1. |
Hopeless Diamond
03:27
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Bold, bold cautious mind. Pip within the buckling fruit
Lay out those old joints, allow it to uncomplicate
An ocean will sweep your pain, welcome you to sense again
but it cannot be to here. Somewhere other.
It is such a time to lie there
two bodies trapped in one body
It is too unfair
The suffering - I would be so reproachful
As if you had deserved no peace
hooked and wrenched through five degrading years
As the sound went out what can it be other than a cell
A hole - I would have been so resentful
and here I catalogue some of You for Me
plagued by thoughts of you as historical or anonymous
Rather than a hopeless diamond, hurling your intellect against giants
And containing your damage and decay with such dignity
Farewell, curious mind
Farewell, righteous fire
Goodnight, broken shell
Rest in somewhere other
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2. |
Remote Viewing
05:27
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Watch closely. Breathe slowly.
I have hollowed-out and now comes the thaw - the runoff to the river’s maw
Turned over and leaf-like I caught waters not designed to let a body go
Too far, too fast, too slow
Sightseer
It feels like the snow
Patience, Oh!
It is starting to move
Morning touch upon the very slow surround
Can it feel my force when I’m weak like a roving dial - in and out of sunlight?
Downriver, downriver moved me, I though you should know
Down to the transient delta where everything goes
A little early maybe but there we go
Meltwater morning - I’m leaving. I thought you would know
The watching and waiting have changed who I was in the snow
Sightseer
Patience, Oh!
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3. |
What She Saw
04:46
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How long will you pause, Old Mother
All that time between the coals?
Where you study the stories but know that every ending is cold
Pack up the costume and check on the silver
All the bright ornaments call from the mantelpiece
Not quite the dark here, you watch from a window
As the race rattles on all the fine young things tumble
Under the coal’s glow
Seasons to come have already gone
Watching them go
Is it living is grieving or Grief is the whole?
Ha ha
Make it look easy
Joining it up is the key
Lost in the pieces
Ha ha
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4. |
It Was Late
02:18
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It must have been late…maybe Winter even…and I was shivering and it’s at night
There are no creatures. It was so cold. All of these trees and no creatures
My hump started to swell and sway. Must’ve been miles from anywhere, probably
I don’t know…it was so long ago. Well, it was fidgeting about so I did what it wanted
And when I came to a fork in the road it shifted left, so left I went,
Down this spindly little path whose bushes had spilled over
And we walked for an hour or something and it twitched left off the path
And I followed it and end up in this clearing and there’s this man there and he beckons me over
Hazel & Brown…the rest of him made of mean bones but those big eyes buried me
He put his hand to the hump and it rose up like a nuzzling dog
And with something like hot water running down my back, my hump had melted away
And he walked away to. And it was suddenly very lonely
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5. |
Intermission
02:56
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6. |
From the Horse's Mouth
06:20
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As a boy he’d had a wooden horse, stolen by his brother and dropped in the paddock at the end of the garden and he’d start awake fifty years later thinking of this horse, rotting deep in the mud. His brother was long dead and he’d left everything to his estranged wife who never cared for either of them. She’d got the house and the garden and the field with the horse. He would dream about creeping in and digging it up, taking the toy from the ground and slipping her, sleeping, into its place. And he found the dreams got worse - daydreams now, patterns…patterns ruptured by the wakings until one night when he snuck out to the paddock and scrabbled in the dirt with his hands, feverishly clawing and raking the soil and he starts to cry, more out of tiredness than anything, but lights go on in the house and he’s too involved to notice the woman walk down, the torch bobbing in her hand.Or the shouting. But when she lays a hand on his shoulder he turns and then she is beneath him, wriggling in the ground, hands around her throat and he heaps earth into her mouth. She thrashes and the torchlight slices the air and he turns his face away. But then the shouting drains back: muffled and weakened. And she slows. And stops. He looks down. Her jaw thrust up through the topsoil and the beam of the fallen torch catches a glimpse of something beside, hidden for fifty years - the mouth of the little wooden horse lifted from the fresh grave
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7. |
The Yellow Dress
04:00
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Threads of primrose, oh
Tangled in the undergrowth
Show the way the winds may blow below
A dried place of heaviness,
Recollected by the bark
By the humming of insects
Yellow was the cloth he brought
Homecoming from market, oh
There his love would kneel and sow
A present for the youngest one
There, in the yellow dress,
Treasure of the wild wood
She would share a wordless gift
Carried out by scavengers
Yellow dress, the yellow dress
A ship that has lost its sail
Lingers half a mile from shore
Manned by memories of men
Below
A soft tide will roll their bones
Wash their ever-nodding crowns
Of letters that must go back home
Alone
Yellow was the sail she flew
Undulating in the breeze
Filled with secret horrors, oh
Of carrion and cadences and
There, in the yellow thread,
Skipping through the quiet wood
She will weave between the trees
Strings of dark fertility
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8. |
Bead
03:23
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So then there is Life
And now
And now what to do?
The bees move among the lavender
Their wings beat like it is nothing
A little bead on a slow, warm cycle
That gathers speed and sensation
There will be moss
We don’t rolls fast
Okay
Is it seasonal?
A harvest from a strange new place
Little bead from a quiet cupboard
All your minutes raw with meaning
You’ll have to wait
For we don’t roll so fast
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9. |
Peleser England, UK
PELESER is a 2-piece act with a core drawn between past and future. Blending elements of Folk, Ambient, and Neofolk with dashes of Jazz and Blues, Peleser weaves to create something both intimate and otherworldly. Lyrically the album combines supernatural folk tales with those of the personal, its roots deep in the dark English soil. ... more
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