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1. |
Draindowning
01:16
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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.
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2. |
Plank Sickness
06:50
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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.
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3. |
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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.
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4. |
The Theater Upstairs
03:35
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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.
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5. |
No Mystery
08:55
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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.
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6. |
Fresh White Reeboks
00:45
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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!
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7. |
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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?
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8. |
Moonflower (Wander)
02:22
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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.
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9. |
All Around
06:45
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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.
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10. |
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There are some days
things go right,
there are some days
things go wrong
and you'll have neither when you're dead.
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11. |
Waiting
01:34
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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.
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12. |
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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.
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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.
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