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Overly Ambitious Like Proust

from Working Class Artists by Working Class Artists

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lyrics

Got my heart on my sleeve but I'm wearing two layers.
Ignoring the advice of so-called soothsayers.
I never tell the truth,
I own 40 acres.
You gobble up these lies like a churchful of prayers
I’m black,
I’m white,
I’m gay,
I’m straight.
Be whatever it takes depending on the date.
Arts degree in English all up in this bitch,
but I’ll never be a writer ‘cos my parents aren’t rich!

And everything I pen is apparently ‘kitsch’.
Wish that my mind had a fucking off switch!
Fuck the daily grind, just jump off a bridge!
Not really though,
only my soul.

Send that drip to the depths, try and get my hole.
Drowning in ant-milk just to keep my head afloat.
I’ll never get to heaven in a little rowing boat.
Summat close beckons through this old rolled banknote.
Tryin’ to break through as a working class voice,
always in charity shops, hunting for Joyce.
Copy his ideas, be critic’s choice,
go to literati parties, make women moist!

That’s just a dream.
What are the themes?
Can’t even glean any sense from it!
How did he write all of this?
Back to the drawing board, pens all run out.
Swap my hero to Hemingway, write a knockout!
Put nib to paper but there’s an ink drought!
Looking for a pact like Faust,
cooking up a mess like gosh!
Look at me now:
Overly ambitious like Proust!

Try to leave the planet on owt that’ll take me.
Wake up on granite by the cold of the sea.
Rabbit in headlights.
Cars don’t hear my plea.
Sort myself out, but concentration’s absentee.
Wasted potential.
Wasted full stop, but it’s not my fault,
swear that nobody warned me life was an assault.
Constantly looking for meaning is constantly demeaning.
Some days I’m barely breathing,
staring at the ceiling,
quietly grieving for all that could’ve been.

In a different thread, where I kept my head,
worked through adversity not languished churlishly;
far from sanguine.
Clinging to this language yearningly.
Demanding something for nothing,
others have it,
why can’t I?
Why can’t I defy the sum of my parts and take flight?
Why can’t I follow my heart’s true desire and ignite?
Why can’t we set fire to the world with the words we write?
Why can’t we lay bare all truths like ultraviolet light?

Is this life?
We were sold a lie.
Arms too short when I reach for the sky...

Is this life?
Reality bites.
Anticlimactic, we all just die...

Is this life?
We were sold a lie.
Arms too short when I reach for the sky...

Is this life?

Is this life?

Is this life?

credits

from Working Class Artists, released October 9, 2020
Jonty
Anthony
Vinny
Mark

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Working Class Artists England, UK

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