We’ve updated our Terms of Use to reflect our new entity name and address. You can review the changes here.
We’ve updated our Terms of Use. You can review the changes here.

Worse Things Waiting

by Carlton Heston of Atlanta Monsters Fame

/
1.
Draindowning 01:16
All of the sludge that is stuck in your brain is the very same sludge that runs free down the drain the only difference is your point of view. And with the times, so too you'll change. You may not see things the same way. Until then I'll be waiting here for you. When you're down just think of me. I am shit and I am free. Glubglubglub.
2.
If death was a mother like any other, would she project onto this place outpourings, outgrowths of her sin, scurrying time capsules preserving her image within? ... And when split apart she might be remembered lurking dormant in the hearts of all her children, wandering silently in the grey folds of their brains, whistling invisible behind the towered stones of each fibre, the marrowed rivers winding slowly past graves upon graves in molted cyclopean mausoleums jutting bareboned outwards into the darkened veins of a receiving purple sky. Ever elusive as the sad sickness passes from jaw to jaw, time and time again lifelocked ghouls feast for something they fail forever to attain, quietly unfulfilled by carnassial convocations and retreating back high to loom dumb behind dusted dormer windows, cold eyes again envying orgies of empty light with dreams of disincarnate rejoin. No one among the number could account for the sickness, its origins, aims, or goals, and while it wrecked the air-dancing cadavers of their sold souls a bored wanderlust returned to their minds and they again lapsed under the folds of an unseen manuscript turned by all-touching hands. The only cure, so whispered the widows at the graves, the nurses at the hospital, the attendants on the line... was to lie flat on a plank and take deep, oscillating breaths while the sound of the lung machine rotated healing mantras into the thick white crevices of the skull, back and forth, back and forth, in and out within knotting bondage of arteries and nerve endings ensnaring the snarling illness for all to see and poke at with pointy sticks and expressions of derision in holy conquest. No cure, no cure, no cure for plank sickness. Fear, fear, fear and weakness. Clattering, clattering, chest-clenching labyrinthine mad dash impeded by the blunt force of gravity signalling collapse and a speculative calamity all in an instant as it should be always. In the same old pictures, in the same old ideas distinguished in their vanity, distinguished in the years, from dust on the windowsill and markings on the pane stretching bodiless and motionless in unfathomable planes of smooth and misty willow-bends and teardrops in obscuritant, tempestuous, incestuous rivet-chilling rain. The pains of plank sickness, cured easily, cured easily, no need to worry as we sanguitize your bedsheets.
3.
Every single day is Saturday night When you hit the town and everybody feels alright Nothing to say, I just love to feel this way Getting closer to the light. When the lights go down and all is draped in ~dark,~ a chill wind blows in ashes of incinerated hearts. Twisting streets that slither through the hollow walls that shelter you, hidden in your solitude, wondering how to die. But get ready! 'Cuz this is it And I'm not here to waste your time. I only just want to let you know Every single day is Saturday night When you hit the pavement and the streets are out of sight. Nothing in your way, it's just another day Living now to feel alright. People gather all around, enraptured on the wings of sound. Another faded day has passed them by. Lost in old cathedrals, cars, and floors with litter scattered over dreams and ceremonies every night. And there's no reason to be low You don't have to be this way, you know but you choose to do it every time. Every single day is Saturday night When the past is soon forgotten and the future's burning bright Nothing to say, just love to feel this way getting closer to the light.
4.
There was nothing there to fade the shame, no shade in which to hide. The room had overflowed with probing light and eagerly it twisted through the wind of death which came and blew the masthead of the lifeboat out of sight. For days and days and months of haze, it had sent rising backwards waves whose peaks of silver broke the blackened skies and underneath those resonating pulses of the great depths waiting, everything was such a waste of time. The room hung with the smoking air of a fire not yet come and fault lines reached to cranial peaks to greet the creeping sun. From an open fifth floor window directing to the sixth came miles of dead-end rivers ready to pounce into the mist! There was nothing there to fade the shame, no shade in which to hide while watching days evaporate, the future's so clear and bright that it casts such long shadows over the desert of delight, they congregate in corners every night.
5.
No Mystery 08:55
There's nothing left and why would there be? It's no mystery to me, though it pains me nonetheless to sit here and experience it while the seasons change and the pinestraw piles outside. My door hangs still, just enough ajar to invite in a cool, stale draft. My hands lie listless in my lap, the fingers pointing towards nowhere in particular. The creme-pink walls begin to turn cobalt gray as the sun fades outside. A city bustles in the slowly encroaching night - engines, horns, idle chatter on crosswalks lit by beaming streetlamps. It is always just a little further than before, and a haze hangs swaying in the threshold between this house and the night beyond, softening its sounds to a dull hum. It reminds me of monks chanting in procession in an ancient monastery or meditating crosslegged in a temple. In the day, the monks quietly study. In the afternoon, they perform tasks and casually discuss things they've learned. In the evening, they gather for dinner. All sat along a long table they look down at their stone bowls and notice there's nothing left - and why would there be? If they'd wanted more they wouldn't have been monks anyway. It's no mystery, though having solved it they are nonetheless pained by hunger as they walk the halls listlessly starving while the seasons change and the pinestraw piles outside. The monastery door hangs still, just enough ajar to invite a cool, stale draft. They sit crosslegged, hands empty in their laps, fingers pointing madly but at no one in particular. The creme-pink walls begin