A Forest of Stars
Stack Overflow in Corpse Pile Interface

Треклист

• 1. Ascension of the Clowns (09:05)
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  I am my own maggot. Consuming myself.
  Eyeing the optic nervously from my
  disadvantageous disposition.
  Discarded amongst the softened bar snacks of a
  forgotten apocalypse.
  Ad nauseam. Self deficient.
  Leave yourself notes. To find your way home.
  Old man chicken hands.
  Jitterbugging in the Nightmare Palace whilst
  the bombs fall.
  Bury yourself where no one shall ever find you.
  But no fucking about, like.
  
  At this point the clowns are still in transit.
  ...Steady away boys! POOP POOP!
  We shared a joke previous regarding ancestry,
  failures and pits.
  Perhaps too soon for you to consider your
  children planted around the outskirts of all
  of this?
  Generation Loss.
  Artistic licence revoked.
  The spiders around my eyes would much prefer
  to be grifting the flies than
  Spinning perfect mysteries looped around
  asphyxiation.
  Another surprise disfigurement. A ticket to
  ride. Buy your fucking own.
  Here she comes, gawd bless her. A hearse
  a'foam with facsimile clowns face up on blocks
  amongst the cinders.
  Castle of sand. Granny flat of glass.
  Going down.
  Damned if you do, my dearest vermin. And of
  course, just so Damned if you don't.
  Damned if you do, my dearest vermin. And of
  course, just so Damned if you don't.
  
  I surfaced to the noise of digital flutter, one
  eye in this mire, another gouging at the
  horizon. Whilst the final dances in the horror
  of right plug, wrong socket. Amidst all this
  my heart twitches out to the binary. Wow.
  Tongue to interrogate the gutter, lost in the
  code. The party is somewhere so above whilst
  remaining so below. Hands to the clouds and
  farthest beyond, then. We'll bring the heavens
  down to meet us, then turn ourselves without.
• 2. Street Level Vertigo (11:43)
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  Half focused on the blowflies as they flash by.
  A few choice sites to survey before settling
  on the eyes.
  Foisting the squirm anywhere that stinks
  inviting.
  Welcomed with maggotblown arms to foist
  almighty. Shit begat shit.
  The enshitenment. Shy away from the lightning.
  Fumble screwing another struggling bulb into
  an earth long since unyielding.
  Power saved by never insisting.
  Power saved by never insisting.
  Descended like the fair essence of filth on a
  foul wind, they did.
  Infantilised those fertile minds, they did.
  Holy guardian angels, they were.
  But we dig that hole, not that one.
  Yes that one, too.
  No, no, not that one.
  (holy guardian angels) (advanced fail state)
  It's the pits.
  It's The Pit for us all.
  All just a'squirm eternal spinning sulphuric
  drain daze.
  Pay as you go, my boys. Pay as you go.
  Rest assured, you will pay.
  My colleagues amongst the carrion aficionados
  rock on their pointed heels, poking fun with
  horn'ed toes.
  
  Cracked by lazy mirth.
  Dead eyes seeking the weak spot.
  Pointers ignoring the code.
  Minds so open they've emptied with only the
  bare minimum of prompting.
  Two plus two equals five, my boys. All is as it
  ever was.
  
  I see beasts on the periphery. I don't know if
  they will eat me.
  Maybe I'll eat them?
  They grin bathed in half-arsed light. Yellowed
  teeth as medals struck off in fool's gold.
  Padding around the lucky one, their strength
  in creeping numbers.
  
  All part of the fun, the dice roll, the who
  on earth gives a fifth of a fifth of a fuck.
  Many spasms to this dance. Involuntary
  contrary twitch show.
  The network of ruins are many and varied.
  Hurriedly shovelled into this carpet bombed,
  carpet bagged facade.
  Urinal songs urge the failures on.
  Cakes for everyone. All toasting hell.
  
  All a waste of timing.
  Relative as irrelevant.
  All a waste of timing.
  For time all out of time.
  All out of time.
  
