sure

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released April 29, 2024

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Deep Rectal Temperature Melbourne, Australia

Deep Rectal Temperature were formed in 1994 in Melbourne from the remnants of various post-punk bands that haunted the underground scene in London and Glasgow. DRT have produced over 50 albums, EPs and singles to date - many of which will be reissued in the coming years in high quality streaming and downloadable formats. ... more

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