Lyrics
A feather held a loft in your extended arm
An old barracks graffitied and crumbling
Green, brown, red in a skin like flung paint on a window
Sleeping giants of industry your time to stir has been and gone
Slake my wandering interest with dross
Is the bird alone?
Is the veil a prop in the lonesome man's tragedy?
Head on to the edge of the night residing in a western crockery plantation.
This is expressive of cemeteries smeared black or dark orange sinking in a waxy skin of light blue, left alone to rot amongst large scale fragments of aggressive every day objects; material plentitude, seraphim skin, sexually potent media and humour hanged and left silhouetted through a dazzling stained glass window to wither.
Images in constant flux and sombre palettes like the sky today and tomorrow reduced to pure abstraction.
The base truths of life sober exteriors and friends and their subtle contortions of disquieting impressions.
A stain blend decorative vertebrate outline sketch secretion.
Emotional detachment, stillness and calm scenes of pretty war or warm loathing woven with the anguish of all time
Stuffing a chest with twigs with which to start a fire
We decided to start all over with fists all tied while distilling an often shocking sense of power over a smattering of fashionable ladies reproducing a wretchedly old fashioned rescue through modern means.
Cheerily defiant in the teeth of a crushing triumph of judgement… legs spread on the casting couch.
Stuffing a chest with twigs with which to start a fire
Ideas: game show contestants spliced with birthday party children, merged with prison mug shots, blended with health and safety videos, cut with sexual education videos, woven with laboratory mishaps…
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