  I see beasts on the periphery. I don't know if
  they will dance with me.
  Maybe I'll run rings around them?
  They grin bathed in half-arsed light. Eyes
  down for a full pit.
  Each descent grows colder. Padding around the
  lucky one, their strength in creeping numbers.
  Cunting on down, down these rivers of constant
  strange.
  
  Whilst mishandling my own back, insinuating
  myself somewhat unwillingly between here and
  there, the pavement tipped a wink and rose up
  to meet me.
  Eyes down for a dead house.
  More's the lack of pity that the mausoleum
  wasn't in the least surprised.
  We were welcomed by an apathetic maw, my not
  me, my not myself and my not ever I.
  
  We inspected the gape behind the belching veil
  As all good children must.
  Assessed the plan for concrete.
  Became the aggregate.
  Street level vertigo. Go. Go. Go.
  Even our fossil records were shit.
  All filler, no killer.
  A pauper's grave will do, I'm told.
  No pit to speak of.
• 3. Mechanically Separated Logic (10:13)
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  My mind's eye on a cocktail stick all a'float
  in the great urinal. Backed up in a service
  station out of time.
  Out of service.
  Floating amidst the froth of a thousand
  miserable piss artists. And many thousands
  more.
  Face down, cornea down, all a'bobbing to the
  beat of 8 billion ball cocks.
  We choked it all down.
  We choked it all down.
  We found ourselves in a battle of wits with
  processed meats.
  Mechanically separated ideologies. Sheen of
  plastic choking on cheap shots.
  Human shields as if it's even worth wasting a
  shield on.
  
  Merry, merry micturition stations. Everybody's
  cross.
  All herrings red.
  
  Pick a colour. Any colour. As long as it's
  horrible.
  The prize was a raised eyebrow each and no
  feigning of surprise.
  Swelling with pride.
  Spitting nails from our shitty prefab posing
  plots.
  Two out of three for two men's fermentations
  sake, then?
  Not for the first time versus this humourless
  precipitation, let's hit the ground running.
  Let's hit the ground running.
  Bursting without enthusiasm...
  
  ...Bursting without enthusiasm.
  I'll be leaving a brutish smear across the
  gods' linoleum.
  The place should be condemned, really.
  After all, pride comes before a fall.
  And sometimes after.
  Sometimes after.
• 4. Roots Circle Usurpers (10:03)
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  Once upon a time I (not I) spoke to the trees
  that fell so that I (not I) could wipe my
  arse.
  They and I (not I), we stumbled back through
  knots in time, barking at nothing much.
  No point trying to cast anchor in a hole of
  mirrors.
  A seen it all. A portal to the great
  clattering cloaca.
  
  Best just to show your hand of spades against
  the earth.
  After all, she's used to it.
  She'll cast us off like the spent shells we
  are.
  Not even the staunchest hermits will be safe
  once the coat shakes.
  Having absolutely no desire to contribute to a
  seen-it-all-before shitefest bereft of
  characters.
  Rubber stamping eager faces into post nuclear
  dust.
  
  Just as dust is brittle.
  Foundling in the arms of none.
  Dust times prison time.
  Mad goons rising, grifting shame.
  Shameless; Shameless.
  
  An already cheap backdrop bespattered with
  dried bore.
  ...the only bore I don't abhor is a twelve
  bore. Bores to the wall.
  ...Oh it's cheap, undoubtedly. But nowhere
  near nasty enough.
  All sliding into the sluice pipe like so much
  oil against glass.
  You can bet your shit rhyme that you'll have a
  whale of a time deciphering your own
  extinction
  All the while bathed in the afterstench of
  mankind's excrutions.
  
  If you can't climb it, beslime it. Since we've
  already pre-fouled it, it's only gone and
  warmed to our descent.
  Doffed it's crap, opened wide for the sewer
  age blowback.
  Pining for a box won't help you. Your
  prejudice won't save you.
  Once that eye watering wind takes us, rest
  assured we will be one and the same.
  Ashes in the eye of the storm, boys.
  Ashes in the eye of the storm.
  
  Falling forward under the future, all further questions.
  Exchanging unpleasantries by proxy via creeping interconnection within corpse pile.
  Stack overflow.
  Nasty, brutal and of average height. We fester and foist here with all of our might.
  White noise machine.
  ..........Howling.
  Jehovah not witnessed. No one likes a grass.
  Still they shine, though. Somehow.
  All hints dropped from a great height.
  
  I am not I am not I am not I am not I am not I am not I am not I am not I
• 5. Sway, Draped in Vague (17:01)
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  Mortice. Bracing complication
  Fallen. Frozen untimely
  No notice period. All fall. All fallen
  
  I know I am nothing
  I know I am the nowhere all around me
  I know I am not I
  I know I am receding all around this
  
  Mortice. Bracing complication
  Fallen. Frozen untimely
  No notice period. All fall. All fallen
  
  I know I am nothing
  I know I am the nowhere all around me
  I know I am not I
  I know I am receding all around this
  
  I know I am heedless of you
  I know you never were you
  I know I am heedless of you
  I know you never were you
  I know I am heedless of you
  I know you never were you
  I know I am heedless of you
  I know you never were you
  
  Adrift amongst the canopy.
  Scheisse upon the prizes that pained the dead one so to leave.
  Our vantage point, their untimely disadvantage.
  This scree of trees rooting for the victor.
  On strain of death.
  NO PRESSURE.
  
  Tinkling these ill gotten ivories like their very lives should have depended on it.
  They sway, draped in vague.
  
  If you take a chance
  If you take a chance
  Don’t hear me
  If there is no time
  If you were attacked
  Where are you?
  
  We’ve rounded up the errant fragments; built a guy for the centuries to decry; hurling pennies at an empty sky.
  So many fires burning now. Autumn is a particularly foisty one this year.
  A REAL throat closer.
  
  Every hole the goal, my morons. You aren’t, you never were, you never were you.
  Folk like those dead boys, they expect better. Get fucking digging.
  Dig your own hole. This one’s mine. They tell me the soil’s wonderful this time of year.
  Be your own judge.
  Settling like so much ash into our permanent address down six feet street.
  A crumbled vault into deincarnation.
  
  We’ve made such a lovely jolly folly of filthy leaves to obscure that sorry mound so rife with their leavings.
  Our pockets now making a music that only a mother could love.
  We are our fathers. We aren’t in heaven.
  Your shot be true, your eyes of blue.
  On earth, as it isn’t heaven.
  Give us this day our daily shit, still insist on your place in the pit.
  
  All insight, slowly fading
  Vague on through the other side
  All insight, slowly fading
  Vague on through the other side
  
  All that I wanted was all you decried
  All that I wanted was all you don’t need
  All that I wanted was all you decried
  All that I wanted was all you don’t need
• 6. Not Drinking Water (15:25)
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  This song is dedicated to the memory of Ben Hanson
  
  Lost to it all under such a weight of water.
  The pull of the world and all its in-betweens.
  Put faith in stone and rope to keep you down there.
  Faith in nothing else.
  Faith in nothing else.
  I presume you surveyed their stunted dance from that moorside with weary eyes and wished it well.
  The twinkling lights in the valley waving you home.
  The twinkling lights in the valley waving you home.
  Not enough eyes on though. HORIZON though.
  Not enough eyes on.
  
  A deep breath, a last breath, then paid the ferryman with a bag of stones.
  Gave it all to such a weight of water.
  We all waited up for you, but the trail went cold before we chanced to look.
  It was the work-shy rope that gave you up.
  Such a weight of water.
  
  Weight of water, faith in nothing else
  Faith in stone, faith in nothing else
  Faith in stone and rope, faith in nothing else
  
  Faith in stone and rope. Faith in nothing else.
  Faith. Faith in stone and rope.
  Faith in nothing else.
  
  ‘6 foot badge x21 at time of writing.
  Happy 24th at time of realisation. Same badge.
  ‘x’ for Benjamin James Hanson, 1978 – 2001 ev
Продолжительность: 01:13:30