bed carved by a glacier
the four tower bridge over a cleaving parking lot is a king from 1917. his head is drunk with drugs and rants about brilliant days as a malignant teen. too drugged to see the blood under chins. “but those days have drowned beneath me” he says.
the men will come. with their blue flames, with their bolt cutters, with their knowledge, to collect any remaining rudiments of your foresight. they will build loud hallways and shuddering museums. all mixed with decaying spilt beer, sidewalk gum and the history of puke.
the last conversation was with drew yauht. drew, who stepped over the railing. fucking poor bastard is still floating along the bottom somewhere.
“but those days have drowned beneath me” he says.
we hear propane blasts. supposed to keep the birds from shitting on the steel. like its the marble of the earth. pigeons everywhere. we’re the fucking pigeons. shitting shitting shitting. more shitting.
grunting old facts but not remembering if they’re true. a diabolical tanker sauntered by on its own wake, thieving paint chips and all. every last piece of validity. including the bride. old man i’d induce a coma of my own introspection at your steps if I didn’t have a lover to give my cognition to. but I have a lover.
you stagnate. but clearly wear your premonitions of the day your cumbersome metals finally shriek over your own trepidation. it doesn’t matter if i ask you not to go. truth resides beneath us. a place that kills life instantly. along the bottom somewhere. now lying on a cold river death bed. once proud to lead the way to the hospital. “but those days have drowned beneath me” he says.
you can’t feel a damn thing. the birds are still shitting. you envy the railroad. bone-grinding, ugly new york steel?
fresh lit cigarettes knocked out by traffic. hookers looking for takers. vagabonds stinking of gypsy pussy. appallingly topless sailors wives. suicidal obesity. a despondent portland inhabitant seeking new depression in seattle. you stood through all of it. and you didn’t puke. not even once.
who illuminated against the sun in the smoke of the awful forest fires.
who lounged among the chaotic hustle of watery ants, unfettered and undiverged so they could carry out their nothing lives.
who once bared your chest so vivaciously. here and now you squaller perfectly like the old man that you are.
your riverwife is replacing you.
your city is stoning you at its gates.
your hooves are sticking in the clay.
at your feet is nothing but frozen geography with plans for dredging.
you who once treaded water.
June Thirty
Its been a while since we’ve written anything here. Until now.
We’ve carved out a good portion of our new album as a still somewhat newly 2 man group.
The shortage slows the writing process down a bit, but given that myself and Casey have been playing music together for a few years now we’ve grown into a new area in which we seem to share one selfcognition musically. The songs poor out so much smoother these days.
We’ve newly written 4 guitar and drum based songs which are our current live set. (Come to shows!). We plan to include these songs on the cd. In addition to those, our goal is to write a small portion of piano and string driven songs. Buying a studio piano soon.
Been listening to Abel Korzeniowski’s score from A Single Man for weeks straight.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mTjSNSGaS8E
Cheers friends.
Nathan
Amos val
Theist War DEMO
