1. |
The Land
02:22
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As in a grief a-bigger than The Land; as in a goal sought out
inside a dream; as in to house; as in to work; as in The Hague,
the devil and the dirt — as in unable to decide in a soft, cut
place. As in to set a “fixed-rate” on a factory, fine face. The
Land! The Land! As in a drag — and Nazareth on a cross; as in
a slip and, again, another loss; as in to hurt; as in a-cool; as in
the World, the lizard and the fool — when it’s impossible to
nurse a chemical type waste; as in a sorry, sad fate ‘round the
tail end of a race. The Land! The Land! The Land you know...
The Land!
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2. |
Knives
02:40
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The heavy weight of ocean black. The bigot-razor-jivey talk. The
loss of islands over time. Ten Tiger twos on the attack. Delilah’s
Philistine affair; cabals of oligarchs rejoice — toe-track the
nights of Amsterdam for sound, sight, and carnal lust. Knives
reaching on in are what you found reaching on down; cut to the
skin — reaching on in. As every knight in old Madrid,
bejewelled, is put to rest (to ground) the moored resolve of Don
Quixote turns solid hate of ezra pound. Knives reaching on in
are what you found reaching on down; cut to the skin —
reaching on in. And when the blades settle inside, deep, and it
gets so bad as it should, without any sign of relaxation in sight
to calm, kill off, appease any trace of an oncoming and assured
instability. When a giddy, golden Sun sinks low ‘hind El Dorado
hills, east of Sacramento county, out west, and all you know
how to do is get high and loose in a New York minute — and
you do it when it’s good, grand, great... when the Knives let us
go and meet the gods...
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3. |
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The right rhyme is never enough — the money green will do no
good. Another day, an en-gine fail — another sick cough on a
cuff. And Johnny Boy’s leather lung has a switchblade on it, too;
and Johnny Boy’s leaping soul has a thing called Rock’n’Roll...
Rock’n’Roll! A steel-eyed man in a car; the Black Death stuck
on a reel; a Singapore shade with a hum may be for some but
not everyone. And Johnny Boy’s jumping jest has a skull ring
leather vest; and Johnny Boy’s flaming tongue speaketh sound
said Rock’n’Roll. “What am I doing here in this endless winter?”
He says to a queen of an underworld. “I see long, winding
roads, up ahead for vampiros running at a pace of eight
hundred and seventeen miles a minute — you know those in it
but never really on...? Alas!Those in it but never really on!” And
Johnny Boy’s leather spleen has a shotgun on it, too; and
Johnny Boy’s funeral frame has a dance signed Rock’n’Roll.
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4. |
Against the Wall
02:01
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Olen Nurka Surutud, olen raskustes. Minu murtud mina pole
minu ise — see on keegi teine! Ma kaotan end, ma kaotan kõik.
Olen Nurka Surutud, olen raskustes. Laetud relv sihikul mu pea
— tõek minu pea — kaotan ukhuse, ma kaotan kõik. Olen
Nurka Surutud, olen raskustes.
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5. |
A Stasi State
03:00
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Go on! Give’em all you’ve got! They’re comin’ for everything you
have! Turn it over right now! Give’em a soul, give’em a face,
give’em a name, man! A word of mouth’s beleaguered mind tied
into knots most free of skin; pulling teeth and picking brains — a
body count to numbered dots. It’s a stasi! It’s a stasi! It’s a stasi!
There lives no escape! It’s a stasi! In a stasi! It’s a stasi! stasi
state! Breath and bone, a telephone, a cyberspace found in a
home; microphones stuck into walls, and seven cops out in the
hall. It’s a stasi! It’s a stasi! In a stasi there is no escape! It’s a
stasi! It’s a stasi! In a stasi! stasi state!... They know everything
you’re up to using the latest in weapons technology...
