Disc 1; tracks 1-6 1 Archaeology Part 1 (4:40) Where electricity stinks
Comes out the forest
Out of darkness
Turn the dial, tune the dial,
Luminous plastic fascia
Of pale ice, like snow
In grey green dusk,
Out forest, out old darkness, out crystal colded earth.
Smell
Kind of burnt, burnt air, is it disinfectant tinge? Rimble-Man comes
And Rimble-Man goes
The Rimble-Man knows
That he'll sully and stain
Any, but a Saint, who tries to shame
Rimble-Man leaves nothing but pain And it's all dead all dead - everything you see
Everything you hear and eat
Everything you touch just seems to rust
Useless useless, everything useless, never a thing that you can smell
That doesn't reek of death
A soddy fluid groaning
Bristles through the tinny speaker
Swelling fungal smell
Possible little earphone, on
Polyvinyl coated, covered wire
Solid, moist condensing fungal smell
Seeps through iced crust lichen
Aged white plastic
Not damp brick dust aroma, exactly
But really, very like it Travels hoary deserts, through dropping, winded leaves,
Won’t give up, walks on tippy toe, he'll not let go.
Unties his saggy load
Blossoms like an alpine flower
Perfume drifting everywhere, crushed herbs, who knows, rosemary?
Thus leaves his love, woe, he leaves his love
Like rubber smokey fire
See the stench does rise
So to does your pride
You only seem to quicken,
The blood within you thicken
When something can be shown to be all wrong Jumbled centuries, dug up archaeology, signal trapped round and round,
Sniff'd t'air, dripping nose, heard the sounds transmitted.
Carried coarse cloth carry bag
Smelt the smells, sang the songs,
Seen you for what you are,
He's brought you his love, woe he brings his love. 2 Archaeology Part 2 (6:45) 3 From A Distance (4:30) From a distance it was black: the stockinged calve
And with each step turns lighter.
Now that purpose in a slice of Beef
And joints allow the moving.
That the bacon, the turning body
Will be peeling skin, unbuttoned blouse
Legs emerge from the shadows constant fear;
Dark continents incubate revenge.
Gross buggers, lure
Out of cannibalistic pots, filled sweets
Germs that eat the body. There, in that pudding image of black, bubbling liquids;
Potential interfered beneath tainted halogen Sun.
Of something out to get,
Coming from the past, the dark, into light, under microscope.
Fingerprinted. Semen stain. Sharp sharded hair,
Torn skin beneath lacquer tips.
Pre-douched traces of him in us.
Proof that yes he is the father.
That yes he did it. Lay down,
Or take her from behind; over kitchen table;
In back of car; but can't remember now,
One of many copulations. Time dissolved, Octopus squirt's dark ink.
Suicide. A thick puddle of chocolate blood.
Through breeze block crack, bricked up now,
Sticky reflection in slump oil; arm or foot,
The chocolate blood. The lake like blood. Still smooth, lava,
A slow stream, leaked stigmata
Flow yearly, river run,
Sound those codes, utter these textures: hairy human skin,
Hairy like Monkey, hairy like an Ox.
Vocals like elastic bands.
A sequence of Cytosine, Thiamine, Guanine, Adenine. Poor Sod.
After he was charged, found dead in garage;
The derelict stage where the soccer man hanged.
Barnardo boy.
You can imagine the scene, companionship with older men,
Now thirty seven returns with boys fifteen. 4 Slur Through Hours of Existence (2:50) What, no God? Slur through the hours of existence
A fountain drunk
Is that it?
Yes that’s it.
More washing
Horrible day
A stumbling floor
Fitful sleep
A sickening thirst
Always the way,
Make the current Father drunk.
Lay with me.
That girl
Fucking sexy Ooh for gooda nessa Ista posseebla,
Something so yungabile
Realiser how feebile goer
To make the hippy hippy shaker Yeah Goo on, yer know yer wanna
Pert bottomed,
Someone elses fingering
Musky growls of laughter
Not with my daughter
Yer not thirteen No longer laughing, he's gone too far.
All that we've invested.
Like I'd called you a cunt.
Just surviving everyday;
Food and sex
But even that you find boring For gooda nessa Ista posseebla,
Something so yungabile
Realiser how feebile goer
To make the hippy hippy shaker 5 Play with Lust and Loathing (1:58) Burrow down
It’s a hole
Reach into your soul
Play with Lust and loathing
No balm for soothing We're looking to find
Grim nookies of your mind
Our goal is sinister not kind
Like a horrifying gluey emulation
We'll stick to you
Until you too hear what’s the music to our ears
And when you feel the screech of confrontation
And know the howl of electrification
We'll all praise the jumping jiving seers 6 Tiny Small (5:53) Here come Tiny Small, not fourteen old.
What say if she knew the thoughts to which men's minds are pray?
What any woman say. Think know way men go on.
Don't. Else couldn't live with 'em,
Or choose to hide from selves too. Her Father'll go nutty if so much as anyone touches her
But dresses her up as school girl at nights for fancy dress parties.
And I'll tell you something more.
Not that you care, but you will, one day you will.
You could've been a contender, I've heard it all before,
I'll see you hunch like under.
Just surviving everyday food and sex and shopping. Ha Ha. Think that's funny?
You don't know what funny is.
All lovely, not hunted fox or battery hen, but rosy eczema cheeks;
Squashed and squeezed a pip beneath Ho Ho Ho. Father Christmas lorry load.
Flattens tubby baby head
Now nose all bloody runny. Head cold; death cold, guttered blob.
No more the little git guffawing. Now that’s funny;
Custard pie for face. Bombed out? Should say so,
Talk about Blitz; It's what we fought for.
Marching on our bellies; book ended front of telly. Anyway, back to Tiny.
Exudes pretty female, girl geometry, something submissive.
Is that how women want?
Prefer the stain of Sin to ugly of leprosy.
Hell, p'raps there's som'ing noble too.
Hard white, divine sections shiny bright.
If could touch the enormity, perfectity of girly angles.
Even blemishes, the easy pustule upon a face
Makes all the more beauty human Not a contradiction, that brand new bits and bobs
Nude beneath racked, hair backed hand,
Not unpleasant acts but opening dark confines of dark guarded cell
Where write painful, complicate salvation Oh yes rage. Hate. Claw.
The shame. The horror as we move to death.
Squeeze her neck. Bite her flesh.
She doesn't want to be dull.
But she is. Continue to disc 1; track 7 | 