You can fizz out the top or settle to the bottom or stand still inside a liquid life.
You can float away or melt into the ground, but scientists can watch you through the glass and measure forces pulling you, and measure forces pushing you, until you stand still and make the shadows stop.
Vaporize, solidify. Hummingbird in a cube of ice.
Tful282
― dlp9001, Saturday, 15 October 2016 20:41 (seven years ago) link
Excuse me sir, I'd like to buy a spike for planting hornets in the heart of my wife. She's had conversations with my darker side. Now she's left me with a poisoned mind.
She has a hornet's heart.
I care for her so. It saddens me to know she knows that I'd cook her to keep her warm. When she saws her saw-like call and asks me if I caught it all, I let slip I love her so, I'd cook her to keep her warm.
Tdul282
― dlp9001, Saturday, 15 October 2016 20:44 (seven years ago) link
carol keogh:
The internal life of animals is something I knowAre you waiting to leave? Are you packing to go?Cover tracks; make your camp hereDraw the crossbow to your chestAnd with the calibrated arrow give me the rest
See the beast rising upwards to the heat and raging fliesFrom the stream that knows no better than the carcass
The internal life of animals is something I knowAre you waiting to leave? Are you packing to go?Cross the lines; cross your heart twicePut the heart crossways on meBe the hunted and the hunter, in symmetry
And the beast is beholden to the words that sing its lifeAnd the song will make a rattle of the carcass
There is nothing left, none to feed relationsNo one left, none to mow the lawns
Quantify love; tell me I'm wrongShow the ledgerQuantify me, tell what you see
The internal life of animals is something I knowMake friends with all your old selvesAnd let them go
― a self-reinforcing downward spiral of male-centric indie (katherine), Saturday, 15 October 2016 20:45 (seven years ago) link
Tful282, sorry. K. Hersh has a bunch of doozies as well, many on Sunny Border Blue.
― dlp9001, Saturday, 15 October 2016 20:46 (seven years ago) link
Mark Eitzel, a lot of the time. This is The Confidential Agent, which is one of his most overlooked songs:
Take the velvet line for comfortHigh above the water, feel disconnected and freeTired of hopes that I just can't run fromI travel in secret, I know they're pursuing me
Morning that falls represents a weak linkAfter is after night's work is doneThere's no sun, just a gray horizonHiding from heaven, another frozen world
Watch the ship hold to its courseAs an act of devotionAnd me, I'm lost at seaGoing through the motions
Gave all my passion to the oceanShe holds it for me in reserveMy word is gone into remissionYour love's a tragedy that I don't deserve
She said, "You're only growing now"She said, "Soon have we begunThen she can have youBut until then you're mine"
I watch her hold to her courseAs an act of devotionAnd me, I'm riding highGoing through
Seems like every flash in her eye'sAn act of devotionAnd me, I'm lost in her handsGoing through the motions
Shore far away off the port sideShore far away off the bowShore far away off the starboard sideShore far away from now
― akm, Saturday, 15 October 2016 20:50 (seven years ago) link
stina nordenstam:
On cold days it is easy to behave, and easy to believe in itOn cold days it is easy to see clear, and easy to believe in it You say winter's killing you, that you can't stand the season, it has no smell or flavorI left the city for you, there was no other reason, I did your wife a favour
You're safer with me here, and you there
I took the fast track, considered cryingI was stopped in customsQuite proud of the knack I have of knowing when it's over
With a bit of ice under my clothes, my tongue against the teeth, I think of nothingWalk around the house on the cold till it hurts to breatheI think of nothing I knew I had to leave, 'cause spring was comingYou'd made a lover out of me, and spring was coming
― a self-reinforcing downward spiral of male-centric indie (katherine), Saturday, 15 October 2016 20:51 (seven years ago) link
You can finally understand Guy Kyser lyrics properly if you see them written.
― Stevolende, Saturday, 15 October 2016 20:53 (seven years ago) link
my copy of Secrets of the Beehive has an advert for a printed volume of David Sylvian's lyrics that you could purchase, I love Sylvian but can't imagine his lyrics would work that well on the printed page? does anyone own the book?
