But He’s too big to join the other sand and fall from one side of the hourglass to the other so must suffer alone—time bends sand into tarts easily, though they aren’t very sweet.
It was not without its charm, a land of rock and stone free of harm. Lots of sand, man lived free on the naan, and little else, but what more could be worth the hurt of life with those who rage war? I’ve seen all, and believe nothing, though the bereaved speak of lost loving, those who live have to make do with scraps of muffins, and roast stuffing; some eat nothing: skin and bones for the desert crows, those with flesh are dessert for the lucky young that still live at nest, and dry breasts make supple kegs for the young that live at legs’ height, and the dead might have but sand to bury them, but they die in the throes of perpetual merriment, fermented hops make for minted jobs and bended yobs, but we say no to irreverent mobs, and we’re ruled by corn cobs—not dawn cops—though the dawn crops the cobs and draws crosses that point to the lost: let the dead fertilise the earth so that it may give birth, and cremate nothing but earth without earth.
Dirt without worth won’t work.
But I had to run, the day was done, a lifetime won and spent, it was time for rest, I kept, close by the memories of the minds of those with lives: those that intertwine the lines of dialogue with soulful liar goggles that make everything seem horrid, and everyone beautiful, but bruised and used by the truthful rules; ruled by the ruthless that fall only to have another stand in their place—in every place from the waste to fruitful land where man lives happily in ignorant bliss: the price of piss will be given to their kids when it waters the crops that they forgot; they’ll grow in the absence of nurture and love, but be worse for it—wanting only a hug, and they’ll occupy like mugs the dregs and the bugs will be washed away like mud, though they’ll miss them when the time comes to run; they’ll be stuck without guns and be faced with evolution minus revolution and hush, those that gush clothes with synthetic plastic ‘hose, that hoes wear before they propose, where the children are grown, and the old disposed, but I had to run, the day was done, a lifetime won and spent, it was time for rest.
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St Celfer returns with tracks culled from a series of live shows, each one a showcase for his inventive experimentalism. Bandcamp New & Notable Jun 26, 2023
On this uncompromising LP, the UK outfit NOISE use haunting drone, hissing static and stark electronics to explore repressed trauma. Bandcamp New & Notable Oct 1, 2022