Subscribe to PostsOur songs (most of them) have words, which might interest you. Here they are in their entirety, due to the several requests we’ve received to publish them. Please be advised that, as with all of our music, these lyrics, too, are reproducible under the terms of a Creative Commons-Noncommercial-Attribution-Only License (cc-by-nc). All other forms of re-use or remixing of our content require express permission from the band.
Embers
The Arrival
it’s the wrong landing/dankly occlusions/klankly burridgess/overhead/bad lighting/ugly malocclusions/spank me i’m going overboard/oh captain where have you brung us/has desperation flung us?/descendering down/flotillas abound/we each. we crouch/& in the muggy sky/that meets the choppy channel/surface against fractal surface/there are lights/i said there are lights/i said that are ugly/or make us ugly/they aren’t without pivots in space/and all the research/could not reveal/their fucking positions/so come out/it’s some city, you’ve arrived/now you know where you are/and if it falls, it falls
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Filoxenia
the lairs of veterans erupt everywhere, consistently adorned with smoke & musk & lamina panels & grotty rugs, karakelas. comparadors are lean-numbered elevators and language, always/only language/languish. a threadbare trudge up five flights in this old den, a hundred ghosts urge us on, sticking around. a dead bare grudge alights these nights, the night grows dim, a hundred ghosts urge us on, sticking around for a while. its tears and awful sobs, unheard by us or anyone since 1945.
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Τσπος γεννησεως (Place of Birth)
I went down I said down to the plaka and found myself full as night fell. Lit a candle, walked on, sat down in gardens among friends I never knew. I accepted their doldrums, accepted their fascisms, and they mine. I accepted their disdain. my austerity fell by the fire. and their boasting of their affairs.We got on like a house on fire. the crabs left their semen in the street.Fed off the fertility, a jumble of stratigraphy.Transformed into cartwheeling zygotes, ecstatic to be animate. yet fed up with fertility. depth, death, dirt, a magic city without end.
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All Is Vanity
surrounded by a crowd of toads and grizzled uncles/their opposites among them cutting up their arms in concert/not a thought among them in the ether of their thoughts/not a heart between them in the straining of their dead throats/their back and forth and up and down, clutching evil papers/full of lust and full of meat and full of aimless hatred/full of fits I’m enveloped in a winter sadness/so unloved and so deserving of everything I get/so unplussed with the administrating of this city
and though I in my kerchief and I in my cap
am just settling down for the end of this nap
I shall be gouged ridiculed/then buried, ripped up by you dogs/see if i don’t
I started a collection of unhealing bones/the stones and sticks will never leave me alone & i’m so hurt i cough up charitable organizations/every morn waking to the screaming of the neighbors/yeah i’m so hurt cos there ain’t no useful salvation/no long term solution ever crosses my desk/or even wafts past the ears of anyone who matters/and really nothing matters, nothing matters, no you dain’t.
comment allez-vous, fuckeur fuckeur fuck ‘er/ old mother universe there ain’t no redemption/no there ain’t, saith the Preacher, it’s all so elusive, you can never understand it.
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Night Class
Class. Opens Up. For the sunny. Day.
Feeling. so bright. Feeling. so gay.
Semblance of you. On. the page.
Form so ideal. Attention. Slips. away.
God and Hu-Man have nothing to say
Beauty is truth. It affects our grades.
All. the. way. from F up. to A.
The best one. Is zip up. Don’t f up. this way.
Who got stuck in the night class?
Who’s gonna pass the test?
Who got stuck in the black chair?
Who’s that shadowy mass?
Soul. Opens up. Among venerable.
Gods of the earth of mixed minerals
who send us their threats and militant barbs
to read this aloud, read this alarm:
God and Hu-Man are irrelevant
Beauty and truth are jusque pour enfants
All the way down the annals of time
the best thing to do is zip up and die.