― soref, Saturday, 15 October 2016 20:55 (seven years ago) link
Darby Crash:
Land of treason - waste no reasonwe are breathing fireWe're packs of dogs - we're enemies of menwe are not desiredOur faces show - we've grown coldbut have not conspiredOld hearts gone - the suture's onmother nations miredI like a receptacle for the chosen deadwe find our bodies clawedAnd with the scent of death, we find thatwe are not so very awed
Loyalties burned- the words are blurredoverturn your ownWalk the dogs and watch the doorshave your other stoneStop the toys that march disorderedcalculate the thronesFeel the pulse descendingdecaying hallowed tomesIn the starving sense you worshipthe nations of debrisYou wear a cost of sewagethat you've never even seen
The time is now- the vicious herea stolen dinner codeThe licence of the savage landthat you've always soldSo bite the hand that needs youand bless another coalThe virus never issuesfrom a cotton so very oldAs the lights come down and the guilty blaze;another sort of roadYou wash your hands and start to climbthe ladder that you stole
Slip the latch- and spin the swordthe money lords are poorPush the tank- that rolls downhilltheir sense of doom absorbedStill the cat that breaks the nighttie him to the coreChase the virtue that believesthat what's right is scoredIt's a senseless cash in of right for rightwhat's wrong is never goneAnd left is just a bastionfor the fools golden dawn
― sleeve, Saturday, 15 October 2016 21:01 (seven years ago) link
i used to have it, it didn't feel particularly necessary (the sylvian book)
― akm, Saturday, 15 October 2016 21:01 (seven years ago) link
The Handsome Family.
I am afraid of bridges. Sometimes I have to turn around when I'm driving towards one and my heart begins to pound. Last night at the bridge to Johnsburg I swerved down a dead end street. I sat there shaking in an empty lot full of broken glass and weeds. Then past me in the darkness ran four wild dogs leaping over abandoned tires high into the air. In the air, in the air, someday I will live in the air. Once I loved a girl named Joan whose skin smelled just like falling snow. One day she drove us off the road into a dead field of corn. She laughed and hit the gas as we bounced across the rows, but I held onto the dashboard with my eyes tightly closed. Those wild dogs brought back that smell of falling snow and the girl who lives in Johnsburg across a bridge I can not cross.
― JoeStork, Saturday, 15 October 2016 21:04 (seven years ago) link
The Cathedral in Cologne looks like a spaceship, like the hand of God falling from the sky. 1,000 stone-carved saints hang like icicles, but icicles don't take 1,000 years to die. And everyone who ever worked on this cathedral or even spent a moment walking by, everyone of us is swept away like breadcrumbs. What comfort does it bring, soaring towers left behind? There's a fiberglass castle in Wisconsin where kids race go-karts around a moat. Once we went up there in December when every water-slide and fudge shop was closed. Hoping to feel love under the icicles. All we did was drink in an empty bar. But, stumbling drunk we crawled back to our motel room and I fell against you and felt your beating heart. Snow was slowly falling on the ice machine and the moon shone hazy through the pines. But, there were lounge chairs thrown into the empty pool and a dog chained to a tree barking at the sky.
― JoeStork, Saturday, 15 October 2016 21:06 (seven years ago) link
Kurt Wagner
And as your hand rests gently on her headRemove the clutter and the papers that you readA whispered comment, or a compliment is saidAnd you take her hand and you gesture toward the bedI can't believe this feels this goodNo, I can't believe this feels this good
― Sunn O))) Brother Where Art Thou? (Chinaski), Saturday, 15 October 2016 21:08 (seven years ago) link
No no, no no no no, no no no no, no no there's no limit!
― calzino, Saturday, 15 October 2016 21:15 (seven years ago) link
i've really been digging courtney barnett lately but she is another dylan-y person where without the phrasing and her voice it can look kinda clunky on the page.
― scott seward, Saturday, 15 October 2016 21:16 (seven years ago) link
Beefheart. Syd Barrett.
― (SNIFFING AND INDISTINCT SOBBING) (Tom D.), Saturday, 15 October 2016 21:44 (seven years ago) link
When the moon shines on the cow shedand we're rolling in the hay,All the cows are up there grazin'and the milk is on its way.
― legitimate concerns about ducks (Noodle Vague), Saturday, 15 October 2016 21:51 (seven years ago) link
We're having a gang bangWe're having a ballWe're having a gang bangAgainst the wallWe'd like you to join usIt's part of the fun!Oh a gang bang is the thing to doBut it takes more than one
― legitimate concerns about ducks (Noodle Vague), Saturday, 15 October 2016 21:52 (seven years ago) link
Sur le trottoir d’en face, une fille riaitEt ses dents blanches me creusèrent la faimJe courus au boulanger m’acheter un petit painEt tout en le beurrant je pense aux paysans.
Paysans, dès lors décision est priseOui, j’irai, j’irai à travers la campagneOffrir aux paysans dix ans de ma jeunesseConnaître leur sort, leurs durs travaux des champs.
Oui nos champs n’ont rien de commun avec leur ranchIci pas de charrue ni de tracteur zéléLa hache dès le point du jour, on avance puis on brûleC’est pas pour plaire aux yeux mais pour mieux faire pousser le café.
Du café oui du café ne vous en étonnez pasLes amis nous ont dit qu’il n’est pas compétitifNéanmoins le soir venu faut chasser grosses bêtesOn allume des grands feux, on tape dans des tonneaux.
Des tonneaux vieux, vides de mauvais vinQu’on nous avait filé les dernières électionsCroyez-moi la nuit venue, on oublie bien vite ce vinQuand sur son tam-tam, Ogula nous fait danser
« Arrêtez de danser sales nègres, arrêtez ! »C’est un prospecteur, un boucher recycléC’est sur un gisement d’or, nous explique le salaud,Que nous dansions depuis des générations.
« Go home, sale colon » fis-je coup sur coupIl comprit alors que je suis un intellectuel« Chut, me fit le con, je suis de la croix noirePour l’intérêt des noirs – d’ailleurs je t’écrirai »
M’écrire ? Il tint promesse, il le fit bientôt« J’ai l’honneur, le plaisir….vous êtes conseiller »Adieu cochons et vaches, je m’en retourne là-basDans ces coins publics où paissent les grands messieurs.
Conseiller ? Je fus un peu étonné, mais enfinOn s’adapte, il faut dire que je signe fort bienMais s’épuisent les gisements d’or, tarissent les amitiésMon mandat fut très court, mesures d’austérité.
Sur le trottoir d’en face, une fille riaitEt ses dents blanches me prédisent la faimJe cours au boulanger comme tout bon patrioteMais plus de boulanger, il est presque député.
― legitimate concerns about ducks (Noodle Vague), Saturday, 15 October 2016 21:54 (seven years ago) link
You know that people they are driftin' from do' to do' But they can't find no heavenI don't care where they go
People, if I ever can get upOff a-this old hard killin' flo'Lord, I'll never get downThis low no mo'
Well, you hear me singin'This old lonesome songPeople, you know these hard times Can't last us so long
You know, you'll say you had moneyYou better be sho'But these hard times gon' kill youJust drive a lonely soul
― calzino, Saturday, 15 October 2016 22:17 (seven years ago) link
Well it's down the road and up the hill and just around the bendPick 'em and put 'em down and pick 'em up againCadd9And it sets me into wonderin' what it's really all aboutFightin' for the things we know we'll always be without
Down the road by the wayWhere the laughin' waters play'Cross the ribbon-wavin' sandWe go walkin' hand in hand
Nothin' old and nothin' newNothin' special there to doIn those good old yesterdaysDown the road by the way
Well it's light and lovely Brenda comin' cool across the wavesFloatin' over rows she helped me hoe in yesterdaysAnd it's me whose thirsty now for all that sweet milk gone to wasteSomewhere on the road of no returnin' yesterdays
Well it's down the road and up the hill and just about the bendPick 'em and put 'em down and pick 'em up againAnd it sets me into wonderin' what it's really all aboutFightin' for the things we know we'll always be without
― Heez, Saturday, 15 October 2016 22:55 (seven years ago) link
xxp yeah if I limited it to one-liners then I would fill the thread with lines from kristin hersh ("I don't know where I am. I don't even know when I am, 'cause you insist on using fucked-up military time!")
it also took a great deal of restraint not to fill the thread with 75% of these http://www.irishmusiccentral.com/tychonaut/lyrics-love-life.html
― a self-reinforcing downward spiral of male-centric indie (katherine), Sunday, 16 October 2016 04:46 (seven years ago) link
Anything by Will Sheff.
A black sheep boy grows horns, breathing smoke through his microphone. The airwaves stretch and they groan, bleeding, birthing his black diapason. He says “there’s plenty of things to wear when you come to me, every color of sleeve to be rolled. There are millions of rolling eyes that still cling to me. Every language of king is concerned. So why did you bawl from the spell of some old holy song, that some liar laughed as he composed - some liar I loved to control?”
― heaven parker (anagram), Sunday, 16 October 2016 07:01 (seven years ago) link
Bid's stuff always reads like poetry
(Alphaville) She slits her senseless skin(Alphaville In time to Fred Astaire(Alphaville) I know you're always there
(Don't look now) She's so debonair, she's a manic depressive(Don't look now) She's a millionaire, and her bills are excessive
(Alphaville) She feels her senses wane(Alphaville) In pleasant melody(Alphaville) I'll take you now with me
(Don't look now) She's a movie star, she's a split personality(Don't look now) She's got oom-pah-pah, and Papa says it's insanity
Don't look now, your mind's deterioratingDon't look now, and if it's irritatingI'll know how to set it right again
Don't look now, your world's collapsing, dearDon't look now, and if it's taxing, dearI'll know how to put it back again
(Alphaville) She sleeps in useless flesh(Alphaville) The rancid, blood-soaked breast(Alphaville) In sunlight and slow death
(Don't look now) She's a movie star, she's a little bit touched(Don't look now) She's so wünderbar, all gears and no clutch
― palko, Sunday, 16 October 2016 09:17 (seven years ago) link
Grand Belial's Key and Arghoslent (same lyricst, I think)
FugitiveWitch-doctorBorn in an impoverished stableCould this flimsy child truly be an predicted scepter?
Balaam's prophecy, Judah's predictionsArtificial pages of an unearthly fetishInterpreter of the TorahWorshipped by the Magi of Arabia
Hobo of Aramaic Tongues
The outline of a dead fish on a wall of mudSigns of the resistance
Frauds, hoaxes, serpents of EarthSurviving on quails and mannaChristmas star of a frozen PalestineSaturn no longer protects thee...
― punksishippies, Sunday, 16 October 2016 09:28 (seven years ago) link
JoeStork beat me to it but Handsome Family to thread
― Wimmels, Sunday, 16 October 2016 11:36 (seven years ago) link
Craig Finn:
"She came to in a confession booth, infested with infections, smiling on an abscessed tooth. She climbed the cross, found she liked the view and sat reflecting on the Resurrection. She put her mouth around a difficult question. She said, "Lord, what do you recommend to a real sweet girl who's made some not sweet friends? Lord, what would you prescribe to a real soft girl who's having real hard times?""
― heaven parker (anagram), Wednesday, 26 October 2016 10:58 (seven years ago) link
Can we all please just calm the fuck down?
In an analogy that makes sense to mostThis opportunity, it found me unmarked at the far postBut I blazed it right against the crossbarOf the pub that you had worked in since you moved here from Bath spaWe agreed we couldn't trust the guy that didn't like a single sportBut those bow-legged suitors hadn't given me much of a thoughtThey said it smelled delicious, but it smelt of burning fleshNot meant to be malicious but this is the cross we bear
The story of the winter I forgot how to speak my mind was like a nation's flag, but my breeze was too weakHow they dragged me to the hospital saying I had gone deafBut I heard everything they saidIt's just I had no interest
Our friends have put the two of us on suicide watchAnd every second spent away we spend watching the clockThere are photos of us holding hands outside of the frameI was there, but wonder where our fingers were all the sameIt's like a self-restraintIt's the size of a fingernailAnd then we chew it downYeah we chew it down all the sameSad eyes for sad goodbyesIt's a crime, it's a crime, it's a crime, it's a crime
― Jonathan Hellion Mumble, Monday, 31 October 2016 23:34 (seven years ago) link
First and foremost, let it be saidI am writing this at 7:10 amOn the hard dry tarmac of a vacant forecourtAstronomically speaking, it's the first day of autumnBut the sun is hanging round like summer's hungoverThey'll knock the garage down and build flats where I sitThe traffic's so persistent that it barely registersAnd it smells like a mix between petrol and dog shit
Just let me be the one that keeps track of the moles on your backI just sighed, the universe replied: "let this pass you by"
Sometimes it's just enough to know I keep him on his toesIs he as sympathetic as me to the untimely demise of your synthetic clothes?I've displayed marriage proposals on the Jumbotrons of ballgames you've not been atI've written eulogies in guestbooks of galleries in the hopes that you might pass
She: nervous and barefoot, chats to me at the front doorHe: boyfriend, inside's a saint, becoming a martyrMe: rolling, writhing on the floor, stared daggers pulled from my thoracic wallWhen I hold sea shells to my ears, I'm pretty sure I can hear you
He gave a gift of the Faber Book of Love PoemsAnnotated the ones he thought applied the mostNot gonna win you round with proseIf anyone should know then it's I should know (Oh-oh)Girl, there must be a reason you let it slipWent to the point of sending the messageSix months of visceral Catherine WheelsKissing carnivores to make it seem like less of a deal
I promise after this I will pick up the phone bookAnd choose the name that my eyes fall upon on their first lookAim all of my poorly composed declarations there in the futureI'm so sorry to have to put you through a lifetime of dedications that you never desiredBut this one sentence bludgeons me over the head(Okay) I'm a little bit drunk, and I mean just a little bitNo lush in denial, only rather coquettishI'm fifteen years old and my parents' only sonLike I barely survived a girls' school educationPrettier now that you've grown your hair longI'm a slip of a man since I cut mine all off
Please just let me be the one to keep trackOf the freckles and the moles on your back
― Jonathan Hellion Mumble, Monday, 31 October 2016 23:37 (seven years ago) link
Shit, also anything Dickon wrote, especially the first Fosca album.
― Jonathan Hellion Mumble, Monday, 31 October 2016 23:42 (seven years ago) link
And OBVIOUSLY the entire catologue of John D.
― Jonathan Hellion Mumble, Monday, 31 October 2016 23:43 (seven years ago) link
I dreamt the film of my life as directed by Joseph LoseyIt was eight minutes long, and cast as me was Parker PoseyIt had a limited run in the small hours on Channel FourAnd all of my scenes ended up on the cutting room floorBecause from Stockholm to Bolton they're coming to Soho in drovesFor a sniff of some "face" whose skin barely touches his clothesThere's little more to your name but a cool, sharp, three-button poseOrdering drinks with a flick of your famed button nose
I'm bereft, I don't have a single secret leftYou traded them for every friendship's deathOf which you're a millionaireIf truth be told, I only wanted something for my coldI blame the lure of the laissez-faireThat you're the millionaire of your own hairI left my last social circle and I hid for a whileI worked in an undertaker's so I wouldn't have to smileThere's five weeks' worth of homework nestling under your bedWhile between the sheets skulks a grateful deputy headAfter Double French you silently slip your mooringsAnd kill an hour or two in town defacing catalogues of vinyl flooringYou're swearing in received pronunciation to impress a cute librairianAnd exchanging hooded glances with the townies and the precinct barbarians
I'm bereft, I don't have a single secret leftYou traded them for stakes in crystal methSo you're a millionaireIf truth be told, I only came for something for my coldI blame the lure of the laissez-faireThat you're the millionaire of your own hair
There is an ancient journalist and he stoppeth one in threeAnd he's asking me if I equate dressing badly with insincerityHe's writing a book called "How To Tell Taxi Drivers They're Wrong."And he doesn't trust people, but he knows his all-time favouite songNow the millionaire is busy pulling single dads on underground trainsAnd he's blanking the old hack with characteristic haughty disdainToday he's fitting in a louche professor of Drama and MimeHe says "I'd love to be lonely but I can't seem to find the time"
I'm bereft, I don't have a single secret leftYou traded them for stakes in crystal methSo you're a millionaireIf truth be told, I only came for something for my coldYou're telling the newspaper questionnairesThat you're the millionaireYes, you're the millionaire of your own hair
― Jonathan Hellion Mumble, Monday, 31 October 2016 23:46 (seven years ago) link