Fingertips, a creeping hand, a TCP plug like a vein; gamma
rays, a satellite, the watching-eye storm on a sly. It’s a stasi! In
the stasi! It’s a stasi! There stands no escape! In the stasi! It’s a
stasi! It’s a stasi! stasi state!
Berlin 1945
“Coming at you live from Berlin. The year is 1945 — better off
dead, not alive... The Russian hoard is at the city gate. They’ve
overtaken the Seelow Heights. There is no hope of survival...
There is no way out... There is no way out...”
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6. |
Berlin
02:39
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7. |
Diggin' A Grave
02:11
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Gavrilo Princip’s prime command was “shoot to kill the
habsburg man,” said dragutin dimitrijevic. “That son of a bitch!...
And if that wife of his gets in the way, well, she’s fair game...”
They’s driving down a cemetery road bullet-chasing the dead
heat of night. She saw a coffin, it was shiny and black. She saw
a coffin and on it was said: “Diggin’ a Grave for Sophia Chotek.”
“Diggin’ a Grave for Sophia Chotek.” At forty-six she took in a
shot, a 9mm Browning straight. She saw a shadow lurking
about. She saw a shadow — and here’s what it said: “Diggin’ a
Grave for Sophia Chotek.” “Diggin’ a Grave for Sophia Chotek.”
The royal car came to a stop. Gavrilo Princip pulled out a gun
— Vienna quivered. It was never the same. Vienna tremored—
it whispered a name: “Diggin’ a Grave for Sophia Chotek.” My!
“Diggin’ a Grave for Sophia Chotek.”
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8. |
Gasland
01:58
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As into a cryptal, end time of days; as into the pits of mysterious
caves; as into the hands reclaiming the names of those on a
bus caught inside the rain — the driver’s insane, foaming at the
mouth, and, speaking in tongues while waiving about — way
out to a void, as into the black, and facing the fact of no
doubling back. To break for the hills, as into the woods; join up
with the tribes of dead neighbourhoods, bogged down in the
mud, low-sunk in the swamp while bleeding a green, radioactive
blood. As into the swim; as into the surf; as into depths of
sailing to death a-yonder to say the Sun god’s a hack inside the
museums of artillery flak. As into a fist recalling the crimes of
those on a train locked in a caboose, long into the night, well
into the black — brought to a fog — There is no turning back
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9. |
Throwing A Life Away
02:39
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She was a boozehound, cocaine-head soul. She wore a coat
like an active role, as all he sought was a common ground —
up, down, left, right, head-on, ring-round. She said, “People like
you think it’s a breeze. People like you think it’s a stroll. People
like you can’t understand people like me... stalled in the sands”
She was made of smoke and a-red hot coal — an aching lung—
it was animal. In the midnight hour she was a-by herself; in the
midnight hour she was all alone. She said, “People like you
think it’s a joke. People like you think it’s a walk. People like you
won’t understand people like me, well stuck in a jam...
Throwing a Life Away — all the money in the world; reaching
back to yesterday to toss out a life astray. People like you think
it’s a cake. People like you think it’s trot. People like you can’t
comprehend people like me caught in a twist, and Throwing a
Life Away — all the money in the world”
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10. |
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von manstein’s blitz would start come dawn: A league of men
built like a song. I gave my love a great big kiss... I waved
“Goodbye to Rylsk!” The waffen boys hit ‘long the front to
breach the lines we’d set to give the bastards hell — to ring’em
like a bell. A Stuka strafe to pin us down beset the land I knew
so well to be thine own Kursk Oblast of mine. And then von
kluge, at dusk, got bound in check the day I fell a red Soviet. I
held so tight my love so close, I said, “Goodnight Stasya...!”
And herman hoth went on the prowl to gain the ground around
Prokhorovka, a town south of Ponyri; werner kempf cut on the
flank, abut the banks a Donets River breathed like mud
swallowed into shape; the time a howl, a yell, rung out From
Barbarossa to Zitadelle.
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Talleen Montreal, Québec
Post-punk from Montreal
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