to turn cobalt gray as the sun fades outside. A woods bustles in the slowly encroaching night - insects, loons, the chatter of frogs on waterways lit by moonbeams. It is always just a little further than before, and a haze hangs swaying in the threshold between this monastery and the night beyond, softening its sounds to a dull hum. It reminds me of a custodian humming tiredly to himself as he mops the floor of a school after the school day is done. In the day the children quietly study. In the afternoon they take their last class and are assessed on what they've learned. In the evening they are home for dinner. They are sat at tables, and later the custodian looks down the halls and nods there's nothing left - and why would there be? The day is long done, and if there was more he wouldn't care anyway. It's no mystery, though having solved it he is nonetheless pained by fatigue as he leaves the halls spotlessly, exiting while the seasons change and pinestraw piles outside. The janitor's door hangs still, just enough ajar to invite a cool stale draft. He sits heaped over, hands twitching in his lap, fingers pointing at no time in particular. The creme-pink walls begin to turn cobalt gray as the sun fades outside. A desert bustles in the slowly encroaching night - winds, coyotes, the clatter of sand on stony pathways with no light. It is always just a little further than before, and a haze hangs swaying on the threshold between the school and the night beyond, softening its sounds to a dull hum. It doesn't remind me of anything.
6.
All white rappers suck my mother fuckin DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICK Outside of your car I'm lookin' real mean. My eyes are black and my skin is green. I'm lying on the ground cos I can't get up cos I went out hard I'm not a bitch-made punk. You're getting really scared, huh? What you gonna do? Today it's me but it could be you. I'm the face of God in your chicken noodle soup. Your life is a fraud, only death is true: Wake up!
7.
Violence of the river take me underground, shake me like the leaves that fall when the season turns around. It!'s true, Oh, how are you? Stars that twinkle overhead in rhythms of your heart shining as your love-lost soul tears them all apart. Things that wash your tears away are lost in waters here today. And It!'s true, Oh, how are you? Violets of the river in velvet flower, take me through the garden gates which rust more by the hour alone beneath a wandering moon whose hat lies somewhere on this ground. I should do the same quite soon and lay my old hat down. And It!'s true, Oh, how are you?
8.
Lost in rolling fields spread vast before their time, winding back from their destruction Still while the twilight trickles 'cross the curving hills, shining from the uncreation. Wander my love, searching through the evening hours. The grass feels it still and emanates it all around you. Open your heart and spread among nocturnal flowers streaming 'cross the inside of the sky. Gone beneath the waves of earth you disappear washing through your dream creation Still while the night comes madly and its chill tears away the day's deception. Open your heart and spread among nocturnal flowers ancient and still emanating all around you. Move through my love, searching through the evening hours screaming 'cross the inside of the sky. Wander my love, searching through the evening hours. The grass feels it still and emanates it all around you. Open your heart and spread among nocturnal flowers streaming 'cross the inside of the sky.
9.
All Around 06:45
All around is darkness still I know what to do I can feel it coming on. There's no way to stop it, the mighty wind of love it has come to make us strong.
10.
There are some days things go right, there are some days things go wrong and you'll have neither when you're dead.
11.
Waiting 01:34
When the alimony checks run out and your man runs off and you feel like it's been such a long time since you could justify a single happy thought when the fog is rolling in, and your life is at an end I'll be circling up in the sky. Oh, I've got you in my eye. I'll be waiting for the day I take you in. I'll be your friend. Waiting to join with you again. Well, I don't need any money. I don't need any fame. I don't even care if you call me by my name. But if you don't know what to do I'll give you a clue: you've been going the wrong direction ever since you came. When the fog is rolling in I'll be the light. I'll be shining, burning bright. Oh, I've got you in my eye. I'll be waiting for the day I take you in, I'll be your friend. Just waiting to join with you again.
12.
Creation re-strung by nightmares each night he searches for light in his dreams. Life has conquered death, claimed it all and took it back. The wind he rode blows over the reeds. All was quiet in the woods that night. Just the low babble of a creek... but from the mud and mossen bog towards lonely homes that time forgot a form is shifting in between the trees where the earth lies fertile and untouched, and specters rise up from the rot, and shadows march down passages between the pines with wills that triumph over minds and matter. His eyes are windows to his soul - shattered glass in darkened holes. The wind he rode sings between the trees. Where people walk he hides away, where the sun shines he seldom strays. Just watches through the willows and the haze. In open doors, in darkened halls, still on the ground as the rain falls he fades.

about

Tales of fantasy and horror by Carlton Heston of Atlanta Monsters fame.

To: Joshua Berman, Matthew Trotter, Cocky, Wwaylon, Mona Stevens, Steven Marchi, and now on 05/26/2022 Lightnin' Jack

Bonus tracks include video version of "IT!'S TRUE!!!" and two previously unreleased tracks from the band Ariana Grande & the Eagles of Death Metal (aka The Atlanta Monsters).

credits

released February 28, 2022

Tim Crump - sax on tracks 9, 19, 20
Justin Dore - bongo samples on track 9, drums on tracks 19, 20
Opening of track 13 is a riff on Scott Joplin's "Real Slow Drag"
Carlton Heston of Atlanta Monsters Fame - all the other stuff

license

all rights reserved

tags

about

Carlton Heston Atlanta, Georgia

If you're reading this - Gods of the Dead is the good one. Listen to that first if you're going to listen to anything on here. It's actually pretty solid.

Atlanta Monsters' Ball is also nice.

contact / help

Contact Carlton Heston

Streaming and
Download help

Report this album or account

Carlton Heston recommends:

If you like Worse Things Waiting, you may also like: