nath - drums
dave - bass
luke - guitar, vocals
mixed by nath.
recorded live by p.j & nath
with thanks to gareth, craig & vince.
track 1 is dedicated to single people everywhere.
track 5 is dedicated to baby storm.
cheers for listening.x
released November 2, 2013
1) Sex ark.
first come, first served, son.
we want blood, we want piss, we want sincere kisses on the lips.
push and everyone will get on much faster - it's the mantra
that's tongue in cheek before the tongues go wondering elsewhere.
the captain expects to be dry and wet. latex and sweat.
so as the anchors raise and seas rise,
dolphins explore the relics of drowned empires.
meanwhile, back on the ark....
the humans went in two by two, the subs, the doms, the me, the you,
the queers, the freaks, voyeurs of sleaze, the ingenieurs with cuffs and keys.
who's got the drugs? mary-jane? molly? or charlie?
who's harmony is hedonism and misanthropy?
we've got vasectomies and morning after pills,
nurses who can perform safe abortions and emotional support groups.
we'll never procreate. we're not the saviors or a genesis reboot.
the light of our eyes will stretch on eternally through the expanding universe,
until the big rip, the big crunch, or either of the chills.
we'll live forever.
2) White people with dreadlocks.
the kids who found nemo before they found emo
can find trans-bisexual literary festivals
that's why i like the digital, fuck the physical
'cause even when i'm on pills people say i look miserable.
tales 'round the campfire mired in disaster,
not the laughter that comes after all the snakes and mistakes and fakes
and the tales from a luminescent screen on a dark night
fuel insecurity and fight or flight dislike.
tales from a luminescent screen on a dark night
help you feel you're not alone even though you're alone right now.
it's strange times for strange minds when strange finds
everything it needs through a monitor.
what's wrong with ya?
nothing. in fact, life's a little more bearable
since identity gained a lot of new variables.
detached from space and time, a lush, gross, vacant mess.
perspire with a desire to inspire
because the revolution was televised,
hashtagged, instagramed, developing before your eyes.
a facsimile of joy and misery, intangible digital empathy is wrong?
or right? or something in-between?
hmmm....probably the last one.
3) Bechdel test results.
Ripley come save me and then kill your baby.
what's growing inside you will not help the fight
that you're struggling to recruit members for,
a cold civil war of sorts.
an attrition of the human condition.
roles that fit nicely into nice round holes.
i'm just a boy throwing in my two cents
and do the girls on my bedroom wall make my point less relevant?
it's art i tell you! subject and artist with depth,
unlike the shallow gene pool of producers and writers
and casting/directors, V.P's, executives and soundtrack selectors.
sometimes sinister, most times just cowardice, compromise and cash.
but no answers will be found in censorship.
cutting tongues out of mouths you don't like will make them a martyr,
if its 50 shades of grey, 120 days of sodom, or 12 angry men
with 99 problems, focus the disdain into a riot of the brain
to go and capture the blue flag and burn it. lights, camera, action.
the mother, Godzilla, got out of bed on the wrong coast.
she should've trashed cali.
because shit movies mostly come from Hollywood. mostly.
when they were young they played doctors and nurses without getting nervous
and now they're grown they pay for doctors and nurses but its pretty worthless.
the doctor broke the news to X with four syllables.
and when he passed it on it wasn't whispered
it was smashed with fear drenched tears
and bruises covered with ruses and make-up.
Y's got her brave face on, it's the same one she's had for years.
behind the closed doors of a mortgaged semi-detached home
the terror lurks when X comes home from work
via bottles and brothels and Y tries to hide the life she's resigned to.
her body and spirit are broken but the only sympathy she receives is
because no-one knows the truth.
all they know is the firework show and the broadcast death of a man called X
so they send their flowers and their sympathy to a victim of bio-tragedy
because unexplained twists of fate get blamed and decried as unfair and oh too
soon but the real victim of this story's the biggest elephant in the room.
now X is six feet deep. Y is in a peaceful sleep.
Y's moving on, as her body heals and brain feels.
don't waste time celebrating death when you could spend that time living.
the future is unwritten. you are not your past.
next. always next.
5) Dead menʼs baggage dragged over invisible lines in the sand.
I see Forrest Gump running across Pangaea.
I see barbed wire - blunt and antiquated.
I see seashells along the seashore.
I see more respect for the dead than the living. weird, no?
a plotted place in history? we don't owe you shit.
we're not born waving flags or wearing black armbands.
elephant's memories don't make them vengeful.
it's not me, it's you.
your hate is baggage.
your boundaries are hand-me-downs, old fashioned and worn.
cut the cord and you can still see both pieces of the cord.
we're a live set, you're a Youtube playlist.
we're Jalen Rose and you're Skip Bayless.
we're Mars Curiosity, you're the Dover ferry.
we're Mario Balotelli and you're John Terry.
fuck the flag.
6) Sunset Dreams.
turn around, you don't know you're missing!
the word 'epic' gets thrown around oh so loosely nowadays
but with physics and nature defied and rivers looping up into the skies...
eyes and minds fold, converse and Immersed.
two different beings in one subconcious space,
a no-place place of wonder and obnoxious serenity,
where time ticks less ordinary.
so please turn around!
your desk won't save you now!
the sun will go down and your son will walk out. Away.
and then wake up with no cold sweat or shivers
because predictably you embodied grey in a world of infinite colours
refracting off of impossible organic shapes,
that were constructed in a brain that you neglect to even attempt to understand.
your loss, seriously.
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