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A Spectre Is Fucking Europe
cut off! he doesn’t get to play no more (the part). responsibilities outweigh the statesman’s wants (and even needs). who could argue? look at his eyes! at his ears! at his nose! at his mouth! it’s clear as everyday/cellophane what hongry focks haunt his mind/what hungry hommes honk his wife/who are you to jack my life? hey hey hey hey. bit off! chewed up at the roots. this is not a game no more. nothing but our chains no more.
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2M07
games need homes/homes hold games/meteor? or son come home/homicile/head for the hills/bring your board/board your bones/games all gone/games go home/sun goes down/towers groan/but no one’s home/and no one’s out/and there’s no crowd/the ghosts are loud/games go on/photo ops/media/a gamed system/streetricide/homes all dust/shifted paradigm/boom turns bust/tapes all gone/games go home/sun goes down/insurance groans/and no one’s home/and no one’s out/there’s no crowd/the ghosts are loud.
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Remote Controls
where it’s the distance that defines you/abstractions in literacy/the chasm btw you and all the kids out having fun/an ongoing hitch party/and in the ditch down the road/a late afternoon sick-in-street/trampled under the airstream/dear lord how could i have been so stupid?/where it’s the distance btw you/and those half-achievers logging useless puny grants/bullshit desk cadavers follow a foray into Windows/that is just where they are going/the distance btw you and all the others.
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Arts & Entertainment
“They gots a rekkid of tantalizing mekkids -
Gonna get nekkid with all the pretty fekkids,
in a red spakekkid and don’t just kekkid,
just done be unstandardized plug, you can’t get along, bitch.”
it’s so fast and good that your time’s on right
it’s tearing away with your personal ethic
it’s time you were waking up for the crisis
a parent has consequences es
“remember that they’ve got a rekkid of academics
transparent and nekkid inso far as numerekkids say say say they’re fekkid
a golden rekkid gets you intah hekkid
for what it’s worth”
Until someone produces some evidence, I don’t think that the argument carries any weight. A single example. That’s all.
the elderly and the chronically ill
predominantly cannot afford
private insurance premia
& are negatively, negatively
insured. a milieu.
OECD commissions study on experience.
Its soul is alien, its soul an onion (repeat)
Unh it’s all about choice.
Those who like it like it a lot.
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BBQMS
Hello. We are charring and we’re sharing and we’re cheering and we’re chilling and we’re shilling. Gather ’round, little children. See the dope developer? As I make him work in English, the language of business. As I make him work in Java, the language of death. He misses his SMS (at home it’s SMS). Takin’ up cadaver. So enjoin us (tastes just like cadaver) and enjoy us, don’t hate us. Do you hate us? Hope you have enjoyed the party/festival. Now we must take it down. Please lend thanks to the landlords that let us use this space. Now we must all take it down and go our separate ways. And though the outcome’s unknown, we know we can just go home. We can all just fuck off home.
__________________
Servers/Stop 12″ split
Servers
freaks wake up to the vacuum
like every morning they sort their breaks in the backroom
ask the question of the owners of the building but they’re sleeping
in their parents’ basements get seductive answers but the question was wrong
let’s rent this fucking mall to strangers
the right people and robots could give it a boss reputation
ask the question of the owners of the building but they’re sleeping
in their parents’ basements give destructive answers but the question was on
getting by by being unwound and unfocused
let’s drown in crowds
geeks waking up with the application
back up the front end in sexual frustration
ask the question of the owners of the building but they’re sleeping
in their parents’ basements get seductive answers but the question was wrong
it’s as if this mall were run by strangers
the wrong people and robots earn us our reputation
ask the question of the owners of the building but they’re sleeping
on vacation with their penises and laptops and their answer is come
no lie that’s what drives all the hocus pocus
let’s drown in crowds
serve me mommy
freaks upload their most recent photos
caption them and distribute them through some soso
amateur lenses are so generous to the closeup
and their focused minds think remarkably
think remarkably like human beeps
let’s drown in crowds
serve
me
mommy
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Stop
that black cylinder
its light down on
foot, the flashes
dig up. shaving the floor.
there are no faces here
that you can remember -
or do you remember?
you are all alone with all your friends.
and it will unfold
and it will derail
but is it a stop?
it will withdraw
it will file itself away
so when will it stop?
then this metal room
that in another life
was a house of debauch -
it accepts you like a gym:
cold, empty, waxy, all those cliches.
where does it get you?
are you all alone with all those thoughts?
just a passing thought
the stupid absolute-
is it a stop?
just the passing of youth
the only truth is death
your stop is up next
then that hulking machine
with its breath on the inside
somehow, as you take your seat,
away it slides
so machines are people too
just get me to my stop, you said
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Flames
Hospital Problems
it’s a bad hospital full of wires and problems
full of predators and their companion pieces
“there’s an art to a pandemic”, a bronzed intern croaks
it requires cunning plans and manipulable statistics
if you were granulomatous you could create more work for
do you want to work for the bad hospital?
though it changed my life
i want to burn it down
la la la la la la/carve its insides out
and all the people in it
i remember your stupid group
and your outmoded survey ta-ta-ta-ta-techniques
and the faux form data a little man in baggy
(or a reasonable facsimile) sending lethal loopfax
pages came out all black, we are painted blackface
now your friends are all gone and your studies are unpublished
even though it saved my life
i want to burn it down
la la la la la la/carve its insides out
and all the pusbots in it
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This Old Oscillator
Vehiculum omniscopus takes the hos for a ride and says “I got you in the car” and the ghosts of lessons past grab on the rear where they prefer to struggle, locked up in the boot. And so the “I got you! I got you in the car!” becomes the mantra of the nation, the rapist generation. So aim those lasers at the sky and fire away. There are no ghosts stalking space. But are there lasers in this? In the moment that white van pulls up and the stick of candy proffered up, could you refuse? Could you just wake up? Those industrial cocks grow so rock hard for you and trump your vintage/anal oscillator(s). So aim those lasers at the sky and fire away. There are no ghosts stalking space. It’s only mud and rocks and shit and that’s it.
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Why Do I Even Bother Talking To Automatons?
The stench is remarkable, trailing from east to west. A convoy of captains. Will the medicine last? Why do I even bother talking to automatons? Is there a soul in this science or is the inference wrong? Is there a song in this silence or is the audience wrong? Why do I even bother going on and on? A sylph and a cipher tell the audience facts. But truth is in the transmitter: S&M or SMS or fax. Truth and facts about lovers, young lovers screw on the shore. Cadavers strewn all around them, those kids just won’t learn to share.
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L’Exotique!
Citizens of Earth! We’ve captured most of your words, so we’ll tell you with all the furious whelping of a raspy office modem (for a sixteen dollar sex show) of the curious weeping sound of a lone cat lost abandoned on a dirt road in Iowa. How the fuck are you? It’s the curious creaking sound of a rusted CAT, abandoned, on a rubber road in Panama, how the fuck are you? And every time we watch them backward films with all the young men in their toilets/their deserts doing unspeakable things, how can we be any more succinct? Such glorious living beings, while we’re just mineral things, on our way to being clods. And the curious beeping sound of a dying Motorola gettin’ bitch-slapped in Ottawa, how the fuck are you? (Only androids can cross the great big black divide, and they PM for the sake of “YOUR DUMB”)
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Media Fire!
Ring around the hemisphere, all fall down. Shields up, boots off, hee-haw town. Built environment but so owned, state apparati strike at dawn, wow. un-huh. Media fires the brightest lights, dumb like cities’ dumb delights. Bombs like bosoms in Arabian night. Awed and fucked and bored and shocked, alright? But I am a whore, not a slut. the strange remains of a soldier hospital. Will his remains cross and dot her? Mired legless on the beach, wishing for the tide, pining for the sea, wow. un-huh. No waves wash and are you over? Are there no items to show in this folder? No more will to power, master, just one part of the new disaster.
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Future Forensics
After about ten rounds of brain injections a yellowy fatty substance begins to grow on the surface of the skull. After about fourteen injections, the mandible starts to drop open. A low guttural sound emanates from within, increasing in volume until it transforms into a wide open howl, then finally a scream. The skull is alive. It can inform us of how and why it died. But for now it is coping with the pain of being severed from the body, and the pain of dying and being revived in a horrific form: no eyes, blood or skin, only a voice and a mind, and yellow fat around the perimeter/rim. It will be killed again after giving us information we want.
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Me, Asthma
all the children are boss/are you gonna resist/lift a skinny fist/an anarchist, bra?/a sandanista/the towers twitch/as if organic/all the children are muthas/with preggo tums/and big tech bruthas/do their own checksums/though fingered and thumbed/they’re all so dumb, young and full of love/problem passed to the kind & kin/pollen lashes at the skin/crawling helpless as it dims/miasma asthma azimuth/miasma animisma/chasm and reaction/reanimate the matmos!/all the children are balsa/a tinderbox-a/a black forest/it’s so damn dark/with hardwood hearts/the towering cross/looming black cross-uh/& all the children are mud/Quetzalcoatl’s blood/on the steps to the sun-uh/a heart and a lung/we climb up rungs/the calendar runs/two thousand eleven/twelve. thirteen.
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XpornographX
the priest copulates w/the young teens as a matter of ceremony, unceremoniously jizzing while he can. it’s said it’s tradition. keeping agèd in circulation. black antennae dangling from bosom. reaching into soft faces for lore. mesmerism, vampirism, porn. give up your tired, weak and forlorn. put them on a train bound for London. I am the end and the beginning. The alpha, omega and the mean. Born under shadows of crooked signs, dying and undead, spanning all time. Raising the prostitutes from the mire, management drowns in a sea of fire. Mezzanines collapse to the shop floor, no more filth, no more “foot in the door”. Don’t mourn the collapse of the city. Don’t blame the filthy society.
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Resume!
Strong communication skills. And strong problem-solving skills. And strong interpersonal skills. And skills in creative design. Previous Experiences: worked on a team and in a supervisory role, applying computational skills. Had to know. Every. Computer. Program. Known. to Man. And Teach This. to All. To all. The Other Guys. Uh. Hobbies and Concerns: likes to spend time staring off into space and thinking about the world and all its problems. Cycle the seawall, go dancing now and then, get shitfaced sometimes, I’m only human. Go on the Internet sometimes, argue with people, look at porno cartoons, fall asleep paranoid.
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Astonishing Tales of the Sea
See You Inside
watching from a bucket like a cat keeping quiet and cold, coldly staring at the flowers on your dress. mistaken for a spider, common to this web. it’s warm inside that cocoon. your autonomic system is controlled. some go home. some get lost there. some evaluate the cost. where eagles dare to roam. where you always land alone, while something small and silicone sits back and counts the minutes. and it’s blind. so blind. you stole my eyes. I miss my eyes. see you inside. waiting in the rain is not a way to wash your hair while gold-yellow taxicabs, flying by, produce no futures. mistaken for a chance to see, a glance at something heavenly. where eagles dare to roam. where you always land alone, while something small and silicone sits back and counts the minutes. and it’s blind. so blind. you stole my eyes. I miss my eyes. see you inside.
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Anarchid
as to your avant proposal, remember we are multifarial. we are human, true. but, too, we are the zoo. we know the future only like a sailor knows the open sea. and this ship is listing painfully. it’s something above – not falling in love again. an organicist, you say? an empire in the way? in all your material, where is my interior? so when bombing the academy, what about the nursery? will those little sullen faces suffer, too? will those little brats also come unglued? we know the future only like a sailor knows the open sea. and this ship is listing painfully. it’s something above – not falling in love again.
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Rifles
skull hole + rifle + asshole = bullet hole. holes in every pot, holes in the walls. holes in Kabul, holes in Belgrade, holes in Mosul, let’s put holes in L.A. holes of Jerusalem, holes of Shibam, stuck in adobe, surrounded by sand. hijacked by texans and guided by checkpoints and dug into holes. no wonder it’s holy land. rifles of the rich and famous. superstition shrouds their acreage. rifling through those lifeless pages. a secure homeland, a secure escape. the chasm’s agape. shadrach, meeshach, and a-bed-ne-go, the inspiration for the power of no. shizam! a djinni is stirring. can stop them from operating? seven stones incinerate so well. to see your face among them, to shield your eyes from the sun, the only other option to owning a home and owning a gun.rifles of the rich and famous. superstition shrouds their acreage. rifling through those lifeless pages. a secure homeland, a secure escape. the chasm’s agape.
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Fearless Vampire Killers
riding down a road called Knight, running out of time, it’s gotta be midnight, riding for my life, riding for the bread of life, such a tight life, under the indifferent starlight and a cold, cold mars. up ahead – a sullen light, a waiting headlight, helmet and a little bike, middle age fright, passing by, he pulls behind, shadowing tight, following for several miles and then I get inspired! Get the acrobatics out of the attic, and, looking back, make a kata cut-up, a frightful posture, like an animal? fuck off, find the jugular. reaching back, prehensile for the thick cord that supports the imbecile head that stares ahead like a metal mailbox. watch his wife pull up! his move? then, in a cunning act of deja vu, take a swipe at her throat too. female first, they both fall down, and then I carry their bodies to the burial ground. get up you have to go to school in the morning, spend your life in endless queues, on the campus. see how last night hit the news, but they don’t get you. they call the kids who party in the tunnels, pasted up as the ultimate idols, on page 17, pictured -the youthlorelings! they’re interrogated for hours and hours while we watch from the upper chambers. round the hall it echoes and echoes.
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Against the Animals
she told me some nonsense about a singer whose records had sucked for years. I said something about the moon and stars, and how close we were to being whores. still, this carried on, despite the gross interruptions of all her failing suitors. at the end of the glacier, the mighty Fraser swells and spills its fishes in the fields, flushes out the road with human bones. and I wish I had a tree fort. and now’s the only thing that’s real. it makes the book you wrote me into pale. the “then”s are the only things we feel, which makes us seem against the animals.
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Eye Thieves
we just went for a drink, asking questions again, like “what’s inscribed in here”, “sublime in here?”. but I’m alive in here. No more – don’t want to think of rituals and pain. “The backmasking of violence – am I in this?”, your silent lips sing. Your silent lips sing. Have to work out this kink, talk it over again, like “what we want to do”, and “is it ending soon?” No more – don’t want to think of rituals and pain. “The backmasking of violence – am I in this?”, your silent lips sing. Silent lips sing. Your silent lips sing. Tossed the glass to the floor, no more talking tonight. “What was enacted here?”, “instantiated here?”, “scared or sacred, dear?”
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War Towers
out in the excruciating hair-high weed, under the litter of the nearby sea, ice symphonies glide over the hill of green arrows. time skips back forty years to witness unglamorous white short sleeves over hairy large arms and chugging buggies. war towers at Tofino. out among the reverberation of loss, bit from every angle by thorns and moss, geist symphonies fall on plugged ear to fucking rhythms. too much dwelling in material. it’s all old trails. can you feel their pull to the old wood fort, and blanket trading? war towers at Tofino. after the fixing of our geographies, new configurations, new enemies. nothing to see here but the interning, the “covering up the Others”. time don’t overwrite stupid fears resurfacing in two tower tears and custom police. masked legacy of war towers at Tofino.
