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Bara Menyn (Post-Contemporary Commodification) November 2024

When I call you a cont, I mean it, ah, affectionately,
I know, I know, it doesn’t make sense,
My aim, oh my aim,
To bring us to the level, a level, a field

When I call you a cont, I mean it, ah, affectionately,
I know, I know, it doesn’t make sense,
My aim, oh my aim,
To bring us to the level, a level, a field

Missing a few teeth, we are sentient too,
And the cheap bread, the cheap bread,
Messes with our gut flora, yes, yes, too.

In the northernmost part, part of Wales,
Damp, moist, moist, sits Llyn Cerrig Bach,
Where sacrifice, oh sacrifice,
In hope of change, oh change.

Your ossified institutions, your state agendas,
Crushing, oh crushing us, a little, every encounter.
Erosion of land,
Sacrifice professionalism into the pool,
A crooked dagger, oh crooked.

Conserve conservation into the peat,
Let it, let it preserve, preserve the sycophants.


Sadness, oh sadness, what could be,
What will never be, oh never be.
Frantic, hyper-anxious, focus,
Where to be, how to live, how to survive.
Bread-and-butter, stop feeding, feeding,

Art on dead walls, dictated, oh dictated,
By those disconnected, from community,
No stake, oh no real stake, in it.
No need, no need for
Corporate packaging, oh no need.

When I call you a cont, I mean it, ah, affectionately,
I know, I know, it doesn’t make sense,
My aim, oh my aim,
To bring us to the level, a level, a field